#probably needs an oxygen tent too because he is old remember? and he needs to extra to breathe because it is so funny to him!!!?

[copias-juicebox]

TOMBSTONE FLUNKYBALL BACKSTAGE LAUGHING HIS ASS OFF RN!!!!

He‘s been playing with us all and we fell for it fucking hell what a mf. I hate him (affectionately)

[kominum]

semoto (corpse x fem!reader)

4 times you think tuxedo mask!corpse could be yours + 1 time you learn to stop feeding your own delusions 

pt. 1 + background info can be found here! please read for context. 

basic rundown of classic!sailor moon (anime) lore ‘creatively’ used in this two-part:

sailor moon and tuxedo mask are star-crossed lovers/soulmates that faced tragedy in a previous life. 

sailor mars (aka you/reader) had a crush on tuxedo mask’s non-hero persona, darien/mamoru, for a while 

sailor moon is the moon princess and tuxedo mask is the earth prince.  

sailor moon’s non-hero persona, usagi/serena, bickered a lot with darien/mamoru.

fem!reader // tw: death mentions, bodily injury, unrequited love to the very end, some unresolved tension. 

1. “Whaddup, baby?” 

Without much reason, you and Corpse trade off calling each other whenever a new monster is defeated. You’re figuring out all of this as much as he is, but he doesn’t have much guidance besides some supernatural force within him. He’s not taking instructions from a black cat and white cat like you and the other girls are who can help fill you in on the gaps -- all he knows is that he’s pivotal to maintaining Earth’s existence, and he’s not exactly thrilled about it.

But the calls are never about the fights, never about your secret identities. In fact, you’d be willing to bet half your grocery funds that he still hasn’t made the connection between you and your Sailor Mars persona and part of you wants to keep it that way. Sometimes you’re mentally exhausted and just want to forget about the events for the day or night, which is why you usually end up calling him soon after everyone disperses or vice versa. It’s almost instinctual these days, and you wonder how long it’ll be before you accidentally crack. 

Right now, the rule of thumb seems to be, “Never trust new flashy shops that open with no warning and have too-good-to-be-true grand opening offers.” This time, some luxurious salon opened up by a famous local hairdresser had been the said attraction. All of you weren’t ignorant enough to believe the sham, but the star of the show had taken the chance to say, “Let’s go scope it out!” when really, she wanted that free haircut. You had called her out on it, but she argued that if anything happened, then perfect, you all could take care of it right then and there. Needless to say, you do not want to be attacked by a monstrous version of Edward Scissorhands ever again. Corpse had made a dark, humorous entrance, a style he’s really adapted to because he knows it pisses Sailor Moon off, 

About an hour later, you’re home and bandaging up some cuts and rubbing salve on bruises, phone on speaker and dial tone blaring through the bathroom. You’re addressing the scrape on your knee when he picks up, a low drawl of, “Whaddup, baby?” comes through and your heart stutters.

The girls call you a number of terms of endearment: sweetie, honey, love, dear, babe, queen, but the last person to address you as ‘baby’ with any amount of affection was your ex-boyfriend.

You scoff to hide how flustered you actually are, quietly hissing as you attempt to put some Neosporin on the scrape and catch onto some stray skin. “Are you drunk?” You ask jokingly, knowing full well he wasn’t. 

“Drunk? Nah. Tired? Yeah. But that’s always.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s old news. But uh, what’s up? Been a while since we last talked.”

“We talked like...three days ago. You called me, remember?”

“Feels like forever. I like talking to you.” 

You wonder if it’s irony or plain, cruel fate that this man will probably be the death of you.

2. “Don’t lay a fucking hand on her.”

It’d been a bad day overall. Lack of sleep compiled on by a growing pile of assignments in addition to having to get your tires checked out for an air leak because your car said, “Not today, honey,” -- everything came together in torrential hurricane and the last thing you needed was to be caught fighting another force of evil.

You’re so tired.

Sailor Moon seems to have all the energy in the world as she dodges attacks left and right, but your muscles are screaming in agony. You’re constantly hunched over and panting, but looking for the right openings to weaken the monster. Luckily, the creature has its back towards you when it dashes over to Venus and you muster everything you have to summon a bow and arrow made of fire, pulling back and making sure your arms don’t quiver. 

But at the last second, your lack of oxygen gets the best of you and your flame sniper barely manages to graze the monster’s side and narrowly avoid Jupiter. It’s enough to cause a distraction, but the anger in its glare as it’s directed at you elicits surrender in your heart. There’s nothing left in your bones to help you run or hide, and your knees buckle painfully onto the concrete. Everything else hurts so bad that you’re not bothered by the sediments digging through your skin. Venus is running towards you but she’s not quick enough, and you feel your eyes begin to slip. If this is what death feels like, then so be it. You hope that the girls’ mourning will be short, that they can still complete the ultimate mission, and--

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” an angered, frustrated baritone spits out and you’re torn between laughing or crying. In a separate romantic context, you’d like the idea of wholeheartedly leaving your life in his hands. But in this reality when either of you could die at any moment and the world be consumed in darkness, it’s something you would never wish upon anyone. It’s a different situation than your bonds with the girls. 

The pain is enough to send you in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes. But strong, warm arms sit you up, though they’re slightly trembling and keeping you awake. “Hey, you okay? What happened to you? You’re stronger than this.” 

“G-great way of telling me, fuckthathurts, that I was...shit today,” you joke, but hiss when you try to move your legs and the deep scrapes scream in agony. 

“Take it easy, ‘kay? Or your princess is gonna have my head--”

“Thanks man, but we got it from here,” said princess interjects, hoisting you up with the help of the other girls. “You can go.”

“Speak of the devil,” Corpse chuckles and helps make the transfer less painful, a lot less awkward jostling around. “Look, I saved her--”

“And I said thank you. We’ll see you around,” your stubborn friend dismisses. 

“You’re welcome, baby.”

“Not your baby, piss off!”

3. “I’m always gonna be there for you, no matter what.”

It’s soft yet sonorous, deep yet light. Twilight hours are cast high above you both, separated by walls and buildings connected over wires and unseen forces. Technology is the sharpest, double-edged sword you’ve seen and used on this planet, because Corpse has never felt so close yet so far than in this moment. Your mind deludes you further by indulging in believing he’s right there next to you, strong arms holding you much like he did when you were on the brink of unconsciousness just two weeks ago.

Wishing, hoping, wanting. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

The one year anniversary of your ex-lover’s death looms over you on another sleepless, caffeine-fueled night. It’s no surprise when his custom ringtone chimes softly throughout your room during these graveyard hours, but it certainly raises your eyebrows when after a minute or two, he asks tentatively, “Are you gonna go visit him?”

There’s no question as to who or where “him” is. You haven’t been since the funeral, if you’re honest, swept up by work, classes, and your new side job. But Corpse doesn’t know that, and you know it’d be the right thing to do. Maybe it’d help settle the storm of anxiety (or guilt?) that swirls in your gut on a daily basis. 

“I think so,” you reply quietly after a moment of silent contemplation, already thinking ahead to what the drive might be like. “He deserves better.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Charming, compassionate, thoughtful, absolutely too good for this world -- the three-letter affirmation nearly slips off your tongue without a second thought. You can’t risk him seeing you, putting two and two together, and potentially forever losing him to his long-lost princess. Selfish delusion creeps through your veins and you fight back the shiver of guilt that runs down your spine. 

“I think I’ll be okay. Might be a visit made best alone, but I really appreciate you even asking.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. You know I’m always gonna be there for you, no matter what. Right?”

Warmth. Strength. Oblivion. 

“I know. Thank you.”

4. “I don’t have anyone else but you.”

“Why are we doing this again?”

“Because we can’t sleep and have nothing better to do.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” you chuckle into your phone, free hand swirling a pot of instant ramen. “I have better things to do at 3 in the morning than watch The Poltergeist with you.” 

“Then go fucking do it,” Corpse laughs teasingly. 

“And leave you high and dry? I don’t have the heart.”

“I mean, you really don’t have to--”

“Seriously, I was awake anyways. Just giving you shit.”

“One of these days, you’re gonna fucking regret it.”

Ramen done and lamp on, you snuggle beneath your blanket and start the traditional countdown to pressing ‘play’ on the movie. Neither of you really had the technology to screen share on this Discord call (your laptop is almost on its last leg and your apartment WiFi can be spotty at times), so it seemed better this way. 

The next roughly 2 hours are filled with laughter, small jump scare yelps, and quiet yelling at the ignorance and twisted logic of horror movie characters. But towards the end of the movie (and arguably the climax), your eyelids start to droop, body succumbing to the warmth of your bed. The screaming and cheesy, orchestrated music are all background noise as your breathing evens out, shifting in and out of consciousness. Ending credits roll on screen before you know it, and the only think that rips you awake is Corpse’s gentle calling of your name. 

“Sorry, fell asleep,” you murmur tiredly and squint at your screen, languidly closing out the window and letting the Discord window take precedence. “Tells you how riveting I found this movie.”

“Should’ve just let you sleep, my bad,” he chuckles. “Thanks for staying up with me.” 

“Yeah of course -- I wanted to, just got a little sleepy. Wanna watch another one?”

“ ‘m actually gonna try to sleep. Don’t wanna bother you too much. You got work tomorrow?”

“Not ‘til noon so it’s okay. You sure?” 

“Yeah...yeah. I’ve only had like...3 hours of sleep lately. Fucking awful.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You do enough by just letting me call at the fucking crack of dawn, seriously.”

“I’m your only option, let’s be real,” and your voice is a mix of fatigue, humor, and some bitter sardonicism. There’s no malice intended, and you really hope it’s conveyed accurately. 

“...I don’t have anyone else but you,” he all but murmurs. Your heart clenches painfully, anxiety and fear and love surging through your lungs. Those words don’t hold the connotation you desperately wish for, but what matters most is that he knows he’s not alone and you’re not the only one he’s got. You verbalize as such and he only hums back in a façade of agreement before wishing you a good night. 

And sometimes, while you do know that your girls have your back and that you love them to death and would take a bullet for them any day, there are nights where you really do feel the same.

That you have no one else but Corpse. 

5. “He was never yours.”

There’s nothing you hate more than psychological monsters. You’d probably take physical pain over mind games any day because at least, it’d heal faster to some degree, or there would be a more surefire way of minimizing symptoms. But sometimes, there are days when the egotistical chess players of hell come to wreck havoc on the world, and you get lost in their trap. It’s annoying, a pain in the ass, and affects you a lot more than it should at times. 

This particular instance makes you want to quit. It makes you, Sailor fucking Mars, guardian of the planet of fire and passion and perseverance, leave all of this behind right here and now. You’ve never hated yourself more for feeling so weak. 

You’re not sure what to call it -- altered dimension, distorted reality -- but all you know is that you and the princess are kept in separate cages hanging from an endless ceiling, labelled as baits for tuxedo mask/Corpse to come. The enemy lets you both stew in the confines of the metal, watching with glee as your partner attempts to cut through the rails with her tiara and ultimately fail. It seems they’ve thought of everything because you’re not their #1 enemy today. Or maybe you are. You’re not sure anymore, even as they launch into villainous speech. 

“Nothing brings me more joy than watching you lose all your energy to fight, both physically and mentally. I’ve seen all your dreams and wishes. Nothing’s more fickle and double-edged than love, no? We shall see who the prince really belongs to.”

Mention of the prince has you snapping your head to meet the enemy’s eyes, slowing squinting as they catch yours and begin cackling like your demise is racing at the speed of an oncoming train. Your princess looks confused, but dread is heavy mercury filling your veins because you know, you know, your best held secret is coming to fruition. 

“What the fuck are they talking about?” She hisses across the void. 

“I don’t know,” you lie through your teeth, eyes flicking toward every corner of the cage now to find a way out. This isn’t how you wanted it to happen, much less happen at all. 

“Are they talking about Corpse?”

“Is there any other prince they’re referring to?”

“Do you always have to be a smartass with me?”

“Somebody’s got to,” you allow yourself a slight reprieve of laughter. It’d be dumb to try to set fire to this thing, knowing you’d only burn yourself in the process. Your exorcism tags also have no use and you can hear the clock ticking down in your mind. 

“Think it’s pretty fucking rude to keep a couple of girls in cages, not gonna lie,” a baritone voice cuts through. It sends temporary sparks of relieve down your spine. Perhaps you’ll have a fighting chance to get out of here. 

“Welcome, welcome! I’d like to get straight to the point, but maybe we’ll up the stakes a little bit before you answer my question,” they tease cartoonishly and you want to roll your eyes.

“Is this a fucking test--”

Both you and sailor moon yelp as the cages drop into a miraculously (or not) appearing large body of water, but still hanging just above the surface so you have enough air to breathe. You look out and down to see how deep this pit is, and though it might be some elaborate illusion seemingly defying all laws of physics, you see nothing but descending darkness. You don’t even have to hear the question to know what the enemy is going for, to know that they’re trying to hit you where it hurts the most, and you loathe how cliché and goddamn unfair this whole situation has turned out to be. 

“So, dear prince. Pretend that the fate of the world depends on the princess. Before you are just two girls you know and care for, stuck, captured, and on the brink of drowning. You may only save one. Who would it be?”

It’s fucked up. Corpse seems stunned, perplexed by the question. “What the absolute fuck is this? Just let them go if you had an issue with me.”

“Quite frankly, I have an issue with allof you, so this is only fair. Now, what’s your answer?”

Corpse catches your eyes first. Is it from the water that your eyes seem to be brimming with unshed tears? Is it stubbornness or defeat in the way your hands clench around the cage bars?

And this is why, once again, you hate enemies who strictly play mind games. Confirmation that Corpse would never love you the way you do him, knowledge to the princess that she’s the source of your deepest unhappiness despite the bickering friendship, realization to Corpse that the girl he’s treasured so dearly and maybe unknowingly kept as a bit of a placeholder was doomed to love him -- pain on all of you, lashes and scars on what was once believed to be unbreakable bonds, as soon as the villain explains it all with sick glee. 

“Do I have to give you an answer?”

“If you don’t, I’ll really consider drowning them since I honestly wasn’t before.”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Ah, just to make things a little more interesting -- I’m aware you and the princess speak regularly outside of all this.”

They what? This was certainly news to you. 

“And?” Corpse asks somewhat defensively. 

Don’t say it. Don’t tell him. Please don’t--

“Say Mars, don’t you enjoy those late night calls with him, too? Though I must say, meeting in a hospital while your ex-boyfriend is having life-altering emergency surgery seems rather morbid in its own respect.”

You don’t have to look at him to know and hear the gears turning in his brain, the villain allowing this brief silence to let everything sink in. There’s a disbelieving whisper of your name, your real name, but he’s cut off from saying anything more. 

“You have 10 seconds.” 

You know the stories. You know the couple’s tragic end in their previous lifetime. You know that as much as the princess denies feeling anything but annoyance towards Corpse, she looks forward to seeing him. There’s a certain softness that he treats her with, different from the platonic affection that he showers you in. You’ve lied to yourself for too long. 

The countdown has no chance to finish when Corpse spits out a name that’s not yours, your eyes squeezing shut to fight back the tears that threaten to flood over. Everything disappears and you land on your butt -- a quick sweep of your surroundings registers two things: Corpse running over to your princess and the villain standing proudly at the chaos they’ve created. It’s instinct that has brings your powers to surface, arms and fingers quickly notching a fiery arrow with pinpoint aim at the imaginary target on their head. “Move!” You yell at the two and they scramble to gather their bearings and avoid your rage. 

They don’t run or cower. The maniacal grin only grows wider and more sinister and you’re this close to screaming expletives. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it, to know that he was never yours?”

It’s the last thing they say before you release the arrow, watching with no remorse as they burn and disintegrate. When the dust disappears and the dimension shifts back to some abandoned building with an exit, you run. 

You run until your lungs burst, until they scream over the aching of your heart, until your costume dissolves and you’re finally buried under the blankets. You turn on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and only allow notifications from a select few important numbers.

And maybe you’ll keep running. Maybe you’ll go off the grid. Maybe you’ll let your voicemail inbox fill up with unheard messages, apologies that you don’t and never will deserve. 

But the love you feel and cherish will never fade. It’ll run alongside you; a bright, burning star, forever bittersweet--

Forever out of reach. 

[bluenet13]

It's All In Your Head (Chapter 2/2)

Written for @badthingshappenbingo​

Fandom: Chicago Fire

Characters: Matthew Casey, Sylvie Brett, Kelly Severide, Stella Kidd, Wallace Boden, Firehouse 51.

Prompt: It’s All my Fault.

Story Summary: Post-ep to S09E09 "Double Red." Casey's life continues to spiral as his friends worry around him; or what happens when no one notices Casey is struggling and our captain is too stubborn to ask for help. AKA, I enjoyed the ep but needed more angst, h/c, and Brettsey, so I'm fixing it.

Ch2 Summary: After the events of chapter one, Casey is not doing so well but Brett, Severide and the rest of his 51 family are there to help.

Links: ff.net - AO3

Chapter 1 Link

As the call ends, and the five vehicles return to Firehouse 51, Severide and Sylvie feel like they're getting their wish. Because Casey is standing in the apparatus bay, waving at them.

But then they get closer. And they see Casey stumble, what looks suspiciously like blood standing out on the left side of his head. He doesn't seem to be waving, but calling to them. He takes a tentative step forward, then wobbles, and his face scrunches in pain and something more. And then Casey is no longer walking towards them but collapsing towards them.

And before most everyone else has a chance to react, or even process what they're seeing, both Sylvie and Severide are out of their vehicles and running towards their friend. Severide is faster so he reaches Casey first. The squad lieutenant extends his arms and catches his best friend just before he hits the ground. Then Brett is right there, kneeling beside them.

"Matt, Matt! What's wrong? Are you okay?" Brett is practically shouting, then mentally berates herself for asking dumb questions. He's obviously not okay. And it's her fault.

But Casey doesn't respond. Can't respond. His eyes are shut tightly, his breathing coming in slow gasps.

Before anyone has a chance to say anything else, the paralysis that had seemed to overtake the rest of the house gets broken and everyone is moving and becoming part of the action.

Mackey gets out of the passenger seat, leaving Ambo 61 awkwardly parked in between the street and the apparatus bay. Moving to the back she grabs their med bag, ECG monitor, and oxygen, while Cruz gets the backboard.

"Severide, step aside," Brett directs as soon as she sees Mackey and Cruz standing next to them. "Now," she shouts after Severide hesitates.

Letting his weight fall backwards, Severide sits down and slowly backs away. Eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him. He's been a firefighter for a long time so he has ample experience with rescues, fires and emergency treatment, but it never gets any easier when said treatment is done on a coworker and friend.

For their part, Brett and Mackey waste no time in checking Casey's pulse, breathing and pupils. Getting their first warning sign as soon as Casey grunts when Brett shines a light into his eyes. "Mackey, check him over," Brett instructs, while she connects her patient to a monitor, sets him on oxygen and starts an IV, just in case. The patient, she inwardly chuckles at the thought. Knowing Casey is so much more than that. But trying to see him as just another patient is the only way she can think of not to be paralyzed with fear and instead be the PIC he needs right now.

"He has a cut here… but it's starting to scar so it didn't happen now," Mackey says, pointing to a cut and small lump on the side of Casey's head. "He probably just reopened the old wound."

"So this is because of that call," Stella says slowly, joining the scene for the first time. She kneels next to Brett, and grabs some gauze, setting it carefully over the newly bleeding wound on Casey's head. The crimson color taunting her, as Stella wishes she had called him out on his lie this morning.

"What call?" Severide asks, turning to his girlfriend.

"I told you about it, Casey tried to stop a drunk driver from fleeing the scene and he was thrown out of the moving car," Stella explains, not sounding defensive, just regretful and apologetic.

"You didn't make it sound as if it was serious," Severide continues, not sounding accusatory, just worried.

"It wasn't. He got right back up and started doing his job." Stella whispers, deep down knowing she had missed something and this was partially her fault.

Severide nods and turns back to his best friend. Brett is just finishing getting Casey strapped to a stretcher with Cruz and Herrmann's help. And that is what seems to bring him back from wherever his mind had gone to while everyone freaked out around him.

"I don't need to go to the hospital," Casey tries to argue. "I just lost my footing."

"Shut up," Brett says, no longer able to treat him just like any other patient. "You're going to get checked out and that's the end of this discussion. Cruz, Herrmann help me get him into the ambulance!"

"But really, I'm okay," Casey tries to say, but Brett's glare silences him up. Then he seems to realize there won't be a way out once Cruz and Herrmann finish loading him up into the ambulance. "Come on, hear me out. I just got up too quickly and got a little dizzy."

"How long have you been dizzy? What other symptoms do you have?" Brett starts questioning, not missing a beat.

Casey shuts his mouth, knowing he already said too much.

"Matt, please. Help us out here. What other symptoms do you have?" Brett more like pleads this time. "It's my fault this is happening. I missed it on our last shift. I don't want to miss anything now. So please, don't play tough right now and tell me everything."

Seeing the desperation in her eyes and pleading in her tone, Casey sighs and closes his eyes. "I have had a headache since our last shift… Also nausea, dizziness and ringing in my ears." Seeing everyone's eyes go wide, he opens his, trying to give them his best apologetic look. "But symptoms came and went, it wasn't always so bad," he finishes weakly.

"You're an idiot, do you know that? And an even bigger idiot than I thought," Severide says through gritted teeth, his voice raising with every word. "How could you not say something after what happened the last time?" He asks dejectedly, remembering the time a beam crashed into Casey's head and almost ended his career. "But I guess all this just makes me an idiot too, cause I'm your roommate and I missed it."

"You weren't even there," Stella adds sadly. "I was right there, so if anything, I'm more to blame than you."

Brett cuts everyone off with a humorless chuckle. "I'm the PIC in charge of the firehouse and I saw everything happen, so it's all my fault."

"You were taking care of the crash victims," Stella says, ready to defend her friend and stop her from blaming herself.

"Hmm, I think this is really Casey's fault. We wouldn't be here if he had just said something." Severide interjects, while he helps load all the equipment back into the ambulance. Not wanting either Brett or Stella to get down on themselves, and feeling the need to add some lightness to this moment. Because if they can joke about it, then everything will be okay in the end. Or so he tells himself.

"We shouldn't be blaming the guy in the stretcher," Casey mumbles from inside. "Besides, I'm really okay. I don't need to go to the hos…"

"Everyone please be quiet," Boden's voice booms from behind, successfully silencing everyone. "Casey, we will have a serious talk about what happened here, but now you're going to Chicago Med and getting checked out. Brett, Stella, Severide, this is no one's fault."

Everyone nods, as Mackey runs to the driver's side of the ambulance, and Brett gets in the back, next to Casey. The decision not even spoken out loud, both knowing that's just the way this needs to go.

"And… I missed it too." Boden adds to himself in a much quieter voice. If anything this is all my fault, Chief Boden thinks before his thoughts are drawn back to the present by the sound of Severide closing the double doors of the ambulance.

"Severide, you're in charge of the firehouse until I am back," Boden directs, then runs to his SUV so he can follow the ambulance to Chicago Med.

"I still think this is Casey's fault," Severide says quietly, trying again to add some levity to the situation, for his and his teammates' sake. "Everyone, time to get back to work. Tony, Stella get squad and truck parked properly. Gallo, Ritter get started on lunch. Herrmann, come with me so we can locate Casey's sister's phone number," Severide directs, even as he stays rooted in place, staring at the disappearing Ambo 61 and Battalion 25.

-x-x-x-

"This can't happen again," Brett says, as she sits inside Ambo 61, on the bench next to the stretcher.

Casey turns to Brett, but says nothing. They haven't been alone, together since that fateful night and his brain seems to be short-circuiting, and not because of the head injury. Because even if Brett's words and tone say that she's angry, her hand is still clutching tight to his and her eyes can't help but show the concern she's really feeling.

"I'm serious, Matt. This can't happen again. Whatever happened… or didn't happen, can't interfere with our jobs again. If you're hurt, you need to tell me."

Drawing the oxygen mask down, Casey sighs before he bravely, or dumbly (it could be argued either way), intertwines their fingers together. "I could have told Mackey, this has nothing to do with us," he explains, doing his best to sound like he believes his own words.

"Then why didn't you?" Brett challenges.

Casey opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. And repeats the same pattern a few times until he finally whispers, "I was scared." He settles on a half-truth, cause he's in fact scared, but decides not to mention how he purposely hadn't asked Brett for help, even when Chief Boden suggested it.

Brett's first instinct is to respond that Matt Casey isn't scared of anything, but the still rational part of her brain realizes that won't help the situation, so she just raises her eyebrows in a silent question.

"I'm not supposed to have another head injury," Casey says softly.

"Do you think avoiding the issue will just simply make it go away?" Brett asks, the first of her barely suppressed anger and frustration beginning to filter into her words. "Because let me tell you, Casey, it won't. In life we can't just run from our problems. We can't just say things and then avoid the issue completely. We can do things that hurt people, then try to move on with our lives and hope time solves everything. Because, again, it won't! We have to fight for what we want and be brave enough not only to walk into a fire, but to handle the consequences of what happens next."

After the last word leaves her lips, Brett seems to deflate. The void left open by her departing anger and frustration now occupied by the concern and love she feels for this man. Because she can no longer deny what she's feeling is so much more than simple infatuation.

Staring at Brett with wide eyes, Casey almost bares his soul to the woman he knows he's in love with, instead he just breathes out a simple question. "Are we still talking about head injuries?"

Now it's Brett's time to open her mouth, then promptly close it again. They both know this is about everything but head injuries, even if they're both still worried about that, but Brett knows this is not the right time to get into it. But Casey's expectant, and slightly hopeful, eyes still stare at her, seemingly looking directly into her soul, so Brett parts her lips but before she's able to say anything, the double doors of ambo 61 open and just like that they're parked in front of Gaffney Chicago Medical Center, a group of doctors and nurses surrounding them.

Without even thinking of what she's doing, Brett jumps out of the ambulance, and starts to recite Casey's stats and everything she knows about this injury. Then he's gone. Wheeled inside the hospital, while she's left standing alone, not only to worry about his physical condition, but to think about the words she just spoke. She thought, or hoped, if only for the sake of her broken heart, that she was moving on with Grainger, but evidently her heart is still stuck on one Matthew Casey.

-x-x-x-

By the time Boden returns to firehouse 51 it's almost midnight, but he's not surprised to find the entire house sitting in various places in the common room as they wait for news. Usually they would have all been waiting in Chicago Med but protocols still limit the number of people in the waiting room so they had been ordered to stay home.

"How's Casey doing?" Severide asks as soon as he sees his chief walking in.

Boden sighs and lifts his hands in a placating gesture as soon as he's instantly surrounded by the expectant faces of the men and women of Firehouse 51. "Casey's stable. They did an initial CT, then just in case also an MRI since this is his second head injury and because he didn't go to the hospital right away after the hit to his head."

"Another epidural hematoma?" Stella interrupts anxiously. Remembering Severide telling her the story once, and not wanting Casey and the house to go through that again. Because when one of them is hurt, it feels as if they all are.

Boden shakes his head, but still looks troubled. "Not this time, no. But the MRI did reveal a very small bleed. That's why he seemed to be okay after the injury. But without any sort of treatment, it was always going to get worse with time. However small, a brain bleed can't be trusted to resolve on its own without medical supervision, especially given Casey's history. Dr. Halstead said if we hadn't taken him to the hospital when we did, his intracranial pressure could have continued to rise and we could have been sharing a much different conversation."

"So, what's the prognosis? Is he having surgery again?" Severide asks worriedly, thinking not only of his friend's life but also his career as a firefighter. They had once dreamed of ruling the firehouse together along with Darden, and even if their friend had been gone for a long time, Severide still hopes to someday retire alongside his best friend. But only after many years of Chief Casey and Captain Severide in command of 51. The thought making Severide chuckle inwardly. Because at one point in time, he would have imagined himself as Chief in that little scenario, but nowadays, he's just content with the idea of being to Matt what he's to Boden now.

"Hopefully not. Doctors are already giving him medication and they're hopeful this time it will be enough to reduce inflammation and pressure. They're leaving surgery as a very last resort, but Dr. Halstead doesn't think they will get there. They also did a neurological exam and cognitive testing as precaution, and these didn't raise any red flags. He has the typical symptoms of a bad concussion but nothing that won't go away with time and no memory or strength issues. Dr. Halstead did put in some stitches to the wound on his head as he kept reopening it." Boden explains, grateful the news he has are mostly good, or at least not as bad as they could have been. "He should have been okay. If he had gotten checked out and given treatment right away. The hit wasn't too strong, so there was no reason for his symptoms to get so bad. They think that's also what made him collapse. He had probably been experiencing the headaches, nausea and dizziness since he got injured and without treatment it was all bound to get worse."

Sighing, Severide closes his eyes, still not able to shake the feeling that he should have noticed and knocked some sense into Casey before his situation got this bad. What help would he be to a future Chief Casey if he can't even help ensure he lives long enough to make it to chief? But then he opens his eyes and turns to Stella, finding her hands closed into fits, a scowl on her face. And looking to his sides, he sees similar expressions all around him, every member of 51 feeling this way in some way their fault.

"I missed it too," Boden says, recognizing the guilt in the faces of all the men and women he sees as family, and wanting to draw their attention back to him and away from any self-deprecating thoughts. "We all did. But really, this is no one's fault. But it should be a lesson for all. I will speak to Casey about this once he's on his feet again, but since I have you all here with me, I might as well use this experience as a reminder. Regardless of how simple an injury seems, we have paramedics for a reason. Regardless of any worries you might have about time off or your careers, you can't help anyone if you first don't help yourself. You all know I trust you, and don't like to micromanage. But I will have to start, if something like this ever happens again."

A chorus of yes, Chief follows Boden's words as everyone nods their agreement. Shoulders sagging as everyone seems to deflate, because even if they understand this wasn't their fault, still no one can shake the feeling that they could have done more.

"Now, everyone go to bed, you all deserve to rest, too. Casey is okay and being taken care of," Boden finally adds with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Just then, both Severide and Stella realize Brett isn't with Boden. Mackey had returned after dropping Casey off but they hadn't seen Brett since she climbed into the ambulance next to their roommate.

Bumping their shoulders against each other, Severide and Stella share a relieved smile, before walking together to the officer's quarters. Both, happy their captain will be okay and silently promising to keep a better eye on him, God knows he needs it. But both also hoping they won't have to and wishing this is the push their respective best friends need to finally give in to their very obvious feelings for each other and give their relationship a real try.

-x-x-x-

Casey opens his eyes to the telltale signs of a hospital room... antiseptic smell, incessant beeping, colorless walls and ceiling… All things he hates, together in one room.

Closing his eyes again, he releases a sigh in frustration. Having enough presence of mind to admit to himself that he has no one to blame for single handedly landing himself in this situation. Well, okay, the drunk driver landed him on the ground, but as Halstead told him, what happened later could have been avoided if he had just gotten checked out quickly. Now he should just be grateful his stupidity didn't end his career as a firefighter, and trust his doctors' words that medication will be enough and he will make a full recovery.

Finding himself alone in the room, Casey also wonders if protocols are to blame or if maybe everyone is pissed off at him, and makes a mental note to apologize not only to Boden, Brett, Severide and Stella, but to the rest of the firehouse as well. He's supposed to be their captain, second in command, and needs to set the right example. Not only for doing the right thing, but also apologizing afterwards for a momentary lack in judgement.

Be brave enough not only to walk into a fire, but to handle the consequences of what happens next, Brett's words then replay on his head, and a treacherous smile escapes his lips as he remembers her worried blue eyes and the feel of her hand in his.

And just like that, the power of his mind seemingly conjures the one thing he wants most in the world at this moment. Because one second he's alone in his room, and the next, the door is creaking open and Sylvie is standing next to his bed.

"You came," Casey breathes out.

"Who said I ever left?" Brett shrugs but asks sincerely. And looking at her tired eyes and paramedic uniform, Casey takes her words for nothing but the truth.

"I thought you were angry at me," Casey says, wincing as he remembers her demeanor and words in the ambulance.

"I'm not mad, I'm just…" Brett begins but cuts herself off.

"Disappointed?" Casey provides helpfully, a childish grin on his face.

Brett has the sudden need to kiss the smile off his face, but instead seems to deflate as she decides to go for honesty. "Yeah, I guess that's the right word. I'm disappointed you didn't feel like you could trust me on this. I know I should have noticed something was wrong, and even more, I should have checked you out right after the injury, but that's my mistake and I will do better next time. But Matt, promise me you will never knowingly hide an injury or illness again."

"This is not your fault, Brett."

"Promise me," Brett interrupts before Casey can say anything else. "I can't lose you too, Matt. Even if we can't be more than friends, I still can't lose my best friend."

Casey wants to say he wants to be more than friends, that they still can, but he just sighs, knowing it's not the right time. "I promise, Sylvie," he says softly. "I can't promise nothing will happen, because that's just the nature of our jobs, but I can promise not to hide things again."

"Okay." Brett whispers, relief evident in the way her shoulders slump. Still her eyes look worried as she searches Casey's eyes and body for any signs that he's struggling or in pain. Eventually, her eyes settle on the bandage covering the left side of his head.

For the next few minutes no one speaks, as Brett and Casey just look at each other. Both their minds, lost in the sad memories of what happened last fall, worry for what could have happened today, and a small seed of hope for what they hope will happen in the future.

"Did you really believe I wouldn't come?" Brett asks eventually, when the silence stretches for too long.

Casey ponders the question for a moment, before a sad smile reaches his lips. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Brett smiles sadly in return, her eyes losing some of their spark. "I will always be here for you, Matt. Like you're always here for me. Regardless of our relationship status."

There's no regardless, Casey wants to say, remembering Brett's comment about Gabby, but he doesn't. They're here because of his inability to let go of the past, and commit to fighting for the future he wants, and Brett doesn't deserve him taking advantage of the situation to win himself a second chance. He still wants it, he just needs to stop being scared and find the right time and way to do it. Because Casey can't deny that he's in love with Brett, and God knows his feelings for her are not going away anytime soon.

"Besides, I'm not going anywhere. Dr. Halstead says you will need some help. You need rest to recover, and light and sound will still bother you for a few days, but you still need to eat and take care of yourself. I already told Severide and Stella I'm sleeping on the couch until you're back on your feet." Brett continues after Casey's silence, the words rushing out of her as soon as the first one leaves her parted lips, not wanting to give herself any chance to back down now.

"You can't just up and leave your apartment. You're a pet owner now," Casey teases in response.

"You heard about that?" Brett asks, blushing as she remembers how she ended up with Veronicat.

"There's a lot of gossip around the house," Casey says with a shrug, "it's hard not to listen."

Brett mentally wonders what other things has Casey heard, her blush deepening when she remembers her night with Grainger. Not surprised at the feeling of shame and regret the memory brings. Choosing not to say anything else she makes two mental notes, one to text Severide to find out if the Loft accepts pets, then to call Grainger and respectfully end what they have. He might be a great guy but her heart belongs to another.

"I won't be alone. Severide and Stella are almost always there. You really don't need to disrupt your life for me," Casey explains seriously this time, mistaking her silence for agreement, and still determined not to take advantage of Brett's good nature, even if he wants nothing more than to take her home with him.

"This happened on Severide's watch," Brett reminds him softly. Knowing there's no way she will leave Casey out of her sight so soon after this little incident.

"Don't you trust Stella?" Casey tries instead.

"I do, but she will be outnumbered. We need even numbers to fight the likes of you."

"Who says I want to fight you?" Casey asks, his treacherous eyes going from Brett's eyes directly to her lips.

Brett notices, and bites her own. "I don't want to fight you either, but I will, if you don't start taking better care of yourself." She answers, forcing herself to be professional and her mind to stop remembering the taste of Casey's kiss and the feeling of his hands on her.

"Do you go home with all your patients, PIC Brett?" Casey challenges, suddenly less interested in not taking advantage of the situation, and more into beginning to win his second chance.

"Don't be unprofessional, Captain Casey," Brett tries to admonish, but her tone makes it sound less like a reproach, and more like an invitation.

"I'm high on painkillers," Casey says innocently. "What's your excuse?"

His comment only makes Sylvie smile. And Matt does too. Their eyes locked as an intangible something passes between them.

And the moment they share is not a guarantee for the future and their relationship working out. But a promise, that they will talk, and give what they have a real chance. Because they can no longer ignore they're in love, but they can learn from the past. Last fall, they kissed and tried to talk later. This time, they will reverse the order and make a different outcome. They owe it to themselves, their love, their friendship, and one another.

So this moment, more than anything else, is just that. A vow to fight, but only for each other.

[jangofctts]

Pro·found (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit 

Word Count: 3.5K

Warnings: Smut, oral sex (female receiving), hand jobs, language, sweet Mando?

A/N: yeehaw hope you enjoy you filthy animals. 

Part one here ---> Quix·ot·ic

He's stuck to you like glue.

After waking up in an unfamiliar bed, swathed in no less than three blankets, it's safe to say you were thoroughly confused. It's only after you roll onto your side, your injured side mind you, that you remember what transpired the day before. It sends a happy tingle all the way down to your toes but knocking your elbow against your wound and then nearly giving yourself a fucking concussion when you slam your head against the bed frame, stamps out that fire real fast.

When you finally manage to roll out of his bed with minimal damage, you find Mando hovering by the door, holding the little green goblin. It wiggles in his gloved grip (you already miss the bare feel of his hands) and when it spots you, it reaches out and begins to coo.

"He won't stop squirming," he tells you, and you reach towards him and sweep the kid into your arms.

You plant a kiss on its tiny wrinkly forehead. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You needed the rest," Mando answers. He steps closer until the only thing that separates you is the kid. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been stabbed," you snort. "And then run over by a pod racer."

He hums in acknowledgment and brings his hands up. Your breath hitches as he cups your face, gently turning your head from side to side to take in your injuries once again. Your lips quirk into a smile. "Am I gonna live, doc?"

"Maybe," he huffs, "As long as you don't make this a habit."

His thumb runs along your bottom lip as you stare up into his visor. "And if I do?"

"Then I'll throw your ass in carbonite and sell you to a coaxium mine for the trouble."

"Oh, ok, wow," you laugh, breaking away. You head towards the kid's crib and Mando follows close behind. "Good to know where I stand."

You place the child into their crib and give those ridiculously sized ears a gently pat and just as you take your hands away, an arm reaches around you and shuts the panel of the crib. You make an irritated noise as it clicks shut and when you turn around he's crowding you into the wall. You squeak as your back hits the wall and you jump five feet into the fucking air as his hands wrap around your hips, thumbs pressing into your hipbones.

He keeps you there, trapped between the unforgiving metal wall and the even harder beskar cuirass. Your heart is pounding against your ribs and you're sure that he can feel it. You're a high-strung wire and he's tugging you even tighter, threatening to snap. He leans closer, invading your space even more, and Maker he's big. Part of you is fucking terrified of this man who could snap your neck like a cracker, and the other half wants to poke and prod at his buttons until he pins you down into submission.

"You sure you wanna throw my ass in carbonite?" You whisper. Plucking up enough courage, you let your hands gently whisper over the top of his thigh. The muscle there twitches and as you brush your fingertips lightly against his inner thigh, a ragged sigh leaves him.

"M'having second..." He tapers off as your fingertips dance along the quickly growing bulge in his trousers. "Second thoughts."

The Mandalorian's hands find their way underneath your shirt. The rough scrape of leather sends goosebumps over the skin of your stomach and he quickly decides the contact is insufficient. He pulls his hands out of your shirt and extends them forward. "Take them off."

You reach for them and he retreats. You flash him a look. "Wha-"

"With your mouth," he clarifies. You can practically hear his smirk as he trails a gloved thumb over the line of your jaw. As it catches on your lower lip, he pushes into your mouth until your teeth lightly clamp down on the fabric and it slips off.

The other glove falls to the floor with a quiet thunk and both of his hands rush to cradle your cheeks. Your eyes flutter shut as the scrape of his calloused thumbs trace the plush skin of your lips and you wonder if he's imagining what'd it be like to press his lips to yours. It's almost melancholic  in the way he longingly skims over them, and you've never in the entirety of your life wanted to kiss someone as badly as him right now.  

It aches how much you want him, but he sweeps his palms down, over the fragile skin of your neck and you're momentarily distracted. You suck in a shaky breath as his palms, the warmth of them seeping through the fabric, hover just above the swell of your breasts. As you arch into him, craving for those weathered digits to dip lower, the cover of the crib flies open. It startles you both and you're tearing yourself away for the little green monster, all pouty and irritated about its surprise timeout.

Though, you can't really complain because when you lean over to pick the kid up, Mando presses himself into the curve of your body and whispers, "Later."

You nearly cream your pants then and there, but you've got a tiny goblin in your hands and that is not exactly appropriate at the moment. You turn around and he's already the climbing the ladder up to the cockpit.

                                                -=-=-=-

You don't know when 'later' is supposed to be. His later could be days from now and that alone makes you wanna scream in frustration. Normally you're not this impatient, but with him? He's addicting. It's only been a couple hours and you're already craving him.  

You finally get the kid to sleep after three failed attempts, or what you like to call, impromptu hide and go seek, and as you slip into the seat beside the crib a low, buzzing whir echoes through the ship. You stand and when you're halfway to the ladder, wondering what the fuck that was, all the lights shut off.

"Mando?" You call.

There's no response and you're a little worried. You can't see for shit, he's not answering, and the ship is floating in space with no power. Not your idea of a party, but hey, at least the oxygen filter still works.

Figuring that standing here like a weirdo in the dark probably isn't the best idea, you try and shuffle towards anything that feels familiar. Of course, you forget that there's that big fucking tube trailing across the ground, and of course your foot manages to get caught underneath it. You fly forward with a startled yelp, praying that your face won't collide into an edge or something, and then you're quite suddenly not falling.  

Strong arms steady your descent and your brain gets a bit scrambled because there is a person in the dark grabbing you. A scream bubbles out and a hand rapidly slaps over your mouth to silence it. "It's me."

You mumble out a sigh of relief, really glad that it's him and not one of his quarries that decided to reanimate spontaneously. Yet your joy is short lived once you remember that there's no fucking power.

His hand falls away, finding purchase on the curve of your hip. "Why's the power out?"

"It happens sometimes," he says, not at all concerned that this is a regular occurrence. "The wires are old."

"You mean this ship is old."

He hums and pulls you closer. You still can't see him because it's darker than a black hole in here but your fingers can make out the edges of his pauldrons and the corded muscle of his bicep. You both stay there, in the dark, and you're fine like this. With just being held, safe and suspended in time.

And then he murmurs, all sweet and soft, "I wan't to kiss you."

Sparks ignite inside your stomach and it's like a ripcord jumpstarting your heart. That's it—you've died. You hit your head on that imaginary corner and you've died. How else could you explain the object of your fascination wanting to kiss you. A Mandalorian too no less. Wait.

"B-but your helmet."

"It's dark," he says. He seems to have already made up his mind and you're not gonna argue with that. If he's confident about this, then shit, so are you. You feel him shuffle around and hear the jostle of metal being placed on a crate or the ground, you aren't sure, and you tentatively reach out expecting to feel the familiar curve of his cuirass.

Instead your fingers fold over the soft lines of his undershirt. He sucks in a breath, so clear without the helmet, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, hot and alive, and real. He's human, just as you are.

You don't mean to jump as his hands sweep up your neck. You barely get out the first syllable of an apology when his hands slip into your hair, grasp at the back of your skull, and pull you forward.

He kisses you and your stomach swoops.

His lips are velvet and all thoughts are obliterated, turned into dust, and replaced with him. Only him. Your hands scrabble to find purchase, an anchor, and your fingers slide over a stubbled jaw and over chiseled cheekbones. He sighs into your mouth, and tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides over yours, licks deep into your mouth, tasting you and then pulling away to nibble on your bottom lip.

Fuck. Why the fuck didn't you get stabbed earlier?

He makes a sound low in his throat when you tug on the thick curls atop his head and kisses you harder. They're feverish and pressing, as if the whole galaxy would end tomorrow, and it might as well because you're in heaven. Your knees feel like jelly and you know he's holding the majority of your weight, but it's impossible to stand upright. His tongue curls around yours, hot and wet, then pulls it into his mouth and sucks.

Your jagged moan echoes through the dark and he raises his chin to break the kiss. He tugs on your bottom lip once again with the blunt edges of his teeth and begins to trail wet, lazy kisses down your jaw. You try to recapture his lips, but one of his hands tightens in your hair and tilts your head back, bearing the fragile skin of your throat for him. The graze of his teeth sends goosebumps down your spine and the gentle nibbles have you whimpering. He laves his tongue over the area and mouths down to the curve of where your shoulder meets your neck and bites down—hard.

You yelp, but the hand tangled in your hair keeps you steady for him. You can't go anywhere like this. He presses soft kisses on the throbbing skin, sure to leave a mark, as if in apology then trails the tip of his tongue all the way up to your earlobe. His warm breath fans over your ear and he lays a sweet kiss over the cartilage. "Lay down."

Stars. His voice is even more rich and honey sweet without the tinny and artificial filter in his helmet. You drop like a fucking rock and it's a miracle you manage not to knock into something on your way down. Your fist clenches the collar of his shirt and you drag him over you, feeling his quiet chuckle vibrate against the crook of your neck. Your legs fall open around his knees and his palms smooth over your thighs and hike them up higher around his waist. His mouth is on yours again, his elbows caging you in as he props himself above you and you feel the growing hardness between you.

You arch your hips, slowly grinding up into him. He inhales a shaky breath and licks deep into your mouth and digs his cock over your clothed center. Liquid heat is swirling in your belly and you and him are wearing entirely too much right now. He seems to get the same memo because his hands are now slipping over the waistband of your pants and pulling them off, underwear and all. You squeak as cool air meets the slick already pooling at your center and he's molding himself back over you.

His head tilts and his tongue flicks across the shell of your ear. He thrusts his hips forward, your cunt surely leaving a wet spot on the fabric, and groans low in your hear. "Shit."

Mando grabs at the edge of your shirt and hauls it over your head, your bra quickly following. His mouth quickly latches on to your collarbone, sucking a mark there then making a steady trail down to your left breast. He hovers just above your peaked nipple and you whine in desperation. His fingertip is swirling a teasing circle over the areola on your other breast and you bite back all kinds of swears and curses, wishing this sweet torture would end. You're aching and desperate and when he finally, finally pinches the pebbled skin between his forefinger and thumb, you're arching into his touch with a silent wail. The hot cavern of his mouth encases your nipple and carefully brings his teeth around it. You whisper his name and he tugs your nipple up then releases.

He mouths a kiss onto your sternum and rests his chin there. "Can I taste you? Fuck—more of you? Please—You—you were so sweet on my fingers last time."

The image of him licking your arousal off his fingers after you passed out the day before sends a wave of burning heat through you. You don't even have to fucking think because a garbled yes is already leaving your mouth.

You feel him smirk against your sternum and he's hurriedly shuffling lower. He hooks his hands underneath your knees and places them around his broad shoulders. His bare fingers trace tiny patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver and then you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. There's a moment just before, his face hovering close enough that you can feel his breath, anticipation gripping your chest, and then he licks a broad stripe from the base of your pussy all the way up to your clit.

His mouth Is searing hot and his tongue feels like liquid velvet as you shudder and dig your hands into his hair. He grunts against you as you drag him closer, all too happy to comply. His mouth encompasses your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves. He then trails lower, sucks on your labia, and sweeps down to your opening. The tip of his tongue traces your entrance, then down to lick at your wetness that dripped lower, and then back up.

It's good. So fucking good and when two of his thick fingers press at your entrance you nearly go blind from pleasure. The two digits slip in with ease, all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. He pushes them back in, then out, a steady pace that he never strays from. It leaves you bordering the edge of madness, the catch of his knuckles and calloused skin along your walls pure torture.

Your hips arch into him, trying to urge him to go faster. Instead, he slowly retracts his fingers and removes his mouth. You gasp in frustration as your cunt clenches around thing air, and you're begging, your words slurred and hardly understandable. You're so close to diving off the edge. You feel his mouth pull up into, what you can only imagine, is the biggest shit-eating grin.

"Please! P-please—I-I need..." You're babbling and he drags his fingers over your thigh, skims over your cunt, and traces a pattern into your other thigh. "Mando. Fuck. You—your fingers. I need—"

He complies.

Two fingers are thrust up into your dripping cunt, curving so deliciously into something that feels like unrefined electricity. His mouth sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body goes rigid. You're flying off that wall a million miles an hour—cumming onto his tongue and Mando keeps licking you through it even as you arch and squirm. Stars are bursting behind your eyelids and heat hotter than a wildfire spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're twitching and you hear Mando, feel the vibration of his groan, as a flood of your juices coat his tongue.

Your brain is lost in bliss and fuzzy pleasure as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into you're core and it hurts. You're too sensitive. Your nerves are rubbed raw and you're still throbbing, but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your previous orgasm to push him away. He takes the opportunity to move his fingers faster, suckle at your clit that burns from overstimulation, and somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's razor sharp. Your thighs are shaking around him and as he twists his fingers inside you and curls into that tiny, little spot, your orgasm is wrenched out of you. It's searing—all the way to the fucking bone and you're positive you'll end up a burnt crisp. Your cunt pulses around Mando's fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually relent into a dull throb. You whimper and you have to push at his forehead because he's still licking at your cunt. He pulls out his fingers with an embarrassing wet sound and then his crawling back over you.

Sudden exhaustion weighs over your eyelids and there's nothing more that you want to do beside fuck him, but you're already half asleep. "M'falling asleep again, Mando."

"S'fine," he says. "Just—just a little longer, ok? I won't—won't put it in."

"Ok..."

He moves to tug his pants down and you feel a dribble of wetness drip onto your hip. He grabs your hand that's lying limp on the floor and cups it around his thick, painfully hard cock. That's enough to wake you up again.

You swipe your thumb over the weeping slit, feeling it twitch. You curl your forefinger and thumb together, making a circle, and roll your wrist around the head of his cock, tugging and squeezing lightly. His groan is jagged and sharp and the sound causes a fresh wave of arousal to shoot straight to your cunt. Your hand then wraps around him, and gives the hard flesh, a few experimental pumps. His hips stutter into your grip, following your motions as if afraid you'd suddenly stop.

You feel fingers press at the seam of your lips and you readily open your mouth for him. You suck the digits into the hot cavern of your mouth, lick over the salty lines of his palm, and when he's satisfied he tugs them out of your mouth with a pop and smears it over the base of his cock. With your saliva and the steady stream of precum that trickles out like a fountain, it's easy to slide your hand up and down from base to tip, paying careful attention to the ridge of skin on the frenulum.

"Maker," he gasps. "Almost there. Doing s'good. Good—good girl."

He's thrusting up faster into your hand and your bring up your other hand to gently cup his balls. His whole body quivers as you roll them gently in your palm and he's pitching forward to press his forehead to yours. Your nail lightly scrapes over the head of his cock and with one last squeeze to his balls, he's roughly grabbing your shoulders and cumming over your stomach. His balls pull up nice and tight and pulse. Spurts of hot cum gush over your skin and paint your ribcage and belly, his hips stuttering and pushing into your hand roughly.

"Ah. Shit—shit. Prob-bly look so go-good with my cum all over you."

You blush and his hips slowly stop thrusting as the last few strings of cum are milked out and drip over your fist. He's still sucking in air as you remove your hand and lick his spend off the slops of your knuckles. He tastes good—warm and thick on your tongue and next time you want it all in your mouth.

His chest heaves as he lowers himself beside you and tugs you close into his chest. You don't pay attention to the sticky mess on your stomach and he doesn't seem to mind. He brushes your hair from your forehead, tucks it behind your ear and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He whispers a quiet thank you and presses a soft kiss below your jaw and the ground is suddenly the most comfortable fucking thing in the world.

You drift off to sleep, cuddled into the Mandalorian's side.

[alyssawritesssfics]

Hounded [8] 8. Day Trip

Pairings: Bellamy x OC // Kane x daughter!OC

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: violence, mentions of blood, character death (canon), series spoilers

Summary: Athena, in an attempt to avoid her father, searches for a lost bunker with Bellamy. In a search for supplies, they end up finding a newfound appreciation for each other.

Author’s Note: Hii, here is chapter/episode eight! I had SO much fun writing this one. It’s a big one, most of it Athena & Bellamy. I planned to have Athena talk with Kane, but it just didn’t fit into this chapter. I hope you enjoy it! Please remember to note and reblog! It really helps me see interest and therefore update the story more often. Thank you!

Tag List: @topazy​ @no-damsel​ (DM or send an ask to be added)

previous chapter // series masterlist

The rest of the day was spent recovering from the storm. Finn was healing slowly but surely, and the Grounder was still tied up on the top level of the dropship. I'd hardly seen Octavia, and I didn't blame her for avoiding me; part of me wished I could avoid me too.

I sat in my tent the following day, waiting for Clarke's meeting with the council to finish. We would soon know how long until the Ark would reach the ground, more importantly, how long we had left before we had proper defences against the Grounders. Until we had guns, the Grounders would always have the upper hand.

"Athena, are you in there?"

I stood from my cot, pulling open the flap of the tent. "How did the meeting go?"

Clarke shrugged. "There's an emergency depot not too far from here. Your father mentioned it would have supplies and could provide shelter for us while we wait on them to get down here."

I could feel my body tense up at the mention of my father. "That'll be good. I have a feeling we'll need to move there sooner rather than later." Stepping out of the tent, I allowed Clarke to lead me towards the dropship.

"The council set up meeting times for the rest of the day," Clarke started. "For us all to talk to our families."

I took a deep breath. "That'll be good."

Clarke stepped in front of me. "Are you okay?"

"Sorry," I spoke, rubbing my eyes. "I've just gotten so used to life down here, you know? Without the Ark. Not having to worry about my father."

Clarke nodded. "I know what you mean."

"Right," I couldn't help but frown. "Did you talk to your mom at all last night?"

"You mean, about her turning my father in?" Clarke asked, each word laced with venom. Then, she let out a small sigh. "Yeah, I told her I knew."

"What did she have to say for herself?"

Clarke shook her head. "I didn't really give her a chance to explain. I mean, what is there to explain? Nothing she could possibly say would make any of this better. She's the reason my father is dead. I don't think I can forgive her for that. Does that make me a terrible person?"

I shook my head. "It makes you human."

"Being human sucks."

I looked up at the sky, taking a deep breath. "Forgiveness has never really been my strong suit, so I'm probably the worst person to give you advice anyway."

Clarke frowned. "Well, I can help you avoid having to talk to your parents."

My eyes met Clarke's, a small smile forming across my face. "What do you have in mind?"

Clarke turned around, continuing towards the dropship. "The depot. I figure you can lead the search for it. Scope it out, see if there's anything of use there. See if it can actually be used as shelter."

"I can do that," I responded. "When do we leave?"

We entered the dropship, spotting Bellamy and Octavia standing next to the ladder.

"Whatever twisted connection you think you have with that animal, forget it. You don't get to see him. End of discussion." Bellamy turned to leave.

"Why do you even care?" Octavia pressed. "If I ruined your life, you should want me to go up there. Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll kill me. Problem solved."

Bellamy looked back at her. "You know I didn't mean that."

"Bellamy," Clarke spoke up.

"The answer is still no, Clarke." He responded, now facing us. "I'm not talking to Jaha."

Clarke shook her head. "That's not why I'm here."

"What, then?"

"The Ark found some records that show an old supply depot not too far from here."

My eyes darted to Clarke. "Clarke, what are you-"

"What kind of supplies?" Bellamy asked.

"The kind that might give us a chance to live through the winter." Clarke responded. "I have to stay behind to organize visits, but I'm sending Athena and she could use some back up."

I folded my arms across my chest. "You're kidding, right?"

"Why are you asking me?"

Clarke smirked. "You want to avoid Jaha right?"

Bellamy scoffed. "Alright, I'll go."

"I thought so." Clarke said, handing me a map. "I've marked the coordinates on this map. Be careful out there, alright?"

Before I could object, Clarke had left the dropship. I turned back to Bellamy, my arms still placed tightly across my chest. "Meet me at the gate in ten minutes, or I will leave without you."

Bellamy smirked. "Someone is bossy today."

"I mean it, Bellamy," I spoke, turning to leave.

I stopped at my tent to grab my pack before heading to the gate. By the time I made it there, Bellamy was stuffing packages upon packages of nuts into his pack.

"That's a lot of rations," I mumbled. "You do realize this is a day trip, right?"

"A lot can happen in a day."

I rolled my eyes, signalling for Jasper to open the gate.

...

We had been walking for over an hour, only ever discussing the directions Clarke had given us. While the silence had left little room for a Grounder to sneak up on us, I was growing tired and needed a distraction.

"You know, the first dropship will be down soon," I spoke, earning a side-glance. "Pretty sure you can't avoid Jaha forever."

Bellamy scoffed. "I can try."

"Maybe he'll be lenient?" I suggested, eating some nuts from my packet. "You know, he's forgiving the rest of our crimes. Why not yours too?"

"I shot the man, Athena. He's not just going to forgive and forget."

"At least you didn't kill him."

"Has terrible aim ever in the history of law been a good defence?" He sighed. "Your honour, I concede that I shot the man, but he didn't die! No harm, no foul?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not saying you'll get off with no punishment. I'm just saying, maybe he'll opt for some time in lock-up? We don't really have to worry about wasting oxygen anymore."

Bellamy stopped, staring at the ground. "What if they find out about the radio? I mean, someone is bound to tell them. I shot the Chancellor, and then I destroyed the radio, causing three hundred innocent people to die up there."

"So it does bother you?"

He turned around, looking me dead in the eye. "Of course it bothers me, Athena." Bellamy turned back around, continuing through the forest.

"Why do you always act like you don't give a shit, then?" I asked. "I mean, why do you keep pretending like nothing matters to you?"

"I don't pretend like nothing else matters."

"You're right," I responded. "You couldn't pretend that Octavia doesn't matter to you no matter how hard you try."

Bellamy shook his head. "You have no idea."

"Octavia used to talk about you all the time," I started, smiling to myself. "Her big brother. Her greatest protector. You gave up everything to protect her."

"What's your point?"

"I'm just trying to understand how the person I heard about for eight months is the same guy I'm talking to right now." I shrugged.

Bellamy scoffed. "No matter what Octavia has told you, you'll never understand what we went through up there. What I went through. Your father would take over if anything happened to Jaha, right? That would make you Wells 2.0."

"Bellamy-"

"You will never understand, Athena. You will never know what I had to go through to keep her safe. What I had to see my mother go through." He paused, steadying his breathing. "Octavia spent sixteen years under the floor. Sixteen years confined to our tiny dorm. She was a prisoner from the day she was born and all I wanted was to protect her, or at the very least, be with her one last time before radiation killed her." He stopped, looking around. "But, it didn't."

"So you destroyed the radio because you were afraid she'd be alone? After they came down here and executed you."

"That was part of it." Bellamy nodded. "Is it so wrong just to not want to die?"

I shook my head, feeling a pang in my heart. "I don't think so."

"If I had known what would happen," Bellamy closed his eyes. "I wouldn't have destroyed the radio. I swear."

I stared at Bellamy for a moment, taking in a side of him I hadn't seen since the night in the cave. He was vulnerable. Maybe I was an idiot, but I couldn't help but believe him. Feel sorry for him even.

Clearing my throat, I pushed past him, looking down the hill we'd now approached. "The depot is supposed to be around here somewhere. There's got to be a door underneath all of this brush."

"Let's just split up, cover more ground." He sighed, beginning down the hill. "Stay within shouting distance, alright?"

I nodded, slowly making my way down the hill behind him. Broken branches from the trees surrounding us were scattered along the grass messily, having been tossed around by the storm most likely.

It didn't take long for me to find a metal door hidden under a large branch. "Bellamy, I think I found it!"

Bellamy rushed over, helping me move the branch. He tugged on the handle, to no avail. "It's rusted shut. Here, watch your foot."

I stepped back as Bellamy pulled out his hatched, bashing it against the edges of the door a few times. Putting the hatchet back on his belt, he signalled for my help. After a few tugs, the door swung open.

"Woah," I gasped, peering down the stairs. "Here, take this," I said, handing him one of two flashlights before descending into the bunker.

Bellamy followed behind. "Do you really think this place hasn't been touched since before the war?"

"A girl can dream."

We continued through the bunker, coming across another set of stairs. My light shone over a skeleton, leaning up against the bannister.

"A hell of a place to die," Bellamy commented.

"So much for living down here. This place is disgusting." I said, looking around the spider-web infested room. "Damn it."

Bellamy sighed. "Anything left down here is ruined."

I soon noticed a shelf, shining my light against it. "Hey, I found some blankets!"

"Excited about a couple of blankets?" Bellamy grumbled.

"It's something, at least," I responded, rolling my eyes. "We might not be able to live down here, but at least these will help us stay warm. Even if it is just a little bit."

"How about a canteen? Or a medkit? Or a decent freaking tent?" Bellamy snapped, kicking a barrel in front of him.

I spun around, noticing the contents of the barrel spilling out onto the floor. "Holy shit," I mumbled, rushing over.

Bellamy smiled, kneeling down next to it. "I'll be damned."

Two guns laid on the floor, surrounded by grease.

"Do you think they'll still work?" I asked, picking one up.

"I guess we'll find out," Bellamy responded, looking around. "Help me with the rest of the barrels. Maybe there's more guns, some ammo."

We headed around the room, kicking over every barrel insight. In total, we came up with fifty guns, but only enough ammo to fill half of them twice.

"This changes everything. No more running from spears." Bellamy spoke, a glimmer in his eyes. "Ready to be a badass, Athena?"

I bit my lip. "I know we need these, but I don't know how I feel about bringing them back to camp. We do have murderers among us."

"Who could've killed us by now with anything else lying around camp." Bellamy pointed out. "I know what you mean, but trust me, those killers are focused on the Grounders. Not any of us."

"You're right," I confessed.

"We're lucky these guns were packed in grease. The fact that they survived means we're not sitting ducks anymore." Bellamy grabbed a sheet from the shelf, drawing a target on it with some dust. "You need to learn how to do this."

I nodded, lifting the gun and pointing it at the sheet. "So I just hold it on my shoulder?"

"Just a little higher," He spoke, standing behind me. He placed one hand on the gun and another on my upper arm. I could feel his warm breath on my ear, jagged with each inhale and exhale. "Uh, yeah, that's good." He spoke, moving away. "Here, watch and learn."

I stepped back, watching him pick up another gun. He aimed it at the target, pulling the trigger. The gun clicked, nothing coming out. "Still watching," I spoke, smirking.

He shook his head, turning to me with a smile. "My bullets are duds. Try yours."

I stepped back into place, aiming the gun and pulling the trigger. A bullet flew out of the gun, shooting through the sheet. "That was amazing!" I spoke, smiling ear to ear. I turned to look at Bellamy, my face now pale. "Am I horrible for feeling that?"

He shook his head again, still smiling. "Try again."

"We shouldn't waste the ammunition."

"You need to practice."

"We need to talk about how we're going to keep these guns around camp," I started. "Where we're going to keep them, who has access to them." Bellamy rolled his eyes, opening a pack of nuts and eating a small handful. "You left Miller in charge of the Grounder," I continued. "You must trust him."

Bellamy nodded. "You should keep him close. The others listen to him."

I raised an eyebrow. "Bellamy, what's going on? You've been acting weird all day and you took a shit-ton of rations-" I stopped, my eyes widening. "You're planning on running. That's why you agreed to come today. You were gonna load up on supplies and just take off?"

"I don't have a choice, Athena." Bellamy sighed. "The Ark will be down here soon. You said maybe they'd just lock me up, but there's no way I'm giving Jaha the satisfaction."

"What about Octavia?" I asked. "You can't just leave her."

"Octavia hates me. She'll be fine."

"Octavia is upset, but she'll get over it. She loves you." I spoke, stepping closer. "Please, Bellamy. Don't do this."

Bellamy stared at me for a moment, his eyes softening. "Come with me."

I stared back, my heart stopping for a moment. "What?"

"Screw everyone else," Bellamy responded. "Let's just go."

"Bellamy-"

"Clarke knows where the depot is." Bellamy started. "We can take a gun, some ammo, and go somewhere else."

"We can't just abandon our people. Your people, as you've said over and over again since we got down here." I spoke, stepping back.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. "Keep practicing. I need some air."

"Bellamy, wait!"

"Don't worry, Athena." He spoke, walking away. "I won't leave just yet."

As his silhouette disappeared, I felt my heart sink into my stomach. Come with me. He asked me to come with him, and for just a moment, I thought about it. Could we find a place where the Grounders would never find us? Would the others manage on their own until the Ark came down? Leaving them to fight without my help just didn't sit right with me.

I placed my gun on the shelf, grabbing a few more nuts. Then suddenly, I heard a familiar voice.

"You've always been just like your father, you know?"

I turned around, the room having morphed into my bedroom on the Ark. Standing in front of me was my mother, as clear as ever.

"Mom?" I gasped, rushing over and throwing my arms around her.

"My sweet baby," She spoke, giving me one of her tightest hugs. "I've missed you so much."

I opened my mouth to respond, reality slowly sinking in. Looking up at my mother, I frowned. "You're not really here, are you?"

"I'm afraid not," She confessed.

"How is this possible?" I asked, stepping away.

My mother turned away, looking around the room before sitting down on my bed. "I'm thinking 'why' is more important."

I frowned. "Because I need you."

"What for, Sweetheart?" She asked, patting the bed next to her.

I sat down next to her, feeling her arm wrap around my back. "I don't know what to do. I'm so scared, Mom. All of the time. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to keep us all safe. I don't think I can."

"Are you trying your best?" I nodded. "That's all you can do." She said, pausing for a moment. "But, you can't run away, baby. You're better than that."

I pulled myself away, standing in front of her. "You don't understand what it's like down here."

"Of course I do," She said, smiling. "I'm you, remember?"

"Right," I frowned. "So I guess you're my conscience?"

"I'm whatever you need me to be."

I let out a huff, shaking my head. "That's not really helpful, you know?"

"Would you prefer to speak with your father instead?" She asked, letting out a small chuckle.

"That's not funny," I hissed. "And for the record, I'm nothing like him."

"Are you sure about that?" I raised my eyebrow at her. "Here you are, worrying about the safety of your people. Having to make the hard decisions to keep them alive, a burden he's carried since before you were born."

"Dad has never had trouble making the hard decisions."

"Athena-"

"If you're going to try and defend him, just save it. He let them lock me up." I spoke, tears forming in my eyes. "Aside from our family, Jaha and Jesse's family, nobody else knew what I did. He's the second in command! He could've talked to Jaha, asked him to let it go, but he didn't. He's never stood up for me, not once in my entire life. He knew they were sending us down here, and he did nothing to stop it. He sent me, his own daughter, down here to die."

My mother frowned, her eyes shifting to the floor. "You know none of that was within his power. He loves you, more than anything."

"Now I know for sure you're not real," I scoffed. "You'd never lie to me."

"Too bad I couldn't say the same for you."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. "I never told you I was sorry. For what I did. Stealing your keycard. I know you could've lost everything."

"But you did it anyway, all to save someone you loved. Look where that got you; locked up and sent down here to die."

"You're saying Dad did the right thing?" I rolled my eyes.

"Not everything is black and white, Athena." She started. "Sometimes you have no other choice. Being a leader is doing what's right for your people, not what's right for you or one other person. Your father knows that, and so do you."

I shook my head, a tear falling down my cheek. "I'm not ready to forgive him."

"Whatever," My mother spoke, her voice suddenly changing. "Crazy bitch."

"Mom?" I asked, feeling a hard smack against the back of my head.

Then, everything went black.

...

I woke up on the cold ground of the bunker, my head throbbing. Sitting up, I looked around the room, noticing Bellamy's pack still sat on the ground where he left it. Whoever knocked me out, it definitely hadn't been him.

"What am I supposed to do?" It was Bellamy's voice.

I pulled myself off the ground, grabbing my gun and running out of the bunker.

"Do you think you deserve to be free of your pain? Do you deserve that gift?" I recognized the voice as Dax, one of the murderers of our camp. "Because you're going to get it."

I hid behind a tree, poking my head out, struggling to see in the darkness. Dax stood over Bellamy, holding one of the guns we'd found. Bellamy lifted his hand, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Nothing personal," Dax said. Then, he pulled the trigger, nothing coming out.

"Put the gun down, Dax," I spoke, stepping out from behind the tree with my gun aimed at him.

Dax spun around, shaking his head. "You should've stayed in the bunker, Athena. I tried not to kill you, but here you are, and Shumway said no witnesses."

"What is he talking about?" I asked, my eyes shifting to Bellamy for a moment.

"Shumway set it up. He gave me the gun to shoot the Chancellor."

I froze for a moment, Dax taking the chance to move closer. "Walk away now, and I won't kill you. This is your last chance."

"I can't do that, Dax."

He nodded. "Your choice."

I pulled the trigger before he could, this time my gun being the one to jam. He was quick to pull the trigger next, and I dove behind the tree just in time.

"No!" Bellamy yelled, tackling Dax.

I could hear them struggling behind me as I remained behind the tree, reloading my gun. Stepping out, I fired again and again and again, nothing coming out. I watched Dax climb on top of Bellamy once more, pushing the gun hard against Bellamy's throat. Giving up, I ran towards.

"Get the hell off of him!" I yelled, swinging the gun at him.

Dax dodged me, hitting me in the stomach with his gun, causing me to fall to the floor. I clutched my stomach, gasping for air, Dax's eyes still on me. With no time to waste, Bellamy grabbed a discarded bullet, stabbing Dax in the neck with it.

Blood spilled from Dax's mouth as he fell backwards, slowly bleeding out. Finally, he stopped moving.

I crawled over to the tree, leaning myself up against it as Bellamy rushed over, still struggling to catch his breath. He placed his hand on my knee, leaning himself against the tree as well.

"It's okay," I spoke, slowly catching my breath. "You're okay."

"No, I'm not." He choked out, tears forming in his eyes. "My mother... If she knew what I've done, who I am. She raised me to be better. To be good. And all I do is hurt people."

"Bellamy-"

"I'm a monster."

"Hey, you saved my life today. You've saved my life twice now." I spoke, grabbing his hand. "You may be a total ass half the time but... I need you. We all need you. None of us would've survived this place if it wasn't for you."

He shook his head. "They have you. And Clarke."

"We couldn't have kept everyone alive without you by our sides," I confessed. "You want forgiveness, fine, I'll give that to you. You're forgiven, okay? But you can't run, Bellamy. You have to face it."

"Like you faced your father?" He asked, catching me off guard. "Come on, Athena. I know you only came here today to avoid talking to him."

I sighed. "You're right. I don't want to face my father. I don't want to face any of it. I would love to run away and start a life far away from everyone else, far away from all the death and destruction, but we don't have a choice."

"Jaha will kill me when he comes down."

"I won't let that happen," I spoke. "We'll figure something out."

Bellamy nodded. "Can we figure it out later?"

I nodded, leaning my head back against the tree and letting go of his hand. "Whenever you're ready."

...

We returned to camp later that night, pushing our way through a crowd surrounding the dropship. Miller had just informed the camp that the Grounder had gotten free, nowhere to be found.

"What if he brings other grounders back?" Jasper asked.

"He'll kill us all!" Another delinquent spoke.

"Or worse."

"Let the grounders come," Bellamy spoke, us both reaching the front of the crowd. "We've been afraid of them for far too long, and why? Because of their knives and spears. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of being afraid."

Bellamy and I both dropped the sacks we'd made of sheets, them falling open to reveal guns. Clarke eyed them in amazement as everyone cheered around us.

"What about the bunker?" She asked.

I shook my head. "We can't live down there, but we did find blankets."

Clarke nodded, raising her voice. "These are weapons, not toys, alright? We have to be prepared to give them up to the guard when they get down here."

"But for now, they'll keep us safe," I added, earning a small smile.

"There are plenty more back at the depot that we couldn't carry," Bellamy spoke. "Tomorrow we start training, and if the grounders come, we're going to be ready to fight."

Everyone dispersed, Monty and Jasper carrying the guns to the dropship for storage overnight. Clarke placed her hand on my arm, grabbing my attention.

"I got you a meeting with Jaha," Clarke said. "He's waiting."

I smiled. "Thank you."

"What do you need to talk to him about anyway?"

"It's not for me," I responded, my eyes landing on Bellamy. "He was going to leave, you know?"

Clarke's eyes widened, her face turning red. "Are you kidding me?"

I shook my head. "I convinced him to talk to Jaha. Promised I'd do it with him. He's just scared, Clarke."

Her face softened and she nodded. "I get it."

I watched as Bellamy marched over, his eyes shifting nervously around camp. "Are we doing this?"

"Jaha is waiting. Are you ready?"

Bellamy huffed. "No, but let's get this over with."

The two of us headed to the tent, Bellamy gesturing for me to enter first. I pushed the flap aside, quickly spotting Jaha's face on the monitor in front of us. Bellamy took a deep breath, sitting down first and putting on his headset. I did the same.

"Mr. Blake," Jaha spoke. "I've been wanting to talk to you for some time now."

"Before you do, there's something I'd like to say." I started, glancing at Bellamy before looking back at Jaha. "When you sent us down here, you sent us to die, but miraculously, most of us are still alive. In large part, that is because of him, because of Bellamy. He's one of us, and he deserves to be pardoned of his crimes just like the rest of us."

Jaha scoffed. "Athena, I appreciate your point of view, but it's not that simple."

"It is if you want to know who on the Ark wants you dead."

I watched as Jaha contemplated Bellamy's offer. Finally, he responded. "Bellamy Blake, you are pardoned for your crimes."

Bellamy let out a sigh of relief, and I couldn't help but do the same. I placed my hand on his, squeezing it slightly and earning a small smile from him.

"Thank you," Bellamy spoke.

Jaha nodded. "Now, tell me who gave you the gun."

~

next chapter

[kissjane]

DELAYED DATE / Short(ish) fic

#12 from this prompt list.

TW / Mental illness, mention of suicide (but no actual attempt)

We dated in high school but then you moved away but now you’re back in town

“Have you guys heard?”

Basile came running towards them, ten minutes late for the gang’s weekly pizza night. As soon as he was near enough, he came to a skidding halt, bent double, his hands on his knees, his face red and ruddy, taking in gulps of oxygen while he tried to tell them his big news.

“Daphné told me, she heard from Imane, who had it from Sofiane, so that must mean it’s true, because obviously Sofiane would not just make something like that up, would he? Anyway, so Daphné heard it this morning when the girls went all shopping together, and she came over to my place to tell me just as I was about to leave, so that’s why I’m late, sorry about that, guys, have you ordered yet? You remembered to leave off the mushrooms on mine, right? Anyway, so what do you think about it, huh?”

He looked around expectantly.

“Baz, my man,” Arthur said, shaking his head fondly but exasperatedly, “why don’t you sit down first, and then tell us this piece of bombshell gossip Daphné thought was more important than pizza with your friends.”

Basile did as suggested, and then looked around again with aplomb, eager to share his news.

“Eliott is back in town!”

Silence fell, as Yann and Arthur glanced over at Lucas.

“Eliott Demaury?”, Yann asked after a long beat.

“Of course, Eliott Demaury, do we know any other Eliotts?”

Basile was so extraordinarily proud of surprising his friends with his announcement that he completely missed how Lucas suddenly had gone pale.

“We should text him, ask him if he wants to hang out again, like before!”

Lucas noticed how Yann elbowed Basile in the arm while Arthur frantically shook his head, and it made him feel bad. If the boys wanted to hang out with Eliott again, they should be able to. But Yann knew, and Arthur could probably guess, that Lucas would very much prefer not to. But whether Basile tried to set something up or not, chances were Lucas would run into Eliott at some point anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” he therefore said. Better to meet him with Yann there for emotional support, than running into him alone and when he was least expecting it. This way, he could prepare.

But not enough, it turned out, when Basile immediately took out his phone, and before anyone realized what was going on, announced gleefully, “That’s arranged! He’s coming over.”

Lucas choked on his own saliva, and a worried look appeared in Yann’s eyes, but the damage was done, and when a familiar figure walked up a few minutes later, Lucas took a big gulp of air and hoped for the best.

“Hi,” a hesitant voice came, and Lucas had to close his eyes against the memories crashing over him.

Eliott calling him late at night, his voice warm with sleep.

Eliott whispering nonsensical words in Lucas’ hair, against Lucas’ skin.

Eliott breathing out Lucas’ name into Lucas’ mouth, his lips taking on the shapes with Eliott’s.

“Hey,” he crooked, willing himself to act normally, to just greet him like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while.

And why wouldn’t he? Of course, he had had the biggest crush on Eliott for most of the time they’d known each other, and Eliott had definitely given him the impression it had been reciprocated, until he had just disappeared – but nobody needed to know that.

Only Yann knew the full story – he had confronted Lucas one night, a few weeks after Eliott had left. Lucas had barely left his room for days, not speaking, eating only because Manon forced him. When he finally came back to school, he had been silent, withdrawn, and pale, and he snapped at the boys a couple of times for no reason. And then Yann had shown up, demanding answers, and Lucas had broken down and cried his heart out, telling his best friend about his whirlwind romance with Eliott, and the bitter taste it had left when Eliott had just packed up and left, not answering Lucas’ attempts at communication.

He would have sworn, only this morning, that he was definitely over Eliott Demaury, after three years – although maybe his glaring lack of any boyfriends in that time might suggest otherwise. Oh, sure, he’d kissed the occasional guy here and there, but nothing serious. And now, seeing Eliott, watching his grey eyes shine and his hands gesture wildly, he was forced to admit that the reason nothing ever went further was that he was the farthest thing away from being over him.

Basile was already jumping around Eliott like a young puppy, bouncing up and down, asking him how he was, what was going on, whether he was back for good, where he had been, why he had moved without notifying any of them – all in rapid-fire, without giving the older boy a chance to reply.

Finally, Eliott spoke up.

“It’s not the happiest story, but if you guys are up for it, I would like to tell you all.”

He stared straight at Lucas, and Lucas needed to turn his head, afraid of falling for Eliott all over at the slightest opportunity. He steeled himself not to believe any of his beautiful words this time, not to walk into his trap again.

But Yann nodded solemnly, and Eliott gangly sat down, folding his long limbs and hunching his shoulders.

“So, uh, I am bipolar. I don’t know if you guys know, but it’s a mental disorder…”

A silence fell. They all knew what that meant. Lucas had finally told the gang about his mom’s admission into the mental ward in their last year, and Basile had told them about his mom’s mental illness.

“We know,” Arthur said. “That sucks.”

“Uh, okay, yeah, it does. So we didn’t know at the time, but a lot of the stuff I did at my old school was due to episodes. It’s also why I failed my bac and got expelled from my other school and came to your high school. But like I said, nobody knew at the time and so, one day, I went into a manic stage and I tried to jump off a rooftop because I thought I could fly. A police agent managed to talk into me enough to get me down safely, and I got brought into the station. They called my parents, and they thought I had tried to commit suicide – which wasn’t true. I had everything to live for, and I wouldn’t want to give up –”

He looked at Lucas again. So did Yann. Both sets of eyes were trying to gauge what Lucas was thinking, feeling, but Lucas was numb.

“Anyway. They had me admitted into a psych ward near Le Havre, where they had moved to a few months earlier, that same night. I couldn’t keep my phone or anything, I couldn’t contact anybody, I –”

Again, his eyes found Lucas, pleading.

“I wanted to call you so badly, I swear, but they wouldn’t let me, and then when they finally gave me my phone back, it was weeks later, after they had diagnosed me, and I just – I thought you would be better off without me. Or that you would have forgotten me, or had moved on, and so I just… didn’t.”

Lucas saw Eliott’s eyes shine with something different now, as if he was blinking back tears. He wasn’t sure his own eyes looked any better.

It remained silent for a while. The boys looked from one to the other, unsure what was going on.

“So why are you back now, then?”, Yann asked, when nobody else made a move.

“The simple reason is that I finally got accepted into the Arts program at the University of Paris,” he answered, but his eyes still never left Lucas.

Yann nudged him with his elbow, willing him to ask the obvious reason, but Lucas was still too much in shock to do so.

In the end, it was Arthur who finally broke the heavy tension.

“And the complicated reason?”

Eliott took a deep breath.

“I had to leave something behind I never wanted to leave. Or someone, rather. Someone who I hadn’t even known all that long, but who meant everything to me. Someone who I missed every goddamn day I was out there. Who I have written thousands of texts to, and deleted them all, who I wanted to call millions of times, but never did. Someone I made so many drawings for over the years I could barely get them all to Paris with me – I just hope he gives me a chance to show them to him one day.”

“Sound like someone pretty important,” Yann said, when Eliott’s voice broke.

“The most important person I ever met,” Eliott agreed. “I loved him then, and I hate the fact that I never got to tell him, so I just hope I get to tell him now.”

“Do you – still?”, Lucas whispered. “Love him?”

Eliott nodded. “I never stopped. Please, Lucas,” he said, suddenly giving up all the pretense, beseeching him, “I swear I never meant to hurt you, it all happened so fast, and I know I am years too late, and you probably have somebody else by now, I just – I need you to believe me. I fell in love with you the first day I saw you walking the hallway at school, and I never stopped.”

Basile gasped.

“You are in love with Lucas? Our Lucas?”

“Oh, come on, Baz,” Arthur said as he stood up. “Let’s go get pizza. You coming, Yann?”

And as Basile still protested indignantly – “But I didn’t know! Lucas never said anything!” – Arthur and Yann dragged him along, the latter winking over his shoulder at Lucas.

As Basile’s voice finally died down, Lucas lifted his eyes to Eliott’s, and then dropped them to his mouth almost immediately.

“Lucas?”, Eliott said tentatively, gingerly reaching out a hand to Lucas’ shoulder.

“You drew for me?”

He didn’t know why he came up with that, after everything Eliott had said, but he was rewarded when Eliott smiled.

“Hundreds of times. Hundreds of happy hedgehogs and raccoons.”

Lucas smiled.

“Do you… I mean, maybe… If you wanted… You could come with me and I could show them to you?”

Eliott’s tone was hopeful, but cautious, and suddenly Lucas didn’t want to waste another minute. He’d pined over Eliott for years, and here he was. Nobody could predict the future, but tonight, he wasn’t going to let Eliott slip away.

“Only if I can stay the night,” he said, softly, and he laughed as Eliott’s eyes went wide and his breath hitched.

“I can’t wait until we get there to kiss you,” Eliott replied just as softly, when he was sufficiently recovered.

“Please don’t.”

And when their lips found each other again after all those years, they both knew it was going to take a while to get to the drawings – but neither of them overly minded.

[koteosa]

Have you considered writing about Julian tying Asra up to change things up a bit~

I laughed as soon as I saw this ask so like I think that says a lot about what you’re about to read (18+, obviously) also this is afab Asra

ao3 link

"Doing okay back there?" Asra asks for the dozenth time that evening. The magician was facing away, sitting on his knees atop the bed in front of Julian, dressed in nothing but his pendant and choker. A long ribbon, dyed in various shades of blue, orange, pink, and green is wrapped around his body, starting loosely around his neck and dipping down to cup his pectorals. It was the knot immediately following that that Julian seemed to be having trouble with; Asra could feel him stopping and starting over again multiple times, his slim fingers clumsy around the silk ribbon.

With a frustrated huff, Julian says, "Perfectly fine, dear."

"Mmmhmm," Asra hums slowly, unconvinced, tilting his head to look back at Julian with a sly grin. The knot he was working on was out of order; he wasn't meant to do it just yet, which was a lot of the reason why he was having so much trouble getting it to look right. But why would Asra inform him of such a thing, when the alternative was so much fun?

Leaning back into Julian's chest, dressed down to just his loose blouse and leggings, Asra pretends not to notice he's blocked Julian's access to the knot he was still, foolishly, attempting to fix. Also pretends not to notice the annoyed glare being sent his way, instead humming thoughtfully and saying, "You know, while we're here, I think I'll paint my nails." He waves his completely free hands around tauntingly. "Blue's getting a little old, don't you think? How about orange?"

"Asra."

"You're right, that would blend in too much. Maybe green."

With a sigh, Julian completely relinquishes his hold on the knot, instead yanking the end of the ribbon to unravel it. He moves around to Asra's front, instead, looping it around the space directly beneath his chest. Pausing to remember what the hell he was meant to do next, Asra grins.

"Little complicated, isn't it, doctor?"

"I'll figure it out," Julian defensively retorts, sounding a little agitated. He'd barely gotten anywhere, and already it was beginning to confuse him. Maybe if he'd listened to the instructions a little better, instead of arrogantly insisting he could figure it out on his own, because he tied knots on a pirate ship, don't you know.

Seemingly deciding on a tactic, Julian's hands get back to work. He's wrong, still, although Asra was immensely curious to know where this could end up, should Julian somehow bumble his way through to the end. It wasn't like they were in any danger—Asra's magic could get him out of this in an instant. Not only that, but he knew Julian carried knives on him, and could cut him out if need be. And wouldn't that be interesting? Knives in the bedroom?

I wonder how hard your pulse would jump if I pressed one against your neck…? Asra thinks, letting his mind indulge in idle fantasies as he waits for Julian to finish tying the ribbon. He'd probably love it. So much, in fact, that Asra asks, "What if I pressed a knife against your hard dick?"

Julian jolts, the ribbons slipping out of his hands. Grinning deviously, Asra turns slightly to face him, licking his lips. The man behind him is flushed a deep red, wide-eyed gaze focused downwards as his hands fumble for the rope. Asra can't help but want to tease him, leaning back farther to drag his tongue up the side of Julian's burning hot cheek, a hand raised to grasp onto his hair and keep him in place. The man's breath stutters, nearly dropping the ribbon again.

"A-Asra," Julian sighs heatedly. The aforementioned magician nuzzles into him, nipping at his neck. "I-I can't… focus… when you're doing th-ahhh—hhhh…"

Digging his teeth in deep, enough to tear his skin but not enough to draw blood, he presses back, raising up enough to grind his ass down into Julian's lap. It doesn't take long at all to feel something firm pressing up against him, the pale body at his back shivering with desire. The man's back arcs just enough to press against Asra's back, always eager for more contact.

Silver eyes flutter, blinking slowly as if struggling to stay awake, eyes hazy. Asra grins wickedly, pulling away from his neck to focus more on teasing his lower half. The noises tumbling out of his thin lips were unrestrained and honest, thick sighs and low whines.

"Asra… You're moving too much, I can't focus."

"Restrain me, then," Asra taunts.

"That's what I'm trying to do," Julian argues, pushing against Asra to get him off with more vigor now that they were bickering. With a playful roll of his eyes, Asra relents, moving out of Julian's lap. However, that doesn't stop him from leaning back again, just lower, the back of his head resting on Julian's chest.

"You don't seem busy," Asra comments. For emphasis, Julian tugs harshly on the ribbons before getting back to work. It briefly tightens the hold around Asra's chest, making it harder to breathe, and he sighs pleasurably for the brief moment he has it. If only he would do it again… Peering upwards, he spots the flustered look on Julian's face, and smiles.

"This is harder than it looks."

"Not really."

Julian sighs again, and Asra grins smugly.

Getting refocused on the knots, Julian manages to figure out the next step, seeming quite proud of himself when the diamonds over Asra's abs turn out nicely. There was still a step or two he'd done wrong, and some of the knots at Asra's back were sloppy. Regardless, Asra condescendingly claps for him, purring an incredibly sarcastic congratulations. That earns him a glare. He wished it had earned him more, like a slap on the ass, or something.

This was so slow. Much slower than it should be, although rope bondage wasn't exactly a speedy process, normally. Which reminded him why he didn't do it very often. He wanted to get to the main course a little faster; this sort of thing was reserved for when he was feeling particularly sappy, and wanted to go slow, turn the act of love making into something more akin to worship.

This wasn't one of those times.

Yet he'd agreed to it anyway, when Julian had said he wanted to try tying him up. He seemed more curious than anything, like he thought the act more an art form than a kink. Certainly it wasn't the same when it was turned on him, and he was drooling and begging to be choked on the rope.

Now that was a nice image. How fun, too. Maybe he should have taken off his choker, then maybe Julian would have tied the ribbon tighter around his neck, and that earlier tug would have choked him. To be ravished so intensely, mouth hanging open, drool dripping down his chin, the lack of oxygen to his brain making everything hazy until he could focus on nothing but how good it felt…

Fuck, that sounded amazing. Why weren't they doing that?

In his lazy, slumped over position, it's not terribly hard to reach back and just… start rubbing the bulge in Julian's pants, slow, back and forth, aloof, like he wasn't doing anything at all. Of course, Julian isn't capable of having a subtle reaction, and jumps at the contact, a gasp tearing out of him. Pleased with the reaction, Asra moves his hand with a more firm grip, playing with Julian's dick in earnest.

"Asra, please," Julian sighs, attempting to swat Asra's hand away. "I am begging you. Please behave."

"Oh, you're begging, now, are you? Interesting…"

Pouting as Asra pulls his hand back, Julian says, "Please just wait until I'm done."

"Oh, but I'll be so old by then," Asra whines, prompting Julian to roll his eyes as he begins looping the ribbon down around Asra's inner thighs. "Oh, you're doing it like that?"

"Like what?" Julian asks, more concerned that he'd done something wrong, something Asra didn't approve of, than annoyed that Asra might be making fun of him again. "W-Would you prefer something else? Or maybe you don't want me to go this low, we can stop at your hips instead…"

"Mmm, no. I like it more…" He turns his head to face Julian, grinning devilishly. "Direct," he purrs.

Eyes wide and blush thickening, Julian does a double take down towards Asra's lap, quickly putting two and two together. "Oh," he chokes, as Asra chuckles low by his ear, causing him to shiver.

Undoing the loops, he rearranges the ribbon to lead directly downwards from the diamond low on Asra's pelvis, slowly and hesitantly, while frequently checking Asra's reaction, lining it up with his slit and bringing it around behind him. It's loose, so much so that it not's even tickling the hairs at his pelvis. Asra shifts, sitting up on his knees and leaning forward so the ribbon pulls tight against him. The silk dips between his lips, rubbing smooth yet with a delightful amount of friction against his clit. He lets out a blissful moan, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to squirm, dragging it back and forth over the sensitive skin, breaths growing more rapid with each movement.

When he tilts his head to look back at Julian, the man's eyes are wide, mouth agape with shock. Grinning deviously, Asra says, "What? I was getting so bored waiting for you to get this far, let me have a little fun."

"I…" Julian trails off, letting out a steadying breath, his deep blush and the hard bulge tenting his leggings further emphasizing how much this was affecting him. "Okay. N-Now… I, uh, your hands…"

Leaning forward, with his shoulders and head pressing into the bedframe, Asra places his arms behind his back, just flexible enough to position his forearms adjacent to his biceps. It hurt, but that was the whole point. A mixture of surprise and arousal flickers across Julian's face, but he says nothing, simply leaning in to figure out the right way to tie up his arms. It wasn't the right position for the pattern they were going for, but it wasn't like Julian was following the instructions, anyway.

It takes a little while for him to figure it out, and in the meantime, Asra rocks his hips back and forth, panting and gasping as the silk glides between his folds, quickly growing slick with his fluids. "You're… really enjoying yourself, aren't you," Julian comments, voice thick with arousal and embarrassment, just how Asra likes it. He grins, picking up the pace. If he kept this up long enough, he just might be able to cum like this. And wouldn't that be beautiful? Julian wasn't even done tying him up yet. Would it annoy him? Oh, he hoped it would.

"Don't you?" Asra shoots back, meeting the man's mismatched eyes. He looked so embarrassed, it was delicious. He watches the bobbing of Julian's throat as he gulps, the way his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, and Asra imagines what it would feel like to have that tongue between a different set of lips…

"I… I just didn't think…" Julian trails off, chewing his bottom lip as he fumbles with the rope. "It's really… You really like it? Am I… Sh-Should I be doing something… am I doing this right? I mean, what do you like?"

Turning back towards the bedpost to hide his rolling eyes, Asra hums, pretending to think about it. Then, he grins wide, and says, "Tighter…"

"T-Tight…? Oh-okay, uh… how's this?"

The ribbon tightens around his arms, where it's binding both his forearms together, and then his biceps on top of everything else. He's surprised by the strength Julian exerts, tightly squeezing his arms along every loop. It's impressive, and he can't help but gasp, inhaling deeply before cutting off with a sharp, stuttering exhale.

"G-Good," Asra breathes, "But… I'd prefer it around my chest… If you tighten it around my lungs, I won't be able to breathe as easily."

Cool fingers brush along his back, causing him to shudder. He closes his eyes, tipping his head forward and waiting for Julian to find the proper place to tug. It was clear he didn't quite fully understand this, yet, searching for a single strand to yank on instead of grabbing it around the sides and pulling back. Even after all the times he'd been tied up himself… he must not be very coherent during those times.

"Should I have," Julian starts, a finger teasing the ribbon leading down from Asra's neck, "Tied this… higher?"

"Mmm…" Cracking his eyes open, he peers over his shoulder at the doctor, observing the subservient and eager to please look on his face. Asra smiles. "Next time…"

Silver eyes flash with surprise. "Next time?" Julian echoes incredulously.

"Mmm, sure. If you hurry up and suffocate me already."

Julian scrambles to grasp onto the ropes so quickly Asra can't help but laugh. This time he seemed to want to forgo being some semblance of cleverness and just grabbed the back of it like he was supposed to. Before he can start pulling, though, Asra says, "Put your knee against my back, first."

"My…? Are you certain?"

"Ilya," Asra snaps, impatient and strict, exactly the tone that would get Julian to scramble to do whatever he was told without question. It's laughable how easy he is to boss around, really.

He has to reposition himself to fold his leg behind Asra's back, experimentally pulling the ropes to press him back into it and adjusting his positioning needed. It was enough to make Asra's chest feel tight, like there wasn't quite enough room for his lungs, requiring him to breathe deeper and longer to compensate. Julian's knee makes it easier not to tip over backwards.

"Good?" Julian asks, receiving a quick nod in response. "Should I…?"

Asra nods, taking a deep breath and holding it. This doesn't go unnoticed, and Julian hurries to do as he's told. It presses much tighter against him this time, cutting into his skin and making his breaths stutter sharply. It was really hard to breathe, now, bordering on impossible; he was sure he'd pass out if this went on for too long.

Struggling to pull in breaths, he starts moving his hips again, grinding against the rope. He feels himself throb and impulsively tries to reach down and finger himself, but the ribbon holds him in place. Fuck. He needed more than this, fingers or a tongue or…

The rope slowly eases forward, releasing him from the tight hold. Asra slumps against the bedpost, panting heavily. Long hands rub over his skin, attempting to soothe the areas where the rope had dug into him, with little success. It only stung more when it was touched, and Asra flinches away from it after too long.

"Sorry, sorry," Julian says gently, pulling his hands back. They rub over Asra's shoulders instead, gently massaging as he caught his breath. He squirms, waiting until he felt capable of speech again before making demands.

"Ilya," he starts, throat feeling a bit overworked and dry, like he'd just been out running. "Touch me."

A hand finds his thigh, as Julian complies immediately. "Tell me where you want me."

Full sentences weren't quick enough. "Fingers, inside," he orders, and soon after feels them slip beneath the ribbon, rubbing experimentally along the outside of his hole. It's such a huge contrast, even with the way he was dripping all over the ribbon, it still felt so much harsher, burning in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant given the context he was in.

He'd still choose Julian's fingers over it any day. They knew how to work him over with the sort of skill of someone who'd done this numerous times before, someone who actually cared about the pleasure of his partners, much more than his own. And that's why Asra liked him so much. It was just so easy to get the man to spoil him silly for hours on end.

The digits dip slowly inside, massaging along his inner walls, easing him into it. It felt nice, but it wasn't enough. The time for this wasn't now, he needed more. He pushes back against Julian's hand, and the man doesn't react fast enough to stop him, fingers shoved deep inside and coaxing a full body shiver. His pussy tingles pleasantly as he moans, struggling to reach down and direct the man's hand, constantly forgetting his arms were bound.

Lips press into the back of his neck, trailing firm kisses down his upper back as Julian's fingers pump in and out, curling deep inside and making Asra's breaths stutter harshly, something resembling a whimper breaking in his throat. Without prompting Julian grabs onto the ribbon, pulling it to rub against Asra's clit. It felt amazing, and he didn't want it to stop, squirming against it in search of more friction.

Breaths ragged, he manages to gasp out, "I-I'm close… Ilya, the rope… please…"

The planets must be in perfect alignment because Julian understands exactly what he wants and is quick to give it to him, pressing his lower leg firmly into Asra's spine as he pulls the rope back slowly, carefully compressing Asra's chest. He forgets to take a breath this time, wasn't so sure he could even manage a steady enough one, but that's fine; the way the airflow slowly cuts off is so arousing he can feel himself throb and tighten around Julian's fingers, struggling against the bonds on his arms.

His voice cuts off with a pathetic whimper as he cums, hitting him hard and fast and nearly blacking out his vision. Head thrown back as his body convulses with the heat of his orgasm, he feels Julian's lips trailing along his neck, tender kisses to ease him through it. His hips grind against the pads of Julian's fingers, massaging the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him until he sags back, the rope long since having been eased back into place.

Julian quickly moves his knee, catching Asra before he can fall. His thighs twitch, feeling a touch oversensitive as Julian cradles him in his arms, rearranging his long legs to lay the magician down on his front on the duvet. He makes quick work of the knots binding Asra's arms, kissing his neck and shoulders while massaging the tender skin. It takes significantly less time to take it off than to put it on.

Discarding the ribbon onto the floor nearby, Julian curls up on the bed beside him, urging Asra's exhausted body onto his side and into Julian's arms. With a soft hum, Asra snuggles bonelessly into him, enjoying the sound of the man's heartbeat by his ear. After a few moments of laying together, Julian pressing kisses wherever he could reach and massaging Asra's sore skin, he asks, "Are you alright, love? Do you need anything? Water…?"

Too tired to speak, Asra just nods, and Julian presses a kiss to his forehead, making him smile before the doctor climbs out of bed. Eyes closed, he focuses on his breathing and the sound of Julian's noisy footsteps traipsing into the kitchen. Luckily they were home alone, and would be for quite awhile.

It isn't long before Julian returns, carrying Asra's favorite mug filled high with ice water. Asra manages to raise up to accept it rather easily, using his magic to soothe the lingering soreness and the sharper stings of rope burns along his torso and arms. Yet still Julian attempts to dote on him, making absolutely sure he had a proper hold, and didn't need any help taking a drink. Ridiculous. Asra can't help but smile.

Kneeling down to kiss him, Julian eases onto the edge of the bed, brushing Asra's messy bangs out of his eyes and into some semblance of order. Glancing worryingly at all the burns and bruises on Asra's body, he asks, "Is there anything else I can do?"

Taking one final, long sip of the water, he holds the mug out, and Julian quickly takes it, setting it on the bedside table. In the meantime, Asra flops back against the bed, curls splayed out behind his head like a halo. Humming thoughtfully, he grins up at Julian, and says, "A bath sounds nice." Turning his head towards the duvet and giving Julian that sweet little smile that always made him weak in the knees, he flutters his long snowy lashes, and adds, "Carry me…?"

"Of course," Julian easily agrees, leaning over the magician to brush a hand through his hair, tenderly kissing his lips before shifting to lift Asra into his arms. "Anything for you."

Quirking a brow, Asra grins, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Rob a bank for me?" he sweetly requests, coaxing an amused laugh out of the doctor that has him grinning even wider, pleased with the reaction.

"Oh, I'll get right on that."

[fragmentedink-archived]

Hell to Pay: Chapter Thirty-Three

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII

cowritten by @lux-scriptum

A/N: This chapter is very heavy. Trigger warning for implied incest, implied rape, forced prostitution, character death. There is no graphic images of rape or incest. All is implied. This chapter is very past!Cameron-centric, bls be careful when reading

Cameron was seventeen years old the first time he laid eyes on the golden eyed omega that was supposed to train him. He had been introduced to him by the name Darius and even if he had been here for several years, and Cameron was the bastard son of Asmadai, he offered Cameron the warmest smile.

Cameron gave him a tight grin. “I’m guessing you’re the one that’s going to be teaching me the ropes?”

Darius nodded. “That’s me. I’m Darius.”

“Oh, I’ve heard. However, I do not think I need to be ‘trained’.”

Darius’ face didn’t shift from his smile. If anything else, it just seemed a little amused, if a little sad. Cameron said, “Don’t give me that look. I don’t need the pity. I’ve known my job since I was young. I was always going to end up here. It’s fine. Either way, look at me. Who wouldn’t want to fuck me.”

“I do suppose that is one way of looking at it,” Darius remarked, looking Cameron over. “You are very attractive.”

“I know.”

Darius snorted and began leading Cameron through a set of double doors to a large room bathed in white and gold. Cameron looked appreciatively around, running his fingers along the silken furniture while he roamed around the room. “Not bad,” he said. “I didn’t think whores got paid this well.”

“This one does,” Darius replied. “I’m a favorite for a reason.”

Cameron looked at him. “I’m guessing that reason is because you’re hot?”

“Among other things, I imagine.”

Cameron wasn’t blind. Darius’ bright golden eyes and long waves were sure to be a favorite to many people. He just held little stock in appearances, himself. Darius was beautiful to him the way music sounded to his ears. Cameron went to settle on the couch, watching Darius move towards a small kitchen area where he started fixing himself something to drink. “Would you like some tea?”

“Do you have anything stronger?”

“Not with me, no. I’d rather not be inebriated in case my services are requested.”

Cameron thought on that. It did make sense, he supposed, but he also figured Darius would be getting fucked one way or another. “Wouldn’t you rather not remember it?”

Darius gave him a steady look. “No. I want to remember everything.”

-----

Cameron had kept himself busy for the last three months and it was still unnerving to be in the same room as Darius without any kind of ulterior motive on Darius’ part. Darius left him to his own devices at night and didn’t bother him. It was easier to get a night of sleep for the next day when he didn’t have Destris coming into his room to bother him every night.

But that didn’t stop Destris from bothering him any other time of the day. It just made it more difficult. Especially when Cameron seemed to be becoming a favorite amongst court ladies. Cameron offered lazy smiles to everyone he passed in the hallways. Lingering looks told him enough about who was going to end up filling his mother’s pockets by the end of the night.

Cameron’s muscles, as worn as they were on a daily basis, were defined, unlike the slender build Darius seemed to have. He had seen Darius in passing a few times that day, but they both had been too busy to speak much.

Cameron was leaving a lady’s chambers, buttoning up his shirt when he nearly ran into his brother. “Can I help you?” Cameron asked, annoyed.

Destris gave him a lazy smile. “Maybe later. What I want to know is why you are sleeping in that whore’s rooms when you have perfectly fine rooms of your own. My mother gave you the finest, and yet you settled for subpar trash?”

“Well,” Cameron said, “I’m sure our mother would much rather have a room where she doesn’t have to house her bastard. It’s best for the economy, don’t you think? Maybe she can turn it into a war room.”

That smile sharpened. “I think you’re trying to avoid me.”

“Why would I ever try to do that?” Cameron said. “You get my services for free.”

Destris’ hazel green eyes flicked around them before coming back to settle on Cameron’s face. “I do,” he said. “And I do not like having to come find you when you should be in your own bed.”

“I do apologize,” Cameron said. “I just think it would be best to be near my trainer. Since he is more experienced than I. What if I have questions? Whomever would I go to when I need to learn how to properly suck a cock?”

Cameron didn’t blink when Destris shoved him back against the wall, fingers curling tightly around Cameron’s throat. “I don’t know who you think you are.” he hissed. “You belong to me, no matter who you’re on your knees for. Understand? I am the only thing between life and your death. I own you.”

Cameron couldn’t form words even if he wanted to. The air in his lungs protested at the lack of oxygen to his brain. His eyes trained to the floor, even if he wasn’t an omega. He tried nodding against his brother’s claws. When Destris finally pulled back, it took all of Cameron’s strength to not start coughing. Destris looked pleased at what were surely new bruises around his neck. “You will be making up for your back talking when I see you again, tonight. Better get going. I’m sure there are plenty waiting for you to warm their bed.”

-----

Darius wasn’t quite sure how Cameron had managed to con his way into Darius’ chambers when he had his own in another part of the castle. But Cameron was now camped out on his couch with one of the silken throw blankets almost every night.

He hadn’t bothered to try and keep Cameron out of his rooms. Part of him wondered if Cameron would just find his own way into the room, or just force his way in and Darius didn’t want to bother replacing door knobs or locks every time Cameron would get in here. And oddly enough, Darius didn’t mind when Cameron slept on his couch.

Darius had finished his shower and was getting dressed when Cameron came through the doors as if he owned the place, but Darius didn’t say anything while Cameron unbuttoned his black shirt and slacks to settle on the couch; not when there were prominent bruises in choice places on Cameron’s pale body.

Darius quietly sat a cup of tea and a plate of food on the coffee table in front of Cameron but didn’t try to offer any words, not when there was the aura of lethality around him. Instead he settled in a chair across from him while Cameron turned into the couch. The finger-like bruises wrapping around his throat were hidden when Cameron pulled the blanket over his head.

Darius almost offered to see if he wanted a healer, but instinct enough told him that Cameron wouldn’t want one. Even with no power of his own, Cameron seemed to relish any kind of control he could get his hands on, even if control over his own body was scant at best.

“If you would like,” Darius said, hesitantly, “I can have your clothes brought here? That way you don’t have to go across the manor to get them every day.”

Cameron remained quiet, and didn’t move an inch. Just when Darius thought that Cameron was going to ignore him, Cameron hoarsely said, “Do what you want. I don’t care.”

Darius took a long drink from his tea, thinking about how sharp those words sounded. “It would be practical.” Darius said, “I have some tea here for you- it might help your throat.”

Cameron stiffened slightly but snapped the blanket off himself and sat up to stare at Darius. The black bruising against his skin clashing darkly against the gold and silver blanket hanging off his shoulder. “Oh will it? I’m sure you’ve had enough things rammed down your throat to know.”

Darius didn’t blink. “Yes I have. You have too, yes?” Cameron rolled his eyes and picked up the cup from the table and scented it. “There’s no poison, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Cameron flicked him an annoyed look. “What a shame,” he said, dryly. “What about honey? I guess I can settle for that.”

Darius smiled. “I have honey you can use.”

“Good,” Cameron said, curtly, getting up smoothly from the couch to move to the kitchen area where he poured a healthy dose of honey into the earl grey tea. “It’s like you have no taste buds,” Cameron complained.

“Well,” Darius said. “I cannot cook. So, I do tend to hold little stock of what kinds of things I cook outside of what I need.”

He bit back his snort when Cameron looked at him with disgust. “Are you saying I need to feed you?”

“That is not what I’m saying,” Darius said.

Cameron arched a brow while taking a drink from his cup. “I think you are,” he said. “Why else would you tell me you can’t cook? I’ll do it.”

“You really don’t have to-” Darius started.

“Too late, it’s done,” Cameron said, turning back to the kitchenette. “I’ll make a list of things you need, but I can do that later. It’s too late to do shit right now.”

“Indeed,” Darius said, getting up to put his tea cup and the untouched plate of food away. “We both should probably get some sleep.”

Cameron nodded, taking another drink from his tea cup before hesitating slightly and looking at him. “Can… you can say no- nevermind. It’s fine.”

“What?” Darius asked, looking at him. “Would you like me to get a healer? Or some more blankets?”

Cameron still looked uncomfortable, but shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Cameron.”

“Darius.”

“How can I help you?” When Cameron just chewed on his lip, eyes trained onto the ground, Darius took a tentative step towards him and cradled Cameron’s cheek. Cameron’s entire body locked into place. “Please?”

Cameron’s nostrils flared, but he still wouldn’t meet Darius’ gaze. “Can I sleep with you?”

Darius blinked. That was. Not what he was expecting. “I-”

“Not sex,” Cameron said, instantly, looking up finally. “I just. I don’t want to be alone. I understand if you don’t want to, though.”

“You want to share my bed?”

“I- yeah.”

Darius forced his eyes to not linger on the bruising still so prominent on Cameron’s pale skin. “Of course you can,” he finally said. “I’m sure it’s more comfortable then the couch you’ve been sleeping on anyways.”

Cameron looked visibly relieved. “Thank you.”

----

Even if it was cloudy out, Darius had found himself with a free afternoon with Asmadai and her cabal gone. Cameron had chosen this free time to sit at the piano studiously for the last hour playing, and Darius had listened contentedly until he started getting restless. And if he didn’t stop Cameron, then Cameron was going to sit at that damned piano for another three hours playing.

Darius sidled up next to him and drew the piano case down. Cameron’s long fingers snapped back before they got stuck under the weight, shooting Darius a dirty look. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sure you can,” Darius said. “We have the day free to do as we wish.”

“Yes? And? I’m using that time to play.”

“You play every day,” Darius pointed out. “Come out with me. We can go have a picnic by ourselves and get some fresh air.”

Cameron looked blankly at him. “A picnic?” he echoed.

“Yes.”

“That sounds absolutely horrific. It’s not even sunny out.”

“Just humor me,” Darius said.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to have a picnic all on my lonesome.” The flat look Cameron gave him had a smile tilting up on Darius’ face. “I’ll let you pick out the snacks.”

Cameron looked so pained. “Fine.”

----

Cameron was still annoyed by the time they had left the manor half an hour later, even if Darius seemed pleased with himself. Luckily it was still early enough in the summer that Cameron didn’t have to worry about it getting too cold yet. The winters in the Court could be brutal and even he didn’t enjoy it.

They ended up finding some hill to sit on that was on the outskirts of the city, away from prying eyes. Cameron let Darius sprawl the blanket out on the grass and spread the food out before Cameron sat down and squinted around him. “Are we supposed to just… sit here and eat? We could do this back in our room,” he said. “There is no point of doing this out here.”

“It’s for the aesthetic, Cameron,” Darius said, looking into the basket of food Cameron had packed. “The ambiance.”

“It’s cloudy,” Cameron said, reaching for his own food. “The ambiance is tainted by shitty weather, Darius.”

Darius hummed and bit into his sandwich. “Mm. I think you’ve just been cooped inside for too long. Your already pale complexion is even more pale. However will you get the vitamin D that you need for a healthy body.”

“By dick in my ass, I imagine,” Cameron muttered under his breath.

“Wrong vitamin,” Darius said. “Interestingly enough, that’s vitamin C. Amongst other things.”

Cameron rolled his eyes. “I’ll remember that next time my face is in a mattress.”

“What is it you want, Cameron?” Darius asked, looking up at the idiotically grey sky. “If you could have anything, be anyone, right now, what would it be.”

“Does it matter?” Cameron said, laying on his back, closing his eyes. “Wanting things has never been in my vocabulary. It’s irrelevant and a waste of time. I’m not even a person. Tools of war have but one purpose. To cause damage.”

He could feel Darius’ brilliant gold eyes on him, and Cameron didn’t like it. “Well,” Darius said, softly. “I think you have done the least amount of damage to me out of everyone I have ever come in contact with.”

Cameron opened his eyes and looked at him tiredly. “For now,” he said, softly enough, Cameron almost hated both himself and Darius.

Darius just laid down next to him and folded his hands over his stomach. “I think I want a place of my own,” he said. “I’d like a family, children. Sure, it could be because I’m an omega. But I think… I just want a family. Never had one.”

Family’s overrated, Cameron almost felt compelled to say. Instead he offered Darius the mercy of hopeless causes. “Sounds nice,” he said, mildly. “I guess… I’d just want to be left alone to cook and make music. That’s all I want. Not going to get it, so I don’t waste my breath. But… it’d be nice.”

Darius nudged him. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

Cameron closed his eyes again. “”Don’t touch me.”

-----

A month later and Darius was still letting Cameron sleep in his bed. Every night since that first night Cameron asked, and every night, Darius said yes. But there were some where Cameron never came back to the room at all. Darius didn’t have the bravery to ask Cameron about it, especially when Cameron seemed to be more distant those next mornings. But Darius always provided Cameron tea and honey when he came back.

They had both been reading for hours by the time Cameron’s services were requested. Darius read in the same spot for several more hours before Cameron came back. Cameron returned to sit next to him on the couch, watching Darius tiredly. Darius offered him no words, not wanting to break Cameron’s silence.

Eventually Darius felt the weight of Cameron’s head against his shoulder. He dared to look over, careful to not move too much. As he thought, Cameron had fallen asleep, his white hair falling over his closed eyes, smoothing out the perpetual annoyed look on his face.

Darius resisted the urge to move the hair away from Cameron’s elegant face, but remained in control of his impulses. Instead he turned back to his book and felt himself smile when Cameron settled more against him. Darius awkwardly reached for the throw blanket and threw it around Cameron’s bare shoulders before turning back to his book.

----

“Okay, but you learn absolutely nothing from those books,” Cameron said, looking distastefully at the paperback romance novel in Darius’ hands. “It’s pure fantasy. Life’s too bloody and miserable for anything like that to come true.”

“Okay,” Darius said. “But consider this. That’s the point. It’s a fantasy, it’s something to hope for some day. Sure, a whirlwind romance like the one in this book could be hard to imagine, but that doesn’t mean romance in the world is dead. Nothing can kill true love, no matter how hard some try.”

Cameron gave him a long, skeptical look, but elected to not tell him that love didn’t exist. “I still think the right books are the ones where you actually learn something. Otherwise it’s just a waste of time and paper.”

“Not everyone can read just nonfiction like you can, Cameron.”

“That’s because not everyone has good taste,” Cameron said, propping his legs up on Darius’ lap, eyes turning back to his own book. “Not only is it useful, I am not wasting my time chasing fantasies.”

Darius sighed softly and just patted Cameron’s leg. “It must be quite exhausting in your head, my Cameron.”

Cameron glowered at him over his book. “No more exhausting than in yours, I imagine, my nuisance. It’s a special kind of hell chasing fantasies when you should be focusing on survival.”

“Oh Cameron,” Darius said, softly. “There is so much more to life than surviving.”

-------

It was a rare night when both Cameron and Darius had the same time off. Cameron had made the habit of fixing them both dinner in the evenings, even when they both weren’t in the room at the same time. It was the only way Cameron could convince himself to eat.

He could feel Darius staring at him while they ate. Cameron pretended to not notice how Darius’ sneaking looks kept lingering on his face. Finally Cameron looked up from his meal and met his gaze steadily. “Is there a particular reason you are staring at me?”

Darius didn’t even blink. “Because you’re beautiful.”

Cameron rose a brow. “Yes, I am. But that doesn’t explain why you are staring at me when you’ve seen my face every night for the last four months.”

“Okay,” Darius said, annoyed enough Cameron’s mouth lifted. “I’m staring at you because I want to kiss you. Haven’t done that in the last four months.”

Cameron blinked. “You- why? I mean I know why, as I have seen my reflection, but-”

“Believe it or not, I do appreciate your company.”

He was annoyed. “Well as long as you appreciate it-”

Darius leaned over and covered Cameron’s mouth with his golden hand. “Cameron. Let me- just. Please stop talking.” Cameron glared at him, but didn’t snap his wrist at the unneeded censorship. Darius gave him a firm look before removing his hand. “Whether you want to believe it or not… I know you feel the same way too. You don’t… you don’t have to act on it, or you can even leave if you want. But just. Don’t lie, not about this. About me. Because I’m your truth.”

For the first time, Cameron had to force himself to hold those golden eyes. He… He didn’t know what he felt. Was- Did he feel safe? Was that how Darius made him feel? He made him feel warm, not like a walking corpse, not used. But… That didn’t mean anything, did it? It just meant he was decent enough to not pay Cameron to take him to bed. “I… don’t know what that means. I don’t know what you mean to me. You’re just. I don’t know what you are. You’re just not my enemy. I’m safe with you.”

“You are safe with me,” Darius said.

“But are you safe with me,” Cameron countered.

Darius seemed to think about that. Cameron stared him down for what felt like an eternity before Darius said, “You live a very bloody life, Cameron. I think I’d be a fool to think I was ever completely safe, even with you. But that doesn’t stop me from caring about you, from wanting you in whatever way you’ll have me.”

“There are so, so many more people that you could want, Darius,” Cameron said. “Or is it because I am Asmadai’s bastard that you’re interested.”

Darius looked genuinely hurt and taken aback. “No, of course not. I have no desire to have her ear. I just want you.”

Cameron stared at him. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, at a loss of words. How the fuck was he supposed to answer this. He felt like there should be some kind of catch. There had to be, but he couldn’t figure out what if it wasn’t because Darius wanted at his mother. “I have been nothing but a pain in the ass to you,” he finally said.

“A cross I am willing to bear,” he said, solemnly.

“I…” Cameron sighed sharply. “I don’t know.. How to be what you want.”

“You make it sound like I actually know how a relationship is supposed to go,” Darius pointed out.

“Don’t your fancy romance novels tell you,” Cameron said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“I thought you said those were a fantasy?”

“They are,” Cameron said, flatly.

“Then I don’t see why we can’t work together to figure it- us- out,” Darius said. “Since romance novels seem to not be construction manuals.”

Cameron gnawed on his lip. “But why. I don’t understand why.”

“Why I like you? Care for you?”

“Yes,” Cameron said, exasperated.

“That is a good question,” Darius mused. “One I do not know the answer to. I just like you. You amuse me, keep me company. You make sure I don’t starve. Surely that has to count for something.”

“Are you saying you want me because I can cook.”

“Oh absolutely.”

“Well at least that makes sense,” Cameron muttered under his breath.

“I know what you’re doing,” Darius said. “And it’s not going to keep working.”

“I think it’s working quite well,” Cameron replied.

“I’m sure you do, however, we are all allowed to be wrong sometimes.”

“I am not wrong,” Cameron snapped.

Darius smiled. “Then prove it.”

Cameron’s nostrils flared. “You’re mocking me and I do not like it.”

“Am I?”

“Yes you are,” Cameron said, knowing damn well Darius was baiting him. “I think you like making a fool out of me.”

Darius’ eyes glittered in amusement and Cameron frowned. Darius leaned forward and cradled Cameron’s face, sending a jolt of electricity through his core. Cameron looked down, trying to ignore the tingling in his face. “Look at me?”

Cameron forced his eyes up. The words died in his throat.

Cameron somehow felt warm and ice cold at the same time. He was sitting too still and he was too restless. He wanted… he didn’t know what he wanted. To run or to stay. He wasn’t sure if he felt safe or not, but he didn’t see any threats, his mind was betraying him, looking for an out, but there was only Darius. “What?” he rasped.

The way Darius looked at him had Cameron wanting to shatter something. “What are you feeling, right now?”

“I already told you. I think you like making a fool out of me.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Cameron could almost taste the metallic flavor of his venom. “Threatened,” Cameron finally said. “I’m feeling threatened and I don’t know why.”

Darius stilled just slightly enough Cameron straightened. “Do you want me to move my hand?” he asked.

“I don’t.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t.”

“What do you want?”

Cameron gazed at him in silence. That was the question, wasn’t it. He couldn’t very well just say him, that would make Darius his, and that would mean he would be Destris’ and Cameron couldn’t do anything against his brother. It had been well trained into him since he was seven years old.

“I want…” Cameron’s voice faltered. He closed his mouth. “I can’t want anything.”

“Cameron.”

The last of his nerves frayed. “Don’t you get it,” he snapped. “I can’t want anything. I can’t want you, I can’t want my own kitchen or a damn piano or anything. I am not a person. You are not a person. We are not people. We are tools for the elite to warm beds, or in my case to slit throats when my father wishes. If I so much as try to want something Destris will find out and he will take it away from me. He will have me on my knees one way or another, Darius, and that makes you a liability.”

Darius tried for a small smile. “Are you saying I’m important to you?”

“I’m saying you make it extremely inconvenient to be me,” Cameron said, crossly. “You’re not… supposed to. Make me feel like- you’re not supposed to make me feel. It’s a distraction. You are a distraction.”

“A distraction from what?”

“Survival.” The faint way Darius’ thumb brushed against Cameron’s cheek made Cameron shiver. “You are a threat to me and I can’t protect you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Darius said, pressing his forehead against Cameron’s. “I need you to take what you want. To do what you want. To do more than survive. You deserve to live, Cameron. You deserve more than what you have been given.”

The cinnamon and thyme scent filled his nose and Cameron closed his eyes. “No I don’t,” he said, weakly. “I don’t deserve anything just because I’m alive. I am a bastard. In the eyes of every single demon of the realm, I am not a person.”

“You are to me,” Darius said, softly.

Cameron looked at him for what felt like an eternity. “Then you’re a fool,” he said. Cameron leaned over, hesitated only slightly before kissing him on the mouth. The softness of Darius’ slightly parted lips undone him in a way that had Cameron abruptly pulling back and staring at him.

His breath was shallow and he could barely breathe. Darius somehow looked alarmed and perfectly calm at the same time, but Cameron didn’t give him the chance to say anything before getting to his feet and stalking out of the room.

Cameron nearly bulldozed into several court people on his way outside. He reached for a pack of cigarettes he had in his pockets and had one half lit before the familiar hazel green eyes appeared in front of him. “I do hope you have a plan on fixing your teeth if you’re going to smoke those. Mother will not be happy if your value drops because of yellow teeth.”

Cameron didn’t have the energy to quip at him. Instead he just took a singular drag from his cigarette and tiredly said, “Of course. Mustn’t damage the merchandise. Many do enjoy being bitten in bed.”

“Mm. Do you?”

“Does it matter if I do or not?”

“Not really, but I thought I’d humor you.” When Cameron didn’t say anything, Destris took his chin and forced Cameron to meet his eyes. “Are you ill?” he mused. “Perhaps you lost the ability to use your tongue. Should I see?”

“If you choose so,” Cameron said, mildly. “I can assure you my skills are up to par. Just in a sour mood, that’s all.”

“I might take you up on that later,” Destris said. “It is your day off after all. You need your rest.”

“Much appreciated,” Cameron said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I do not think so. Just wanted to make sure my idiot toy isn’t doing something stupid like permenantly marring his body.”

---

Darius waited up for hours upon hours, nearly reaching into daylight for Cameron to come back, not even knowing if Cameron was going to come back. But when he finally did, Cameron was back to his normal untouchable self. He seemed to have regained that faux composure he had spent the last seventeen years perfecting. Even if he did stumble a little when he locked eyes with Darius. “You’re still awake,” was all Cameron said. “I’ve been gone for nearly eight hours.”

“I wanted to be awake in case you came back.”

“Why wouldn’t I come back,” Cameron said, mildly.

“Why would you bolt like a rabbit after kissing me?”

Cameron worked his jaw. “Apparently becuase I thrive on making stupid decisions.”

Darius couldn’t help the way his mouth lifted at the corner. “I don’t think you made a stupid decision.”

“Of course you don’t,” Cameron said. “You wanted me to kiss you. And now I broke the rules. For another whore. One who quite possibly has the power to destroy me.”

Darius gave him a long, steady look. He didn’t think anything could possibly destroy Cameron. He was still standing now despite life and he would still be standing a thousand years from now despite a thousand lives. “You kissed me because you wanted to.”

Cameron didn’t even blink; his face didn’t even move, either. Cameron just met Darius’ look for look and there was pure alpha in those pale blue eyes. It was an effort to not give into his own instincts and bare his throat, especially when Cameron appeared much closer in front of him. He wasn’t sure who moved first or if they had always been this close. Cameron gripped Darius’ chin and glared down at him. “Don’t put a knife in my back,” he said, softly.

I won’t if you won’t, Darius thought, as if he actually had the power or the training to be able to do so. Darius put a hesitant hand on Cameron’s tapered waist. His skin was somehow warm and ice cold at the same time, just as heated and frigid as his stare. “Okay,” he said, in equal softness.

“Okay,” Cameron said, firmly. He let go of Darius’ chin and hesitated only slightly before letting the ice thaw on his face. “This… whatever this is,” Cameron said, “Is between us. Outside of these rooms, we are nothing. We are no one. You are nothing to me. Understand? I cannot and will not protect you if it comes down to it. Your survival is up to you and you alone.”

“I completely understand,” Darius said, other hand moving to Cameron’s other side. He waited for Cameron to move, to say something, but he kept watching Darius with those eyes before slowly letting out a soft breath and pressing his forehead against Darius’ shoulder.

----

Cameron had spent the last several hours wandering through the different shops in the Court, finding… something. He would know when he found it, Cameron had thought. He ended up in a jewelry shop eyeing the watches and bracelets. The branding tattoo on his wrist almost felt like it was on fire, but he wasn’t here for him.

Cameron finally settled in front of a display of slender black and silver watches. He was aware that neither color matched Darius’ rooms, but perhaps Darius would appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.

The jeweler came over and eyed Cameron over the counter. “How can I help you?”

“How much for this one?” he asked.

He looked at Cameron for far longer than Cameron cared for before looking down at the watch. “This is not for sale.”

Cameron heard the ‘not for your kind’ loud as day. Cameron narrowed his eyes. “How much would you want for it? I have the money.”

“Tainted money,” the demon said.

“Oh don’t worry,” Cameron said, “I washed the coins after I was done spreading my legs.” Cameron gave a sharp smile at the faint look of disgust on his face. “If you’d like, I can clean it again. Though, I do not think where you get money is that important. Profit is profit.”

“I don’t sell to whores,” the demon said, flatly. “Bad for business.”

“Would you if I was on my knees?”

The demon’s mouth opened but promptly closed when a voice mildly said, “Perhaps you would sell it to me, then.” Destris came up beside him and snaked an arm around Cameron’s neck, giving the jeweler a lazy smile. “Surely Asmadai’s heir is someone you’ll sell to. Now denying me would be bad for both your business and your life.”

“Of course, of course,” the demon rushed out. “Special price, just for you, prince.”

Cameron bit back his scoff. Destris was about as close to a prince as he was. Just because his mother was in charge of the hellbeasts of the Obsidian Court did not make her a queen. But he wisely said nothing and kept his face smoothed out while Destris bought the watch for him.

Outside the shop, Destris put the bag in Cameron’s arms. “I didn’t take you one for jewelry, Cam.”

Cameron chose his words carefully. “I thought it wise to own a timepiece. Never know when I’ll be able to need the time. All these clients; need to make sure to be punctual.”

Destris’ long, considering look had Cameron’s bones freezing in place. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure now you’ll be on time for our appointments, then.”

Cameron dipped his head. “Of course.”

---

Darius had barely had an hour to himself before he was finally able to retreat back to his rooms. The doors were shut when he started peeling out of his clothes on the way to the washroom, where Cameron was already waiting. Darius blinked. “Are you joining me?”

Cameron’s slightly raised brow only had Darius more confused. That didn’t stop him from finishing undressing, and that certainly didn’t stop Cameron from coming over behind him and unpinning Darius’ hair, letting it fall back down around his shoulders. “No,” he finally said, “however I thought I would offer my services in getting you clean.”

“Hmm.” Darius couldn’t stop the small smile. “Okay. But,” he said, “I want to wash you, too. And your wings. Please?”

Cameron gave him a long, long considering, almost bewildering look. “I- my wings?”

“If that’s alright?”

If Darius didn’t know any better, he’d say that Cameron almost looked flustered, but Cameron just began unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off his pale shoulders. Darius felt the breath leave his body when Cameron unfurled his wings. Black and leathery with the faintest purples and silvers. Cameron gave him an odd look. “What? They’re just wings.”

“But they’re your wings,” Darius said.

Cameron gave him an unimpressed look, but he didn’t miss the way Cameron’s mouth tilted upwards. “I suppose anything on me would be exceptional,” he said as he finished shedding his clothes.

Darius hummed to himself and watched Cameron run the water for the large tub and expertly choose fragrances to put in the water. The room filled with the faintest scent of citrus and cinnamon while Cameron went for soft towels and rags. Darius went to slide into the tub, watching Cameron’s back move against his wings. He could count only once or twice in the last several months he even saw a glimpse of them.

By the time Cameron came back, Darius had already submerged part of his hair under the water and had moved back so Cameron could get in with him. Cameron eyed him the way a painter would a blank canvas before finally saying, “Turn around.”

Darius did as instructed and listened as Cameron wetted a rag and began washing across his shoulders and down his back. Cameron so carefully parted Darius’ hair so he could get to his neck and Darius could not stop the small purr at the feeling.

Cameron only stilled for a split second before continuing once again. Not even a moment after Cameron put Darius’ hair back did Darius feel Cameron move to tilt his head back so he could pour water over his hair.

He did his best to not melt into Cameron when Cameron started lathering shampoo in his hair. Cameron’s long, nimble fingers were skilled. Though Darius already knew that from the amount of time he had watched Cameron play piano. While he managed to keep himself from melting, he was not able to stop his purr from getting louder, but Cameron seemed to not mind and kept washing Darius’ hair.

Cameron’s voice startled Darius into opening his eyes. “Turn around.”

Once again Darius did as instructed and turned back to face Cameron. The steam of the tub had Cameron’s hair dripping in his slightly flushed face. Without thinking, Darius reached over to tug the white strands out of his eyes. “There,” he said, softly.

Cameron’s flickering gaze had Darius leaning forward and pressing a light kiss to Cameron’s jaw before letting him get back to work. His eyes wandered back to Cameron’s wings, to the sharp talons, while Cameron continued running the soft rag down Darius’ arms.

“Could I convince you to show your wings in the room more?” Darius asked, curiously.

Cameron’s face turned thoughtful, considering the question while he continued his work. “Oh, I’m sure you could think of something,” he finally said. “You do have a way with words.”

Darius couldn’t help the smile blooming on his face. “I think that was a compliment.”

“Do you?” Cameron asked, eyes flicking to his for a split second. “I’m sure you would.”

“Mm. I’m right.”

“If you say so,” Cameron said, mildly, pouring fresh water over Darius’ freshly cleaned skin.

“I’d offer to make you food, but I think you’d rather I didn’t.”

“Mmm. No,” Cameron said, rolling his shoulders. “Food poisoning is not high on my priority list.”

“Tea?”

Cameron thought on it, pale blue eyes fixed on him steadily. “What else you got?”

Darius thought on it. He didn’t think he’d genuinely get this far. But he was going to run with it if it meant he could see more of Cameron’s wings. “You can have more room for your books,” he said. “Even if they are so dull.”

Cameron’s mouth twitched. “I do not think you are good at maintaining your position, Darius.”

Darius couldn’t help how he bit his lip. “Well what would you like, then.”

Cameron’s smile widened a bit more. “I do not know,” he said. “Why don’t you keep offering me things and I’ll see how far I can get.”

Darius whined softly. “Cameronn.”

“Dariuss.”

Darius frowned. “You’re mocking me now.”

Cameron lifted a single, perfect brow. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Yes it is,” Darius mumbled under his breath, but he went for the rag and began to wash Cameron’s silky skin. Cameron’s amused look had Darius wrinkling his nose. “I will give you whatever you’d like, within reason, of course.”

“Mmm. Dangerous offer, Darius.”

Darius held Cameron’s gaze steadily. “I trust you.”

Cameron didn’t blink at Darius’ quiet truth. “I think all I want is a ‘please’.”

“A- what?”

Cameron smiled at him. “That’s all I want.”

“Please?”

“Please what?” Cameron asked, leaning forward to let Darius at his neck to wash.

Darius ran the rag over his skin, inhaling Cameron’s faint citrusy scent. “Please let me see your wings in our room. They’re too beautiful to be kept hidden away.”

“One would say every part of me is too beautiful,” Cameron said, mildly.

“Well, yes,” Darius said, “But your wings are exceptionally beautiful. And I so rarely get to see more than a glimpse of them.”

Cameron took Darius’ chin into his fingers and considered him for what felt like eons. He could feel something tighten and solidify in his core when Cameron leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss. “Very well,” he said. “Since you said ‘please’.”

Darius smiled at that look, and motioned for Cameron to let Darius at his hair. He ran water through the silky strands and washed delicately. He took care and treated them as if they were made of eggshells. He washed out the shampoo, conditioner and moved to his long, pale limbs and washed them just as delicately. Even if Cameron’s skin was flawless, Darius knew just what kind of damage the alpha could do at a mere seventeen years old.

More than anything, Darius wished he could protect him from his fate, but he knew Cameron would not appreciate the sentiment, so he kept doing what he was and washed the invisible marks from Cameron’s body and motioned for him to turn around.

Darius sucked in a breath when he took a long look at Cameron’s wings. “Can… May I touch?”

Cameron inclined his head, wings spreading slightly. “Yes. Just. Be careful.”

Darius hummed and lightly ran the rag over the long, thin bones, eyes trailing over the light silver veins tracing through the black and purple leathery skin. Cameron went almost… limp at the feeling of his wings being washed. He knew what level of trust Cameron was putting in him, and he had no intention of breaking it.

-----

A few hours later and Cameron was watching Darius read one of his useless books. He had been debating how to do this the last several hours and decided to just do it now before he lost any nerve he had. Owing Destris for this would be for nothing if he didn’t give the watch to Darius.

“Darius.”

“Mm?” he said, not looking up from his book.

Cameron went over and replaced the cup of tea in Darius’ hand with the small box. “Open.”

Darius looked down at the small box before looking up at him. He looked almost bewildered, but looked back down at the box and slowly began to open it. The watch was shining in the silver wrapping paper. “Oh,” he said, softly. “I- thank you, Cameron. It’s lovely.”

Cameron wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he just opted for a terse nod. “I saw it in the window and thought you’d have use for it.”

Darius gave him a far too knowing look, but just smiled. “I love it nonetheless,” he said, solemnly. “Help me put it on?”

Cameron moved down to his knees and took the box from him. “I know it’s not your typical aesthetic, but I figured you’d appreciate it anyway.”

“I do,” Darius said, extending an elegant hand.

Cameron carefully removed the watch from the box and clasped it, carefully covering up the branding on Darius’ wrist. “You probably couldn’t… wear it outside of the room often,” Cameron said, looking up at him. “But...”

Darius seemed to hesitate only slightly before leaning over and pressing a light kiss to Cameron’s forehead. Cameron did his best to not screw up his face at the sentiment and allowed it briefly before pulling back. The way Darius’ eyes shone was enough to endure the payment that he was sure Destris would take out of him for it. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, getting to his feet.

“I love it.”

----

Cameron spent that night with Destris, and then he spent the next several days between Destris and other clients. He barely saw Darius the whole time and the only time he did was when he came back to sleep. He barely ate unless Darius bullied him into it, and even then it took much persuasion on Darius’ part to get him to eat.

Cameron finally came back to the rooms after seeing a copy of himself leaving the room. But those same pale blue eyes shifted to the hauntingly familiar hazel green and it had Cameron stopping in his tracks, schooling his face into neutrality. “Have I forgotten an appointment?”

“No,” Destris said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But I must say, I did not think the watch I paid for would be given to a common whore. Though, he did pay well for it as well. So I think I can let it slide. This time.”

Cameron blinked, and he opened his mouth before promptly closing it. He didn’t know what to say, and the ice slicing through his veins made him very aware he needed to say absolutely nothing. “Thank you,” he finally said, voice carefully neutral.

Destris gave him a spidery smile before walking around Cameron, his form shifting back to his own slowly. Cameron closed his eyes, sighing softly and bracing himself before going into the bedroom. Darius was sleeping on the bed, clearly naked beneath the throw blanket covering his lower half. Cameron’s throat closed when Darius awoke to look at him, confused. “You’re back already?”

“Yes,” Cameron said, numbly. “I decided to just come to bed, instead.”

Darius gave him a small, pleased smile and laid back down in the bed. Cameron changed into his pajamas, not feeling himself do it before climbing in the bed next to him. The smell of sex clung to Darius, and even if that was his job, this didn’t- this wasn’t the same. And Cameron couldn’t voice this, especially when Darius moved over to curl into Cameron’s side, falling back asleep almost instantly.

--------

Tuathal had never liked the Obsidian Court. It stunk of power and desperation to keep it, and it made his skin crawl with memories he didn’t want to touch. But Asmadai had asked for a meeting, and for now he needed to keep the peace.

Just in case, though, he’d brought his brother along. Cináed made a wonderful distraction, especially when he couldn’t be bothered to put on a shirt. He looked the part of a halfbreed, radiating his own power, and not power he had to steal. In comparison, Tu with his neatly pulled back hair and calm demeanor seemed the civilized brother.

While Tuathal sat, listening to Asmadai try to sell him on lending her his support. Not that he had any intention of giving her what she wanted, but it was good to seem like he was considering it. He knew damn well his magic was a coveted asset, but his plans revolved around ending this war, not prolonging it with more infighting.

Behind her, her son lurked, pale as snow, and an obvious attempt to be an enticing addition to the offer. Asmadai had no way of knowing Tuathal could never be swayed by a pretty face; he’d never been interested in sex, and that was not going to change for this young demon. Besides, he looked barely in his twenties, if that. Tuathal had centuries on him.

While Tu listened to Asmodai, nodding along as he braced his chin on his fingers, Cin wandered the room, poking his nose where it didn’t belong, passing close enough to the demon and her son that he could sniff at the both. They seemed unimpressed by the way Cin bared his fangs in a grin at them.

“Cináed,” Tuathal warned mildly. “No nibbling.”

Behind Asmadai, her son lifted his brow ever so slightly, the faintest of amusement showing up in his face, even as Cin growled at Tu.

“Cin,” Tu said, voice soft, and laced with a threat of his own.

This time Cin settled with a grumble, returning to Tu’s side as Tuathal stood.

After tugging on one of Cin’s golden curls, Tuathal fixed Asmadai with a level look. “I’ll have to think about your offer,” he said smoothly. It wasn’t a lie. There was plenty to be gained from picking apart just why and how she thought to go through with her plans. “I’ll let you know if I’m interested.” He wasn’t, but she didn’t need to know that until he had his brother safely away from her claws. Demons had done enough to Tuathal; they didn’t need the opportunity to do the same to Cináed.

Asmadai reached up to drag her fingers down her son’s jaw, not taking her eyes off of Tuathal. “I’ll be waiting for your answer.”

Tu didn’t even give her the respect of a bow. He turned away, knowing Cin was following on his heels. They didn’t say a word until they were free of the Obsidian Court. As soon as they were, Cin’s teeth found Tu’s shoulder, the pressure questioning.

“What did you think?” Cin asked, some of the playfulness fading from his sharp golden eyes.

“I think she’s a bitch, and can go fuck herself,” Tu replied, pulling his hair down with a frown. He ran his fingers through it once or twice to loosen it up, and then added, “Though she seems a bitch who might rise high. I’ll keep an eye out for her in the futures.”

“Probably a wise decision,” Asmadai’s son said from behind. It took a few moments for Tu to place a name; he hadn’t bothered to care in the room with her, but it seemed rude to not know now.

Cin shifted subtly in front of Tu, eyeing Cameron with the same feral look to him that Cin always wore in front of others. Cameron was unphased, but Tu already expected that. “Can I help you?” Tu asked instead of responding to Cameron’s comment.

“I’m here to offer myself to both of you,” was all Cameron said.

Tu bit back a snort. “Your services aren’t needed,” he replied. This was not a demon who had harmed him. He had no reason to be cruel. “You can let your mother know I’m not interested.”

Cameron’s icy gaze shifted to Cin. “And you?”

Cin met his stare, washed out gold clashing with pale blue. “I prefer my partners willing. I don’t pay to sleep with anyone.”

“I don’t intend to take your money.”

“And I don’t take bribes,” Cin replied dismissively. He headbutted Tu’s shoulder. “I want to go home.”

Tu stared at Cameron for a long time, chasing down flickers of the future. He knew Cameron’s answer before he opened his mouth. “I could buy you from her,” he offered quietly. “I don’t lack the funds.”

He could see the gears turning in the young demon’s head, and despite so many futures telling him Cameron would say no, he had to hope he might say yes. But when Cameron answered, all he said was, “You couldn’t afford me.” Here the demon hesitated. “But there’s another whore you could afford. He goes by the name Darius.”

This time Tu closed his eyes. Second ticked by, and then he opened them again. “I could afford it, yes,” he finally said. “But I don’t think there I have the... the time for a different man. This offer would only work for you.” Unease coiled through him. He rarely offered advice based on what he saw when he looked forward. “Don’t hesitate. It’s better that way. Merciful.”

Cin flicked him a look, a frown pulling at his lips. Tu shook his head once, unable to speak around the sour taste in his mouth. The blank look on Cameron’s face only made it all the worse. The young demon just inclined his head slightly. “Noted.”

Before he could get far, Tuathal called him back, on impulse. “Life has a strange way of bringing you things you thought lost,” he said. “This is not your only path, and not your only life. Your future forks more than you’re willing to believe, and you will be surprised by the outcome.”

Cameron paused long enough to give him a small, sharp smile, disbelief clear in the expression. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and then he kept walking.

“You tried to tell him,” Cin offered, bumping shoulders with Tu.

“I feel like those cryptic old prophets,” Tu complained, turning towards home. “I hate those prophets. They’re all dicks.”

“Well. You are a dick, so.” Cin ducked away from the swat Tu aimed at him, laughing.

---

Cameron found two men to service that held similar enough scents to the two halfbreeds before heading back to the mansion. He was ordered to sleep with them, and he could not show back up without the scent of sex on his skin, unless he wanted to answer questions that would get him in hot water.

Cameron went to kneel in front of his mother. His brother was leaned against the throne next to her, that lazy, spidery smile curling his face as he rested his eyes on Cameron. The same smile was mirrored on Asmadai’s face and Cameron trained his eyes to the marble white floor. “The halfbreed wishes you to know he is not interested.”

His mother hummed, but it was Destris who said, “And did you serve them?”

“I did,” Cameron lied, smoothly.

“Clearly you didn’t do it well,” Destris replied. “Not enough training, I suppose. Even with your own personal whore. Here I thought Darius was useful.”

Cameron’s blood was somehow ice cold and burning at the same time. He allowed himself to feel neither and said, “I apologize. I’ll accept whatever punishment you deem necessary, Lady.”

His mother’s clicking nails was the only sound in the room, and Cameron could feel his heart pound in rhythm to them. “Bedding the half breeds was punishment enough, I think. You probably wish to wash their reek off your skin.”

“I would appreciate it, Lady,” Cameron said, still looking down at the floor.

“You’re quite welcome,” she said. “You may take your leave, Cameron.”

“Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet smoothly, eyes down as he walked out of the room. Cameron carefully eyed the hallways he took back to the rooms and he wasn’t sure if he were relieved or not when Darius was not in the rooms. He had no choice but to sit there and wait with the blade in his hand.

He had it resting on his lap by the time Darius came back, smelling of sex and perfumes. Darius looked from Cameron’s wings, to his eyes to the knife back up to his eyes. “So, I suppose the knife is going in my back?” he asked.

Or throat, Cameron thought, numbly.

“Yes,” was all he had to say, while standing.

Darius seemed to think about that, gold eyes never wavering as he held Cameron’s gaze. He tried for a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wouldn't by chance be able to convince you to not?”

“No,” was all Cameron said.

Darius nodded, more in acceptance than anything else. Cameron watched Darius carefully unclasp the watch from his slender wrist and hold it out. “Wear it for me? I’m sure you’ll have more use for it than I.”

Cameron unwillingly looked down at the black and silver watch in Darius’ fingers and found himself reaching out for it. The metal was warm from Darius’ touch. Cameron forced it onto his own wrist and lifted to curl his fingers around the back of Darius’ neck. The black strands brushing his fingers sent goosebumps up his arm and down his spine. Darius had to lift Cameron’s chin to make him look him in the eyes. “It’s okay,” he said. “I knew what I was getting into by getting involved with you. I know this isn’t what you want. I just hope you can eventually get what you need.”

“I’m sorry,” Cameron’s voice cracked.

Cameron didn’t give himself a second before he expertly plunged the blade into the back of Darius’ neck. He twisted sharply, feeling the nerves sever and the life leave Darius’ body without so much as a whisper. Cameron wasn’t sure if the feeling in his chest completely severing as well was imagined or not.

Blood seeped down his fingers, drenching Darius’ hair as Cameron gently brought the warm, limp body to the floor. Cameron’s eyes were bleary, tears streaking down his face and he couldn’t breathe. He had no right to feel this; he had no right to tears or pain of any kind. But that didn’t stop Cameron from dropping his forehead against Darius’ blood splattered one.

Closing Darius’ eyes, Cameron felt a sob tear through his chest. It felt like he was dying, like this was what death was. He supposed, in a way, it was. He never planned on living that long, anyway. He was going to end up dead one way or another, either at his mother’s hand or his brother’s.

A walking corpse.

----

Five hundred years later and Cameron was still serving in his mother’s court. He had carefully crafted an image for himself, making people want him; making people fear him. Of course, that did not include Destris in the mix, but he had his roles to play and he played them well.

Cameron, however, had not been expecting a half beaten angel to drop at his mother’s feet. The golden brown, tattooed skin was covered in bruises and blood, dark brown eyes somehow daring even with one of them bloodshot.

It was interesting enough to get Cameron’s attention, seeing as how his mother didn’t kill him right away. Angels were a thorn in his side, but this one- he was also an omega and that also piqued Cameron’s interest. An angelic omega in his court, still alive and daring to grin at his mother like this.

“Well,” the angel rasped. “This is surely one way to gain an audience.”

Cameron wasn’t sure how he had gotten from his mother’s side to his back oozing blood, and half dead in angelic territory in a matter of weeks. He had used the last of his strength to make sure he ended up on the right doorstep, hand slamming hard against the heavy oak door before completely crumbling.

Black edged at his vision, and all he could taste was the mingling metallics of blood and venom. He heard, more than saw the door open, black biker boots appearing in front of his eyes. “What the hell? Cameron?”

The next thing Cameron saw was the inside of what appeared to be a large bedroom. He could hear Nik and someone arguing. Pain laced through his body as he looked over to see the idiot angel and a taller, red haired angel bickering about him. He felt the eyes of the ginger turn towards him, bright green and disgusted and hateful. “Oh, you’re awake,” he deadpanned. “I guess you did survive.”

“Ash,” Nik hissed. “Don’t be a prick. I know it’s hard, but I think you could manage for a split second.”

Cameron closed his eyes for a heartbeat, and tried sitting up. Pain laced down his back, his arms threatening to buckle. He would have landed back on his face anyways had Nik not moved to put him back on his stomach. “You stupid bastard,” he breathed. “You just had your wings chopped off. Don’t move.”

“Let him,” Ash said. “If he’s stupid enough to move after a hack amputation like that, so be it.”

If Cameron had the energy he might have rolled his eyes. “I need to go,” he rasped. “I can’t be here.”

“Well, too bad,” Nik said.

“Angels,” he mumbled, forehead against the bedding.

“Yeah? And?” Ash asked. “If I haven’t killed you, I doubt anyone else is going to. Not when Nik would probably throw a damned fit first. Plus Az’ril isn’t here, so you don’t need to worry about him.”

He could hear how Nik’s breath hitched just a bit before, “Well lucky us. It’ll be fine. I’ll deal with Papi when the time comes. Blood debts and all that.”

Cameron had spared Nik and for his troubles he had gotten his wings carved off. Cameron sighed into the bedding and tried getting up again. The temperature in the room spiked enough Cameron knew Ash’s power and filed that information away for later. “Ah. So this is why Nik likes you. You are as stupid as he is.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ashwyn.”

Ash muttered under his breath but came over and had Cameron jolting when Ash touched his back. Cameron reached out and grabbed Ash’s arm in a vice grip and turned to glare up at him. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Ash rose a brow. “I see, too good for angelic healing?”

Cameron removed his hand and put his face back in the blanket. “Something like that.”

Ash scoffed, but Cameron could almost feel Nik inching towards them. He could feel the calloused fingers hesitantly touching his hair; knew Nik was stupid enough to touch him like this, in front of another angel. “Ash, get out.”

“You made me come over here and save your stupid demon,” Ash snapped. “And now you want me to leave you alone with him?”

“Do you really think he is in any position to hurt me,” Nik said, sharply. “He already spared me once, I doubt he’d try to kill me now.”

He could feel the heat of the glare Ash sent both their ways. It was hot enough Cameron could feel his hair sticking to his forehead. “Fine,” he finally said. “Your funeral.”

“Aw thanks,” Nik said. “Now get out.”

----

“Sir?”

Cameron looked up from his paperwork, annoyed to see one of his bouncers at his door. “Can’t knock?” he asked, coolly.

“I- There’s another angel here. Besides the mutt and... Nik.”

Cameron lifted a brow and leaned back. He thought on it; there weren't many angels that bothered showing in his club, unless it was Nik or Amara. But they both were gluttons for punishment and both got sex out of it. And unfortunately he could never really get rid of Nik anyways.

“Noted,” he said. “Now get out and go do your job.”

When the bouncer bowed out, Cameron rose from his desk and went to the tinted glass windows that overlooked his club. The club was packed, and Cameron kept looking to see where this angel was. He had no patience tonight to deal with angels trying to dismantle his establishment. But his attention was caught when sudden shadows appeared, wrapping around one of the patrons.

“Mmm.” Cameron said, leaning closer, to get a better look. He might have walked away when a demon started talking to the angel had the angel not tried flinching back. He cocked his head, watching more when Nik appeared in that awful body glitter and slung his arm around the angel’s neck.

Cameron watched enough for Nik to drag the angel to the bar where he knew Amara would be, drinking all his booze like usual. As annoying as she was, at least she provided steady profit for his club.

Cameron came down to the bar, more out of vague curiosity and suspicion than anything else. He made his way through the noisy club, training his hearing on Nik, the angel (apparently named Levant) and Amara. By the time he reached them Levant had a glass of water in his hand and was following Nik’s line of vision. The dark haired angel nearly dropped his glass.

Cameron nearly stopped in place when the wide gold eyes turned to his, but the arm slipping around his waist had him loosening once more, pulling him into focus. He let Nik at his throat, to scent him, but he still forced himself to offhandedly say, “Don’t get glitter on me.” He ignored Nik’s happy hum and kept his eyes on Lev. “Who are you?”

Lev was gaping like a fish out of water when Nik grinned. “This is Lev. Mar is trying to get us in his pants.”

Hmm. Cameron forced himself to turn his attention to Amara. “I’m not giving you free booze.”

The long drink and loud sigh didn’t impress him. “Why does everyone insinuate that I want free booze? I'm just trying to get my darling cousin loosened up a little. Maybe by a cock or two, you know?”

Cameron could have told her it was because he knew very well that she pick pocketed his patrons and used their money for her alcohol. So she was, in fact, not paying for her own alcohol. However, he was still making profit, so he did not care.

Lev’s mortified squeak had Cameron looking back at Lev and gripping his chin. He looked him over indolently. “And does he want to be loosened up by a cock or two?” he asked, lips brushing against Lev’s ear.

The sharp spike in Lev’s scent- in the cinnamon and vanilla scent- nearly had Cameron freezing himself.

“Oh, don’t break him yet, Cam. The poor angel’s going to be too much of a mess to be fun to either of us.” Cameron could smell Lev’s very clear, very obvious interest in Cameron. “Though, something does tell me he enjoys being a mess.”

Cameron couldn’t stop himself from brushing his nose along Lev’s neck, getting more of his scent into his lungs. Nik had grabbed the glass from Lev’s hands and Cameron used that moment to grab Lev by the hoodie and press him back against the bar, still scenting him.

“I’m going to take that as a yes?” Amara was saying.

Cameron eventually pulled back, his eyes trained on Lev. Cameron lifted his gaze from those bright gold eyes to the black wavy hair. Despite this skin being paler, despite the moles dotting that pale skin, and despite this angel being so thin-

It was like looking at a ghost.

Tagging:  @idreamonpaper @incandescent-creativity @solangelo3088 @halstudies @alittleyellowdinosaur @mis-lil-red

[justforbooks]

Herb Heilbrun was born October 11, 1920 in Cincinnati, Ohio to his father Herbert, who worked for his wife’s family business that “produced high-quality made-to-measure men’s suits” and his mother Mary Lou, who “Had a promising tryout during Hollywood’s “silent” era, but decided that life in the movies was no life at all after working severals grueling days as a film extra”. As a young boy who loved building wooden model airplanes, he attended elementary school at North Avondale Elementary in Cincinnati alongside his future best friend and Tuskegee Airman, John Leahr. Herb remembers December 7, 1941, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He didn’t hear the news until later on in the afternoon when he stopped at a favorite restaurant in the neighborhood called Sugar N Spice and all of the employees were sitting around listening to the news on the radio; the “Japs” were bombing Hawaii. He had just turned twenty-one in October and was working at the Wright Aeronautical defense plant that had just opened north of Cincinnati and within weeks he decided to join the Army Air Corps and do something he had always dreamt of doing… learn to fly. That following May in 1942 Herb passed the entry exams for the Air Corps and the Cadet Board of Examiners and was then sent home to await an opening for aviation cadet classes. He was finally called up in February of 1943. He had B-17 training in New Mexico and B-17 combat crew training in Texas. When he was finally ready to set off to Europe in a shiny new B-17G, everyone in his crew showed up except his waist gunner. Missing even one member of the crew forced them to be considered incomplete for combat and they were broken apart and placed into other squadrons as replacement crew members. Herb was forced to return to combat crew training and eventually was able to ship out overseas. November 1944, Herb landed in Italy with combat assignment in the 301st Bomb Group. Combat airfield life forced the men to live in a tent city, take off on runways made of interlocking steel mats and build furniture from from junked aircraft.

The following excerpt is from “Black and White Airmen - Their True History” (John Fleischman)

We have to fly whatever airplane is given to us because they’re always fixing something on them. “On February 1, 1945, Herb found himself  in a deathtrap, only it was his own side that nearly killed him. It was mechanical failure, not flak. The mission was an oil refinery at Moosbierbaum, just outside Vienna. The weather was awful. The B-24’s, which flew at lower altitudes, were more vulnerable to bad weather, so the pressure was on to get as many high-altitude B-17s as possible into the attack force. That put the major in charge of the repair shops for Herb’s squadron under the gun. The night before Moosbierbaum, Herb’s crew was on the order of battle, but rumor said that there weren’t enough airworthy B-17s for such a big mission. The major promised a maximum repair effort overnight. Herb had no idea what he would be flying in the morning.

Crews always had favorite aircraft, but except for the special Pathfinder ships, no crew had a guarantee of getting their “own” plane. Herb’s crew preferred “Haley’s Comet” a bright metal B-17G named by a previous crew after Jack Haley, the actor who played the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz movie.” That was the plane Herb’s crew wanted to fly most if it were on the flight line for the next day’s mission.

“The Comet was out of action for Moosbierbaum; they would have to take the luck of the draw. But when Herb reached his assigned aircraft on the flight line, he was stunned. It was a crate, an orphan B-17 from the Eighth Air Force in England that had crash-landed behind Soviet lines, been patched together, and flown out to Italy. It belonged to no one now unless the major’s repair crews tore it apart for spares or converted it into a squadron “hack,” a stripped-out bomber good enough to fly men to Naples or Rome on leave. Suddenly this old crate was pretending to be a bomber again, sitting there fueled, armed, and bombed up to join the order of battle. When Herb reached the cockpit and pulled out the plane’s logbook, he felt sick. The engines had 521 hours on them. Herb knew from his time at Wright Aero that an aircraft engine with close to 500 hours on it wasn’t safe. After 500 hours, an engine needed a total teardown and rebuild. To fly this crate on a combat mission was crazy. But it was too late. Planes all around them were going through the engine start drill. Any minute, the colonel’s ship would be rolling toward takeoff. The rest of the squadron had better be with him at 10,000 feet and building the attack formation within minutes. Herb remembered what he’d told his flight engineer before Brux: “We’re going to fly whatever airplane they give us. We’re going to fly it to wherever they tell us.”

Herb Glanced across at Harry in the copilot’s seat. There was nothing to do but start the engines and pray. Maybe an oil seal would blow on Engine Start. None did. Herb took off, climbed to his assigned position in the formation, and set out for Moosbierbaum. All four engines were running, but Herb was worried. To keep up with the formation, he couldn’t nurse his suspect engines. As the bombers crossed the Alps into southern Austria, the number one engine began to smoke and then vibrate violently. Herb shut it down and managed to “feather” the head propeller; that is, he rotated the blades into a neutral position to minimize air resistance. Unfeathered, a frozen prop would drag them down as surely as if the airplane had a ship’s anchor dangling from the wing.”

Now it was equally dangerous to turn back alone or go on with the formation to target. Running on three engines, Herb ordered the bombardier to jettison half the bomb load. The barrage tore up the Austrian pastures below them, but the lighter airplane picked up a little speed. They would be able to stay with the formation, Herb thought, if nothing else went wrong. Then engine number three erupted in smoke and violent vibration. Herb feathered the prop. On two engines, they were finished, at least, with this mission. Herb lowered and raised the plane’s wheels, the signal to his squadron leader that he was aborting, and turned his crippled crate toward home.”

The radios didn’t work, I couldn’t get fighter escort, I couldn’t get anything. So I called the crew and said, we gotta problem, I want you to charge your 50 caliber machine guns and stay with them. We’ve got two engines gone, we’re a long way from home, I don’t know what’s going to happen if we’re attacked, but we’re going to give em what we can give em!

I figured if I got over the Alps, the worst thing that could happen was that there’s a flat place before you get to the Adriatic that would allow us to either bail out or get it on the ground. We might be captured. We got that far and I made a little deal with the Lord, I didn’t say get me home *laughs* I was pushing that hard, I said just get me half way down the Adriatic because the British had launches in Yugoslavia and when they’d see an airplane they’d come out, pick you up and take care of you.

“Moosbierbaum was waiting for the rest of Herb’s bomb group with bad flak and terrible weather. The flak claimed two B-17s, and the weather scattered the attackers. But Herb and his crew were already fighting for their lives. The enemy was gravity. To get home, they had the Alps to scale first, and Herb would need every inch of altitude the plane could grab to get over on two engines. He ordered the rest of the bomb load jettisoned. The B-17 gained a little height, but the snowy mountaintops ahead still looked much too close for comfort. They had no Little Friends (P-51s) to protect them, but they had no choice. The guns had to go. Herb ordered the gunners to heave their heavy 50 caliber machine guns overboard, followed by anything else the crew could tear loose — the oxygen cylinders, ammunition, extra clothing, flak jackets, and helmets. They kept the radio, their parachutes, and the navigation chart. Somehow, they scraped over the Alps without attracting Luftwaffe attention. Herb recited one of his silent prayers, asking only to reach the coast. The minutes tick by. Herb caught a glint of sunlight ahead, flashing off the Adriatic. Then Herb saw a thin stream of oil drizzling out of engine number two. A B-17 can’t fly on one engine, at least not for long.

Herb prayed, “Dear Lord, please just get me halfway down the Adriatic.” His radioman made contact with an American flight control station so at least someone would know where they went down or if they bailed out. Herb, though, was determined to go home. He radioed ahead to the airfield, asking for fire engines and ambulances on the runway”… We got halfway down the Adriatic and I called the crew and told them we were going home. And I’ll never forget, I called base and said Foxtail one two to Long-skirt, I’ve got two engines gone, one leaking oil. I told them where I was at 7,000 feet and 75 miles away from you and I said if a group is landing please hold them and give me permission for straight in approach on one seven.

“Number two was leaking heavily now. Herb figured that he  had one pass at landing. They were too low to bail out now, and too crippled to go around the field again. It was land or crash. On February 1, 1944, Herb made one of the best landings of his life in the worst airplane he ever flew. He let the crate roll all the  way down to the end of the runway before coming to a complete stop. The crew climbed out, giddy with relief. They were home, safe, sound, and dry.”

The major came roaring up in a jeep. A magnificent landing, the major shouted, a magnificent achievement to make it back on two engines. “Lieutenant Heilbrun, you’ll probably get the DFC for this,” said the major, meaning that Herb would get the Distinguished Flying Cross, one of the AAF’s highest honors. What Herb almost got was a court-martial. For the next five minutes, the lieutenant told the major precisely what the lieutenant thought of someone who would send ten men on a bombing mission in an aircraft with more than five hundred hours on the engines. “Criminal” was one of the more polite words Herb used. Lieutenants did not talk this way to majors in the AAF, especially with so many enlisted men and officers standing around, soaking up every word. And yet Lieutenant Heilbrun said all that and walked away from the major. Maybe that was another reason for the DFC that Herb was awarded for actions above and beyond the call of duty on February 1, 1945.”

Herb continued flying, keeping his crew alive and ended his final Mission, with a total of 35, on April 16, 1945 - “Herb’s personal Victory in Europe day”.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[cchellacat]

Tears Make The Flowers Bloom

Wintershock AU, Bucky Barnes MD/ Darcy Lewis florist.

Bucky/Darcy

Drama ~ One Shot probably.

“You know you’re in love with her, right?”

Bucky stills at the flat tone, the barest hint of bitter accusation creeping in.  He turns away from the mirror and their eyes meet.

“Since when?”  He tries to shrug it off, attempts to pretend that she hasn’t just laid his soul bare for all the world to see.

“Since pretty much always, that’s why I’m breaking up with you.”

He wishes he could say something, anything to deny the calm acceptance she lays the words out with.  His eyes drift to the suitcase at her feet, the jacket slung over one arm and the white knuckled grip on the apartment keys before she throws them to him.  He catches them with a faint tinkle, mouth a grim line.

“Three years, and it’s over just like that?  I don’t get a say in this?”

“No, you don’t.  You should have told me…  no, that’s not fair.  You did tell me about her, I just didn’t realise, not till today.  It was my own mistake.  I wasn’t paying attention.”  Green eyes crinkle a little as she attempts to smile.  “I get it, you know?  She’s everything I’m not.  You did everything to forget her.  But she’s what you want.”

“Nat…  please don’t do this.  I love you, I never lied to you- “

“I know.”  She cuts him off, voice cracking a little. “But you’re not in love with me.  She’s in your blood. Seeing the two of you-“

“Nat, nothing happened, I swear, we-“

“I didn’t say it did. I know nothing happened because I followed you.  And yet for all the nothing that happened… “

“Tasha…”

She holds up a hand as he trails off, brushing a tear from her chin.

“When you looked at her, shared a smile…  you, both of you lit up.  You should have gone back a long time ago.  You were never going to forget her and she obviously never forgot you.  So I’m leaving and you should too.  Go back home to that little town and marry her, have a couple of babies and a yard with a dog in in it.”

He takes a faltering step towards her, but he stops before he reaches her, he can see in her eyes she means it.  That she’s not going to change her mind.

“Natasha, I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Bucky…  goodbye.”

He watches her go, listens as her heels click on the tiles of the kitchen and finally as the front door clicks closed with a soft snick.  

—————————————————————————————

The air was dry and the sun was dropping low on the horizon as he drove into town.  The glint of dying light on the shiny clean hood of the pickup irritating his eyes even through the darkness of his Ray-Bans.

He knows where she’ll be. He pulls up in front of the little store, nodding to a few people as he gets out of the truck and heads inside.

The smell of flowers hangs in the air, a heady bouquet of scent that he’s always associated with her. She spent everyday after school here, when her mother was alive and running the flower shop, whole summers when both of them would hole up in the back room listening to the radio and helping arrange flowers and ribbons, learning how to make crowns from the ones that would end up in the trash.  He can still see her even now, leaning back on her elbows, head back, laughing, with a crown of tulips in her hair, the sun streaming in through the open patio doors to the small courtyard.  He thinks that’s  when he really knew and understood what it was he felt for her.  Seventeen years old in the back of a flower shop with the girl he loved, her smile making the room blinding in it’s brightness.  Darcy’s laugh could light up the world, no one could feel sad when they heard her.  

He hears her before he sees her, the faint sound of music playing tinny and high from a set of speakers so old they probably shouldn’t work at all.  Her voice carries over, pure and simple in it’s fashion, but filled with emotion that couldn’t be bought.  He leans in the door jam.  Watching as she arranges long stems of white roses into a pretty arrangement as she sings, hips swaying to the music.  The sudden colourful stream of expletives burst over the room in a flurry of petals. He rushes forward, catching her hand in his before she can wipe the blood off on her jeans.

“Hey, let me see…”

It takes her a second in the sharp pain of the moment to register him there, to respond to the soft voice and gentle touch.  When she does, her heart wants to take off, beat right out of her chest as all the air seems to leave the room and her lungs void of all oxygen.  He wasn’t meant to be here, he was meant to be back in New York with his pretty supermodel girl friend and his six figure job, not here in her little flower shop in a kitschy little town on Georgia.

“Bucky…  what?”

He’d digging in his pocket, bringing out a pack of antiseptic wipes and a band aid as she frowns in confusion, only sparing her the briefest of glances through thick lashes, as he works, cleaning the deep cut where the thorn had stuck the pad of her finger and affixing the band aid with practiced ease.

“Never got out of the habit of carrying this shit around.  You were always sticking yourself with something.”  He goes for a smile, but it comes out half pained as her fingers curl around his with a familiarity that makes his heart sore.

Darcy, lets out an incredulous snort.

“You’re ridiculous.  I’m not that bad.”

He looks at her properly then, a genuine smile playing on his lips.

“This little incident says otherwise.  I’ve only been back two minutes and you’re bleeding all over the place.”

Butterflies fill her as he gives her that crooked grin.  The one she remembers he only ever gave to her.  The one that got him to third base in the back of his dad’s old pick up down by the lake one summer night back when they were in senior year.

“Yeah…  I was wondering about that.  Thought you’d be back in New York.”

“I went back…”  he trails off for a moment before letting out a sharp bark of unhappy laughter.  “Turns out I never really left this place though….  Or you.”  

The final confession has her grasping for something to say, anything to fill the suddenly awkward feeling at the reminder of them.  

She’d done so well before, when he’d been here for old Mr Rogers funeral last month.  She’d held it all in, ten years of pinning and loneliness as she had unconsciously waited for him to come back.  She thought she hadn’t let it show, how much she’d missed him, how badly she still wanted, no, needed him.  She doesn’t want to hope, but the way he’s looking at her, eyes soft and full of warmth and longing.  It makes her mouth dry and her eyes wet.

“But you did, you left…” accusation bleeds out in a whisper, she almost regrets the words, the way he flinches at them.

“I was an idiot… I was a lot of things back then…”  He bites his lip, the gesture so painfully familiar in this strange almost surreal situation she finds herself in, that it makes her want to reach out and catch his bottom lip with her thumb, the way she used to, kiss him slow and hard till he forgot whatever it was that made him broody and sad.

“I ah…  I wanted to drop by, let you know first.  I’m back, I’m taking over from Doctor Foster as the MD. He’s retiring in six months and, well. I’m planning to stay.  This was always my home, I should never have left the way I did and I’m sorry…  I just wanted to let you know.”

Darcy tries to make sense of the news, to process it all.  But all she can focus on is his hand still tightly holding hers and words like back and home and ….

“You’re staying?  What about your-“

“We broke up.”  He cuts her off, something tells her he’s not ready to talk about it, but another little piece of her heart feels a little less empty.

“Okay.”  She lets it out, chin up, meeting his eyes properly.

“Okay.”  He parrots it back, nodding as they smile tentatively at each other.

The stand there, hands gripping and lips curving in silly smiles for far longer than appropriate before Darcy seems to figure out she should say something or let go if his hand.

“Dinner…  We should.  I mean, have you ate?”

“No.  Dinner would be good.  The Grill?”

“The Grill.”  Darcy nods, her hand finally loosening from his. He rubs the back of her hand gently before letting go.

“So…  uh, I guess we should catch up.”  

“Yeah…  ten years, I mean…  “ she stops, throwing her hands up. “You’re back to stay?  You came back for me?”

She throws it out, all the little things he had and hadn’t said.

“Darce…”

“No.  Just…  It’s been ten years and I never got over you.  I still love you and I need to know what you want, because I can’t live like this with you here and not know why…”  she feels her panic rising as she gesticulates wildly, but then  his hands are holding her arms down, and he’s telling her to breath, before she’s pressed into his chest, his arms banding around her, grounding her, holding her to earth and him and she melts into him, tears suddenly springing into existence.

“I’m back for you. Because you are my home Darcy.  I don’t deserve a second chance but I want one. I want to start again.  I don’t expect to just go back to how it was, I know I’ve got a lot to make up for-“

“Stop… just, stop.”

“Darcy, please…”  He releases her as she pushes away, wiping the tears angrily from her eyes.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She’s wringing her hands now, she knows she has to tell him, can’t put it off, can’t pretend, now when he’s come back.  Ten years late, but….  God she should have told him back then, but he’d been in his last year of medical school, she hadn’t wanted to disrupt his exams and then he’d called, broke up with her over a phone call, told her he wanted to live in New York, that he knew she wouldn’t, didn’t want that and…  She had frozen, the words poised on her lips, ready to tell him, but she’d been so heartbroken and angry and…

“You have a daughter.”

@southerncross47  @omnomsauruswrites  @eurynome827  @loricameback  @spacemansam  @jobean12-blog  @book-dragon-13  @grimeysociety  @sarahbeniel  @amazon-belle  

[elisaphoenix13]

(AT) Family Is The Best Cure

Tony and Stephen had decided to host a barbeque at the lake house in celebration of their victory in the war against Thanos. Of course everyone was given a couple of weeks to rest and spend time with lost friends and family, but then they figured they could do all that here. Everyone could see each other in one place and Stephen even enchanted part of the house so there would be plenty of space for everyone to stay. Tony and Peter had been sent into town to pick up a few things they forgot, and Stephen was preparing the food. Clint was given barbecuing duty the moment he arrived, Laura helped Stephen in the kitchen, and their kids were sent to play outside. The archer was also given the duty to keep an eye on the younger kids (Nathaniel and Diana), but that was only until Scott and Cassie arrived.

The moment they did and Cassie stepped out if the car, Diana made a happy screech and barreled into the teenage girl's arms. Dia had been shy around the Barton kids since she didn't know them, but she knew Cassie. The teenager always played with her when she came to the lake house with her father, and told stories about the Avengers. Especially Stephen and Peter. Diana hadn't seen Cassie sent Tony left to fight Thanos, so the two had some catching up to do.

"Hi Cassie!"

Cassie smiles and hugs the younger girl. "Hi Dia. Want to help me bring the cookies inside?"

Diana gasps. "Chocolate chip?!"

"Of course."

Cassie grabs a plastic container out of the car and hands it down to Diana before following her into the house. The little girl runs straight into the kitchen and over to Stephen and gently tugs on his pant leg to gain his attention. The sorcerer stops his task of putting together a salad to look down at his daughter and accepts the container of cookies with a smile.

"Who brought the cookies?" He asks softly and his daughter beams.

"Cassie! She made them!"

Stephen looks up when Scott walks in with Cassie and the teenager immediately runs into his arms and hugs him tightly. The sorcerer grunts at the slight impact but returns the hug briefly before pushing her away just enough to look her over. Ever since the kidnapping years before, and because he was so protective of Peter and Diana, the other kids wormed their way into Stephen's collection of cubs. A collection he wasn't even aware he wanted. If their parents weren't available, the doctor was the go-to adult, and even they started calling him Mom. Of course, Tony laughed so hard he cried, and Laura and Maggie encouraged it because they thought it was cute.

He had really become a Mama Bear. Peter had given him the role and he sunk so fast into the deep end of that pool, that he didn't even bother trying to surface. He was content to sit at the bottom. Especially when others underestimated him. One of the kids got hurt or threatened and the parents weren't around? Mama Bear surfaced.

"I missed you Mom." She whispers.

Stephen smiles. "At least one of my unofficial cubs did." He laughs when Laura smacks his shoulder.

"My kids were snapped with you and Peter!"

The sorcerer just smirks and pulls Cassie into his side. "She's my new favorite."

Scott snorts. "Don't let Shortstack hear you say that."

"He and Diana are permanent favorites." Stephen explains smugly and Cassie rolls her eyes as she moves away from the sorcerer.

Tony's voice filters into the kitchen. "...a shiner. I swear I can't take you anywhere."

The engineer himself steps in and greets the new arrivals as he makes his way over to the freezer and pulls out a bag of ice. Peter comes in seconds later covering one of his eyes with the back of a sweater covered hand and he hisses when Tony nearly smacks the bag of ice against his forming black eye. Stephen frowns and pulls both Peter's hand and the ice away to look at the injury, then releases the vigilante's hand again.

"Do I want to know what happened?"

Tony grins. "It was actually pretty funny. Spiderman is not very graceful."

Peter pouts. "Shut up."

Of course Tony didn't. "Get this. He tripped over the curb, tried to save himself from falling, and actually ran into an open door. He literally knocked himself out."

Stephen's upper lip twitches in amusement because that all did sound like something Peter would do. He had faceplanted onto rooftops, smacked against the windows of the towers (Peter blamed FRIDAY for not opening them when in fact she had but he picked the wrong window), tripped over his own feet, and of course, fell into a manhole. They were sure there were other incidents when he wasn't with them or patrolling as Spiderman, but they probably would never know.

"Way to make me look like an idiot in front of everyone."

Laura smiles. "We all know sweetheart."

Peter motions towards Cassie. "She doesn't!" He looks at her with his uncovered eye. "Who are you anyway?"

Absolute silence. It was so quiet, they could all hear the Barton children playing outside.

Diana was the one to break it.

"She's Cassie."

Peter removes the bag of ice and slams it onto the counter to properly look over the fifteen year old girl next to Stephen. "You...survived the snap? You were like...ten. Now you're--"

"Fifteen." Cassie finishes.

Peter gapes for all of two seconds and then quickly picks up his ice again to hold against his blackened eyes. It was a poor attempt to cover the blush he was sporting in his cheeks, but the adults caught it. They just weren't sure if it was embarrassment or possible infatuation. Stephen's brain short-circuited at the thought of either Peter or Cassie forming a crush on the other. All of the kids weren't raised together like siblings, just friends, but the sorcerer was Mama Bear.  They all called him Mom so it was a little difficult for him to look past. He never thought it would be something he would have to.

He shouldn't really be surprised though.

Diana finally grows bored and grabs Cassie's hand. "Will you come play with me outside in my blanket tent?"

"You bet." The female teenager smiles and allows the little girl to lead her out if the house, and Peter watches them go until Stephen clears his throat. The sorcerer returns to his task of throwing together the salad and Peter looks down at the counter, the tips of his ears turning red.

Infatuation. At least temporarily.

Tony's grin only widens at the sight. "Does Underoos have a crush?"

Peter wasn't the only one to squawk in alarm. Scott had too. "Excuse me?!"

Peter holds up his free hand to try and placate the ex-criminal. "No! It's not like that!"

Tony's bullshit radar was blaring alarms. "Yeah, okay. Give that eye a few more minutes under the ice and then go help watch the minions."

Peter flushes again and puts his hand down, and after about ten minutes pass, he hands the ice pack over to his father who returns it to the freezer at the teen makes his way outside. Peter was immediately swarmed by the Barton kids and Diana, who must have wanted to do more than color with Cassie in her tent. Cooper wanted a web trampoline, Nathaniel wanted a web swing, and Lila...well she wanted a moving target to practice her archery on. Her request was overheard by her father who laughed, but the teen turned her down when Diana wanted him to carry her and take her swinging. So he complied with all (but Lila's) requests, making sure that he had a good grip on his sister before taking her swinging through the trees behind the lake house. Cassie helped Lila set up targets.

The swinging didn't last very long, and Peter eventually took Diana over to the trampoline to join Cooper, who kindly eased his jumping for her. The teen makes himself a hammock out of webs and collapses into it, making sure to face Dia and the Barton boys and folds his arms behind his head before looking up into the sky.

That was a mistake. The sky, no matter how many clouds were in it, was too open. It reminded him of the soul realm and it made his chest tighten. Then he was suddenly back there. All he saw was an endless horizon (not even the ruins were there), the damning color of orange, and he was alone. That scared him most. Before he had Stephen and the Guardians, but now there was no one. Peter gasps for breath and makes a sound filled with despair. This isolation was worse than being put into the system.

"...kid...you...breathe..." A voice filters through his manic thoughts. Peter gulps on air in an attempt to get it into his lungs, and then lashes out when a hand is pressed against his chest. His hands only met a wall though. At least a flesh one. "Breathe!"

And he did. The teen takes in precious oxygen and his chest loosens as his vision fades and he finds himself looking up into blue eyes. They weren't Stephen's though. Peter takes in more air as he studies the person above him and his brain finally puts together the pieces and supplies him with Bucky. A few more minutes pass as he calms himself down and the winter soldier slowly pulls his hand away.

"Do you remember?" Were the first words out of Peter's mouth.

"...yeah kid."

The teen glances toward the Barton children who had stopped in their activities and were standing nearby, watching them nervously, as well as Clint who had one eye on them and one on the grill. Did they remember? God, he really hoped not. Some people were lucky enough to not remember the soul realm and he hoped the kids were part of those some.

Peter sits up and Bucky helps him out of the hammock and onto the ground against one of the trees. The older man crouches in front of him and grabs one of his shoulders as someone else forces a cup of water into the teen's hands, and he drains it within seconds.

"You alright now? Do I need to get Mama Bear?" Bucky asks.

"N-No. I'm okay. Thanks Bucky."

The elder smiles and lightly slaps his cheek as he stands back up. "Good. I'll be inside with Steve. Nat will help with the kids so take a few more minutes."

Peter nods and watches the man walk away until Diana and Cassie take his place. "Are you okay Peter?" His little sister asks. "You were screaming."

The teen winces but makes sure to give her a reassuring smile. "Yeah. I'm okay. Just a bad dream." It wasn't a total lie, but he wasn't asleep.

"Do you need more water?" Cassie asks him.

Peter snorts. "Saving me with water again?"

"If I need to." She replies softly.

He ignored that skip in his heartbeat, brushing it off as a symptom from what was left of his panic attack. "No thanks. Sorry if I scared you guys."

Diana did what she did best whenever Peter had a bad day. She hugged him, and she always stayed until he was smiling again. She had her own natural scent that the teen memorized much like his parents, and Dia's was pine and (to his amusement) crayons. The second would probably be replaced as she got older, but for now, it was Diana.

It was comforting.

[avengers-nextgen]

32, 9 and 15 for Natasha and Sage

“Can someone please explain to me, in small words, why I’m being assigned to this mission?”/ “Wait, something doesn’t feel right”/ “Don’t tell me you’re fine! I can see the blood.”

— — —

Sage wasn’t sure why she needed to be in Fury’s office. In fact, she wasn’t sure why he wanted her there at all. Sure, she was a better person now, but she had stabbed him. Still, she found herself sulking down the hallways until she arrived. But only then did her confusion worsen because the only other person aside from Fury within the room was Natasha.

“You asked for me?” Sage frowned, trying not to sound bored.

“Yes,” Fury nodded, “you and Rogers have a mission.”

Of all the things the bald man could have said...he said that. Blinking slowly, Sage tried to sort out her confusion. “I’m sorry what?”

“You and Natasha will be taking care of a mission,” Fury repeated, slower than before.

“I got it,” Sage snapped, “but can someone please explain to me, in small words, why I’m being assigned to this mission? I mean, I don’t normally go on adventures without people my own age.”

“Did you call me old?” Natasha asked, arching a brow.

“No!” Sage huffed, “I’m just confused. That’s all.”

“I’m pairing the both of you together because Natasha has experience, and you have an arsenal of powers that may be useful in making sure neither of you die. Besides, it’s about time you and the rest of the kids start handling more dangerous scenarios.” Fury explained, shuffling papers on his desk.

“We handled Prometh-you know who-and that was dangerous.” Sage reminded.

“Yes, but I’m referring to threats other than a god like man working on some weird political and ideological agenda. I’m talking about stealth missions,” Fury sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “From what I’ve heard, you’re not very...stealthy.”

“I think she understands,” Natasha interjected, quick to cut the conversation short lest the two erupt into a full blown argument. “Just brief us.”

— — —

“Oh this thing is stifling,” Sage groaned, extremely in happy about the wet suit she was wearing. Apparently, though she wasn’t sure why, the base they needed to breach was under water in an unmarked cave system.

“You get used to it,” Natasha smiles thinly.

“Yes, but your normal suit is this tight,” Sage remarked.

“That’s because as a spy you lean that baggy clothes are a hindrance. They have a way of setting off alarms,” Natasha smirked. “A friend of mine wore cargo pants. Set off booby traps and got impaled by a metal rod.”

“Where in gods name were you?” Sage stammered.

“Russia,” Natasha shrugged. The older woman simply checked over the small oxygen tank and mask. Then, without asking, she began checking over Sage’s gear. “Always double check equipment. SHIELD is good about maintenance but you never know. The last thing you want is a mask to break when you’re dozens of feet under water.”

“Right,” Sage nodded, albeit awkwardly. Despite herself, she still wasn’t entirely comfortable around Alex’s parents.

“Drop zone is below, lowering ramp,” Maria’s voice came over their ear pieces. The sudden noise startled Sage. She’d forgotten all about the device.

With a groan that shook the empty cargo hold, the ramp slowly lowered revealing calm waters below. Natasha was the first to move. She edged carefully to the lip of the ramp before leaping off and splashing into the water down below. With a grudging sigh, Sage followed.

The water was cold, or at least colder than she’d expected. She watched as Natasha pulled on the mask and took a few test breaths. Mimicking the procedure, Sage gave a thumbs up indicating she was set to descend below the surface. With a confirmatory nod, Natasha dipped below the surface of the water.

Following closely behind, Sage found it difficult to keep pace with the agent. She was never particularly good at swimming but she’d always been able to manage. However, something about Natasha allowed her to streamline quickly through the water.

— — —

It wasn’t long until they reached the cave system. It’s mouth was dark and gaping like a waiting predator, but with little hesitation Natasha pulled a large light from her belt to illuminate the darkness.

Weaving through the submerged terrain, Sage worried they’d get lost, but nearly an hour later the rocky world around them shifted to strange slick metal. They’d found the foundations to a structure looming above.

Natasha’s beam of light glanced off the metal surfaces exposing a grill in the ceiling. Was it a ceiling? Sage wasn’t sure what to call it. Pausing beneath the hunk of metal, the spy studied it with care before motioning Sage over. Though it was hard to understand, Sage finally understood Natasha’s pantomiming. She wanted her to melt the welding lines. With a tentative nod, Sage produced a green flame. It flickered out for a moment before growing brighter with Sage’s concentration. Frankly, she’d never made fire underwater before.

Following the welding marks, the water began to bubble as metal soon released its hold. With a grunt, Natasha tore the grill from its resting place. Clambering up through the opening she turned to help her young companion out of the water. Removing the mask and slipping it into her belt, Natasha surveyed the area. “We’re on a low level. Probably the lowest one if it’s connected to the sea.”

“So we move up?” Sage asked, shaking the water from her hair.

“Mm,” Natasha nodded, carefully padding down a dark expanse of tunnel managing to make little sound. Sage found the ability to walk silently much more difficult. The combination of the wetsuit, the equipment, and being cold had thrown off her natural stride. “We need the third floor. Can you detect a way to get there?”

“I can try,” Sage nodded. Closing her eyes, she searched the environment for any source of chaotic energy. Nothing came to light. Resorting to a new method, she attempted to do a trace spell-something her father had taught her quite recently-which allowed her to retrace any recent event that’s taken place within an hour’s time frame.

Fortunately, someone had been down on their very floor within the hour. The uniformed individual, made two right hand turns leading to a flight of stairs. It wasn’t much but it would do. Relaying the information, Sage kept close to Natasha as she took the lead.

Moving slowly up the winding metal steps, they neared a large heavy door. With a small wave of the hand from Sage, the lock melted and Natasha eased the door open. The room was dark aside from large running databases. “I don’t know what any of this is. You should’ve brought Fox.”

“Please. Both of you on this mission would make us all dead,” Natasha snorted, eyeing up the technology. “Besides, I know my way around.”

Holding her hands up in surrender, Sage let the spy take charge. She was certain Natasha knew more about this stuff than she ever would. Thankfully, Sage was right, and Natasha was able to locate a wide cube of metal with flashing lights, connecting cables, and a small screen flashing codes.

“Is this what we need?” Sage asked.

“No, what we need are the codes. We need to get a copy of them. That way e can analyze the order and frequency of them. Figure out what exactly this machine operates,” Natasha explained, skimming her fingers over different nooks and crannies. She paused, flipped open a latch, and removed the outer frame. If Sage wasn’t confused before, she certainly was now, because the insides of the device contained even more lights, wires, and green plastic cards.

Feeling about, Natasha located a thin plastic card. “This should keep the machine running long enough for us to get out of here before they notice something’s wrong.”

“What’d you take?”

“This little card programs for a coolant system. It’ll keep things from over heating. It runs on a cycle. What we really need is this-“ Natasha rather violently stripped another piece of plastic from the machine. “A back up coding system. It won’t stop the machine from running it’s just a safety mechanism Incase the original codes are compromised.”

“Great, let’s go,” Sage nodded. Heading back the way they’d come.

“Wait,” Natasha cautioned, catching Sage by the arm. “Something doesn’t feel right. This place is too empty.”

“We have to get out of here one way or another,” Sage sighed, “but I can try teleporting both of us back-“

“No, your strength is important,” Natasha shook her head. She remembered how haggard Sage looked the time she’d saved Alex from drowning. How exhausting it was to make sure they both ended up where they needed to be.

“Then we’ll be careful,” Sage decided, and although she wasn’t excited about it Natasha lead the way back to the lowest level. Only as they rounded the corner a series of gunfire sounded off. Acting on instinct, Natasha grabbed Sage by the collar and flattened her back against the wall.

“Don’t move,” Natasha warned, listening closely for the gunfire to die down. “Damn I knew they’d be here.”

“Well, we’ll have to move eventually. Otherwise we’re sitting ducks,” Sage hissed, flinching at the sound of a bullet piercing the wall by her head.

“Then I’ll give you cover fire. But don’t do anything you don’t have to. Our main job is to get out of here. That’s it,” Natasha warned, peeking around the edge of the wall. A stray shot rang out as she ducked away. “We only have one exit.”

Steeling her nerves, Sage gave a nod and darted around the corner. In an instant two silver blades settled snuggly in her palms, but they left as quickly as they’d appeared finding their marks in the chests of enemies. Behind her, Natasha’s gun sounded off suppressing the enemy.

Eyes glowing, Sage managed to set the uniforms of the attackers aflame though it wouldn’t hurt them too badly, as she hadn’t set the entire outfit on fire. It was just enough to cause panic and distress. Still, a few of the enemy were brave enough to hold fire.

“Let’s go,” Natasha breathed, running up beside Sage and shoving her towards the hole they’d climbed through. Slipping inside, Sage struggled to pull her mask on before reaching up and tugging Natasha down into the water. The two swam like mad before finally shooting out of the cave system. And though the light was dim, Sage was grateful for the sun. But she noticed a thin trail of copper in the water. Eyes narrowing, she noticed the source of blood. It was a wound in Natasha’s side.

— — —

“Are you okay?” Sage asked, chucking her mask aside as soon as they’d re-boarded the plane.

“I’m fine,” Natasha insisted.

“Don’t tell me you’re fine! I can see the blood,” Sage frowned.

“I’ve been shot more times than how old you are,” Natasha chuckled, “I’ll be fine. Now sit down and enjoy the ride back.”

Though Sage wanted to protest, she listened. If anyone knew whether a gunshot wound was serious or not-it was Natasha. “You’re crazy.”

“Eh,” Natasha shrugged, flashing the young girl a smile. “Everyone has to be. At least a little. Where else would the fun come from?”

Though she tried to fight the smile, Sage couldn’t help herself. Maybe Natasha wasn’t too bad after all. Or at least, not as intimidating as she’d thought.

[gets-romantic]

I Dream of You So Often It’s Like You Never Leave

Loving you is so easy, I can do it in my sleep I dream of you so often it’s like you never leave

Mac's been having dreams about Dennis since he left.

Mac wasn’t really sure how often most people had sex dreams, but he assumed that only one in a good week was a little excessive.  Waking up at four in the morning every few days and having to more or less wake up so he can jerk off and finally fall back asleep seems like a little much and he was way fucking over it.

For the third time in a week he bolted up in bed, sweating, with his heart trying to hammer its way out of his ribcage.  Jerking awake to the feeling of hands creeping their way down his chest and a mouth doing a number on his neck wasn’t as awful as he wished it was.  In a way, he thought that it would be easier if he hated it. Maybe that way his subconscious could get the message and stop pumping it all into his psyche.  It was Freudian, really, which Mac did not care for, Freud was just a little science bitch who spent his whole career trying to justify why it was totally chill that he wanted to fuck his mom.

He woke up hard, painfully so, and angry about having to get up to take care of it.  He splashed cold water on his face and shaking his head when all was said and done to try to clear his thoughts, to try to not remember that to get off he mentally continued what he saw in his dream.

Sometimes his dreams were about Dennis.  Okay, most of the time they were about Dennis, probably about nine times out of ten.  Once Mac had dream-fucked this cute new barista at the Starbucks down the street, but he considered that more like a fluke than anything else.

The dreams weren’t even always about sex, or at least it didn’t always start that way.  Last week he dreamt that he and Dennis had been out for their monthly dinner, and it was all so painfully normal , he could have sworn it was real.  Then they’d gotten back to the apartment and had what felt like absolutely mind blowing sex.  If Mac was being honest, some similar things had happened after getting back from the dinners, but his subconscious amplified it all.  

A few had no sex at all, surprisingly, once he dreamt that he was walking home late at night, tired and cold, and when he unlocked and opened the front door Dennis was sitting at the table.  He looks up when Mac enters, pushing an old chipped coffee mug away from him. Mac is stunned, unsure of what to say, whether it was Dennis or some weird ghost or hallucination thing. “You,” he starts, taken aback and confused.  “You’re back.”

“Of course I am, dumb ass,” Dennis smiles, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  He gets up, walking towards where Mac was standing in the doorway, door still wide open to the hallway.  Dennis grips the door, easing it close, pushing Mac further backwards until his back is up against it, and Mac lets him.  Dennis settles his hand on the door to the left of Mac’s head, the other on the door knob, boxing him in.

“Why?”  The only word Mac’s shocked voice manages to force out.

“You didn’t really think I’d just leave like that, did you?  Of course I came back, I’ll always come back, Mac.”

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, it was entirely hollow, until it fills again with something that feels like hope.  Like yeah, there’s no way Dennis would run away and forget about him , he thought, and he wants so bad to believe him that he almost did.

Dennis’s hand finds its way from the doorknob to his shoulder, sliding over to flatten down the collar of his peacoat (God, it looked good , maybe he should look to buy one in real life).  “I missed you,” he says, his voice is soft and with no edge.

“I missed you, too,” Mac answers, gripping onto Dennis’s waist, like he knew exactly what to do, and pulled him closer.

Dennis grins wide, it’s near contagious, and Mac can’t help but smile back.  Dennis reaches up and lifts Mac’s chin with a gentle nudge. His eyes scanned over Mac’s face before leaning in to kiss him, soft and sweetly.

Mac hated that one the most, it was recurring, too, and if he sees it for a third time this month he might scream.  The sex ones were easier, it was easier to remove Dennis from the equation and just assume it was because he missed him (in a totally platonic bro way), and also wanted to have sex, and the two were in no way related.  He could go on a hookup app or to a bar and pick up some guy and have a stand in for Dennis for the night, but the emotional bullshit made the water a little more murky.

He tried that once, he downloaded Tinder after Dee told him he just need to fuck to feel better.  Mac had hoped to God that she was right. He had planned to meet up at a bar on a Wednesday night with the first guy he hit it off with on the app, who Mac is pretty sure was named Ethan.  Ethan was nice, tallish with a twink body, wearing tortoise shell glasses, a button up, and a cardigan. He was sweet, and had an apartment really close to the bar, which was convenient and probably planned on his part.  The sex was pretty good, too, but hook ups didn’t seem like the answer to his problems. When everything was said and done, and they were lying down on Ethan’s bed still tipsy from the bar, covered in sweat and chests heaving, Mac didn’t feel any better.  There was a few minutes of silence, when neither of them were sure what to say to break the heavy stillness.  

Ethan sighed  “So, uh, that was good,” he said, tentatively.

Mac didn’t reply, and when Ethan turned to him, he was crying.  It was embarrassing as all hell. He didn’t know what to do, and just froze.  This had never happened before, during hookups with men or women or whoever, or really sex in general, he was too much of a badass.  Ethan seemed equally off guard, but held Mac as he sobbed, neither entirely sure why or even what was even happening. On the inside Mac wanted so badly for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but despite the embarrassment it was nice.  The feeling of strong arms around him made him feel safe, and when he closed his eyes he imagined it was Dennis holding him. He left before Ethan woke up the next morning, and tried hard not to cry on a 7:00am subway surrounded by everyone on their way to work.

Sex was something where he could find a stand-in for, but all the lame emotions were more complicated.  No matter how hot a guy he meets at a bar is and no matter how good the sex is, it can’t replace the feeling he gets in his dreams when Dennis says he would never be gone for good, never leave him like he did.

If the dreams could just fucking stop maybe then Mac could move on.  It was obvious that Dennis had, they hadn’t spoken on the phone yet this month, longer than that since Dennis had been the one to call first, and he hadn’t even replied to Mac’s last text message from three days ago.  The hard part was that his subconscious was keeping the memory of Dennis alive and well, every night in his head it was like he had never left. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had dreams (regular or sex related) about Dennis before, when you spend so much time with one person it’s not surprising, but nearly every goddamn night? Really?  It was a bit excessive, he had to admit. He was stopping himself from accepting that Dennis was gone and if his brain could just give it a fucking rest maybe he could really get the message.

Dennis wasn’t coming back, he made that painfully clear, but it wasn’t easy to just turn off twenty years of feelings in an instant.  Mac deep down had always known that Dennis would never return anything he’d ever felt, and that he could never seem to will that into existence.  He needed to find a way to get over Dennis and feel something for someone else for once in his life because this just wasn’t cutting it. He’d never managed in the past few months to get over the thought of just walking into the apartment one day and Dennis sitting at the table on his phone, or watching TV on the couch just like he’d never left.  The recurring dream of that exact thing didn’t help, but he couldn’t stop holding his breath whenever he swung open the front door, wanting so fucking bad for things to be like they were before. The apartment felt too big for just one person, it was empty and lonely.

The next night, Mac fell asleep early, probably sometime around midnight after drinking too much too early in the night he had just decided to call it quits.  Not being able to drink for as long throughout the day made him feel 100 years old but his tired bones were craving sleep like it’s oxygen and who was he to deprive them any longer, it doesn’t take long until he’s under.

After hours of a peaceful, dreamless sleep (thank you, alcohol), a weight sinks into the other side of the bed.  It’s jarring, feeling someone else’s beside you when you live alone. Mac scrambles around the bedside table trying to turn on the light, and knocking his phone and an old coffee mug to the floor in his wake.  In the glow of his bedside lamp he makes out the shape of someone else beside him, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He thinks that maybe this is the end, maybe someone broke in and he’s about to be stabbed to death or have his throat slit or something way more gruesome than that.

“Dennis?”  He blurts out in shock.  “What the fuck?” The volume and pitch of his voice raising.  He was 90% sure this was real.

“Shut up, Jesus Christ, I just got off a redeye,” Dennis groans burying his head into the pillow to hide from the light.

“No way, dude!  What are you doing here?”  Mac nearly yells.

“Come on, man, I’m so tired, just go to sleep.”

“You sneak into my room in the middle of the night, get into my bed, I thought you were going to kill me!  I’ve got the right to ask a few fucking questions!”

“Fine!  You want answers?  Fine!” Dennis groans, rolling onto his back and propping himself up on his elbows.

Mac’s taken aback by how easily Dennis gave into his request and finds himself stumbling over his words.  “What are youーwhat? Why?”

“Why am I here?”  Dennis clarifies. Mac nods, still dumbfounded and unable to make his words make sense.  “I just had to leave, at least for a bit.”

“So, what?  You just up and left in the middle of the night?”

“I told her my mom was sick and I had to go back to Philly right away, and I just guessed you wouldn’t have changed the locks.”  Dennis leans back down, turning onto his side towards Mac and closing his eyes, assuming the conversation was over.

Mac pauses for a moment, trying to process everything that’s happening in his foggy, tired brain.  “But, your mom is dead,” Mac says, like that’s the part of this he didn’t understand.

“I know,” Dennis answers, not bothering to open his eyes.  “But Brian’s isn’t. Or maybe she will be in a week, I’m not sure yet.  Are you done yet? Can I just fucking sleep now?”

“No!  Dude, come on!  What are you doing in my bed?”

“The other room doesn’t have one, dumb ass.”  He sits up more this time, glaring at Mac for continually interrupting his rest.

“Oh, yeah, right.  But, like, you made that whole show of leaving, that everything was over, and now, what?  You want to just march back in here like nothing happened? You can’t do that, you can just decide what life you want depending on the day!”

“It’s not like that!”  They were both nearly yelling now, Dennis sat cross legged across the bed from Mac, he sighed and put his head down in his hands for a moment.  It had been months since he’s been this close but it still feels like he’s a million miles away. “I thoughtーI thought I was doing the right thing, being responsible and going to go be a dad, but I just don’t think I can fucking do it.  I thought that it would make me happy, all that nuclear family bullshit, just like it’s supposed to, but it doesn’t! I look at her and I feel nothing, and I look at that kid and I justーI feel nothing .  That’s not what it was supposed to be like, man, and I don’t know.  I don’t know,” his voice softened, he sounded so small, staring straight past Mac into the darkness, the small IKEA bedside table lamp barely giving off life.  He took a deep breath, recollecting himself and looking back to Mac. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”  Mac asks, everything Dennis was saying was all over the place and it left his head spinning.

“How did you know you were gay?”  Dennis’s voice is soft and unsure, like if he spoke to loudly he’d disrupt the still air that made its home in the two feet between them.

Put on the spot, Mac isn’t really sure how to put what he feels into words but decides to give it a shot anyways.  “It’s complicated, I guess. I don’t know, every relationship I’d had with a woman felt kind of empty, but I had no idea what I was missing and just thought that it was like that for everyone.  Eventually I kind of just realized that that just doesn’t make that much sense, like, why would everyone put so much effort into faking happiness all the time, you know? And I guess I just picked up on how much more attention I paid to dudes, like thinking about what they’d feel like and shit.  You can’t make a life out of what you think you’re supposed to do.” He decides to gloss over how much he wrestled with religion and morality over that time, it wasn’t something he felt like he needed to get into now, and it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about yet. At all.

Dennis nods absentmindedly, deep in thought and weighing what Mac had said.  The longer the silence stretches out, the heavier it feels. The tension is palpable and Mac feels like if he reached out he could grab it in his hands.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and Iー” He takes a deep breath.  “I think that I should try… doing stuff with a man.” His words are careful and painfully deliberate, almost like he was proposing some type of clinical study.  Like it was a hypothesis he needed tested, the scientific method was tried and true and he needed empirical evidence.

“That’s okay, man.  We can make you a Tinder profile or go to a bar tomorrow, or something, there’s one I’ve been going to in the east end recently, it’s not technically a gay bar but it’s one, like, unofficially.”  Mac is trying so hard to look and sound like he didn’t just get the wind knocked out of his lungs, life was throwing him a curveball tonight. His head was spinning and he was trying so hard to keep his cool, no matter how badly he wanted to reach out and grab Dennis by the throat and kiss him like he’s wanted to since he was 16.

“No, not with a stranger.  I think I need to kiss you.”  Dennis’s eye drilled holes into Mac’s skin.

“Oh, uh, okay.”  He might be legally brain dead.  Unsure of what to do or say, he just stares back absolutely stunned.

“Okay?  Then, can I?”  This is probably the most Dennis has asked for permission before making a move, not in a dubious way, more that everything is often just more nuanced.  Probably the most Mac had ever been asked. Now? Right fucking now?

“Yeah,” he manages to force out.

Dennis leans in, painfully slow, reaching up to place a hand lightly on his shoulder.  Mac places a hand on his jaw, gliding his thumb over Dennis’s cheekbone. He takes in the look on Dennis’s face, his eyes are wide and uncharacteristically innocent.  He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him head on sometimes, like he’s staring straight into the sun. Mac leans forward to meet Dennis somewhere in the middle, covering his mouth in a kiss so soft it should be illegal. It’s gentle and unsure, neither knowing how far they should take it.  Dennis tasted like every feeling he’d had for him in high school, everything that he’d pushed so far down inside himself hoping that they’d disappear. But that’s the thing about feelings, isn’t it? They’re messy and don’t like to be contained in tiny tupperware containers shoved to the back of your brain.  Like all the times he’d gotten off to Dennis’s videotapes and lied to himself that it was about the women in it and not because it was Dennis, but lying to yourself is tiring and Mac could only have kept it up for so long. Eventually everything started to boil over and he realized that maybe he’d get off to those because it was a dude in the videos, more specifically it was Dennis.

Mac pulls back, wanting to gauge Dennis’s reaction.  Suddenly feeling very naked when the cold air sweeps across his bare chest, wearing only a pair of plaid boxer shorts.  He doesn’t get far before slides an arm around his shoulders, pulling him firmly forward until they crash into each other again, Dennis runs a hand through Mac’s hair, pulling gently.  Like Dennis can’t seem to pull away, like he knew what it was like to breathe now and Mac was the only source of oxygen in the room. Mac moves his hands conservatively, unsure if there’s an invisible line in place, and trying very hard not to cross it.  He settles his free hand on Dennis’s waist, rubbing small circles into the worn fabric of his pullover sweater; it was an old one, the colours were faded and the sewn on appliques of Dennis’s university logo had frayed in its twenty year lifespan.

“Here, you canー”  Dennis breathes out, cutting himself off by lifting the hem of his pullover, encouraging Mac to touch his skin.  His skin is incredibly soft, Mac’s hands run up his waist and over his ribcage, loving the feeling of Dennis shivering under his touch.  One hand strays from Dennis’s waist, grabbing his ass through his sweatpants and pulling his hips forward making Dennis’s breath hitch.

Reluctantly, Dennis pulls back far enough to take off his sweater.  Mac runs his hand over Dennis’s flushed and heaving chest, his lips are wet and open, breathing hard.  Dennis leans forward, shifting so he’d straddling Mac’s lap, forcing him back against the wooden backboard.  They’re way closer now than before, chests pressed firmly together. When they kiss again it’s different than before, the new angle and position allowing it to be deeper and dirtier than ever.  Mac slides his tongue into Dennis’s mouth, gliding it across the back of his bottom teeth before biting into his bottom lip, pulling it towards himself. The sounds Dennis makes are things he would never let others know about outside of this one moment, it made them powerful, Mac would do anything to keep him making such beautiful noises.  He wasn’t loud or anything, but would softly gasp or sigh or moan in such a way that Mac could feel himself growing harder with every one.

Dennis rolled his hips, grinding down on Mac’s partially hard cock.  Mac groans at the new contact, muffled by Dennis’s mouth on his, he grabs at Dennis’s ass with both hands, pulling him impossibly closer as he chases that contact again.  After a second letting his hands dip below the waistline of Dennis’s sweatpants, feeling his warm bare skin.

“Can I?”  Dennis breathes out, still unsure of what’s okay, if either of them needed to tap out.  He slips a finger or two into Mac’s boxer shorts to hint to what he wants. “I want to get you off.”  He leans closer to Mac’s ear, his voice dropping half an octave and slowing, groping at Mac’s cock through the thin layer of cotton.

“ Fuck , yeah, God, yeah, go head.”  The words fall out jumbled as Mac loses more and more brain functions to the sensations.  He would let Dennis do anything to him right now.

They shift around slightly, allowing Mac to lift his hips enough for Dennis pull down his boxers, before kicking them to the floor somewhere.  Dennis resettles himself on Mac’s thighs, his weight holding him firmly in place. He places a hand on Mac’s throat, pausing for a moment to scan his face and Mac would kill to know what he was thinking.  

In that moment, Dennis was absolutely breathtaking, his pupils were blown and his lips were slightly parted and shiny with spit.  Mac doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful, every sunset, constellation, and forest fire there’s ever been rolled into one.  He didn’t want it to end, he never wanted to have to move his eyes from Dennis’s face.

Dennis drags his hand from Mac’s throat down his chest painfully slowly.  The anticipation is agonizing when his hand grazes down his abs. Mac’s breath hitches when Dennis’s hand wraps a hand around his steadily hardening cock.  Mac swears to God he saw a slight smile creep its way onto Dennis’s lips for a split second when he sees Mac start breathing heavier in reaction to his slow, steady pumps.  He spent so much of his life thinking about Dennis’s lips, mesmerized, he raises a hand to Dennis’s jaw. Dragging his thumb over his cheekbone, Mac gently tugs at his bottom lip, opening Dennis’s mouth slightly, Dennis presses a gentle kiss to the pad of Mac’s thumb.  So soft it should be illegal, he shouldn’t be allowed to do that while straddling his friend’s thighs and jerking him off. Mac’s other hand holds firmly in Dennis’s hair, pulling him forward into a nose-breakingly hard kiss, pulling his hair harder than strictly necessary in a way that has Dennis moaning softly and breathing harder.

“Fucking, God, Jesus,” Mac breathed in the small gaps between their kisses.

“That good?”  Dennis grins smugly, he already knew the answer.

“Yeah.”

Dennis pulls away, sitting back on his heels for a moment, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair.

“Heyーc’mon man,” Mac complains at the loss of touch.  Catching his breath, he leans back towards the headboard.

“Oh, shut up.”  He hadn’t resuming the previous speed of before, his hand was just ghosting over Mac, teasingly gentile.  Dennis brought his lips to the side of Mac’s neck leaving marks he knows will be there tomorrow, sucking hard on the sensitive skin there like he was a vampire.  The thought makes Mac laugh. “What? What are you laughing at?” Dennis’s voice is concerned, he stops stroking Mac completely, leaning back to scan his face.

“Nothing, it’s justーyou’re like a fucking vampire, dude,” Mac’s still giggling a little, rubbing a hand on the side of his neck, the skin’s sore and tender in the best way possible and still wet from Dennis’s spit.

Dennis glares at him, trying hard to keep that serious look before a grin breaks out on his face.  “What? No, I’m not.” His smile was vibrant even in the dark. “And don’t call me dude when my hand’s on your dick.”  His laugh broke the heavy tension in the room, like whatever was happening now was normal, just the next logical progression of whatever their relationship was before.  And maybe it was. Maybe the way they’d been before made this inevitable.

“Whatever, man,” Mac says, knowing saying that would probably annoy Dennis as much as ‘dude’.  Dennis pinches his thigh. “Hey!” He protests.

“Shut up, Jesus Christ, do you ever stop talking?”  Dennis never gives him a chance to respond, kissing him hard before Mac even had a chance to think of something snarky or sarcastic to say.  Usually he knew just what to say to push Dennis’s buttons but the feeling of his tongue in Mac’s mouth made him lose most brain function. And when Dennis starts pumping his cock again, occasionally sliding him thumb over the head, there goes any brain function he had left.  Familiar feelings well up inside him deep inside, the edge drawing near.

“Dennis, shit, Jesus, fuck,” Mac groans all in quick succession, trying to get Dennis’s attention and convey the message.  “I’m gonnaー” he says, cut off by a moan.

“That’s it, baby boy,” Dennis near whispers, their foreheads pressed together.  It was all so painfully happening. “That’s it, come for me.” That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

“God, Dennis,” Mac groans as he comes, spilling onto his stomach and Dennis’s hands.  He says both words in the same breath like they’re the same thing. Mac tries to catch his breath, reorient himself, their foreheads still pressed together, breathing in each other’s air.  Dennis stroked him for a moment or two longer, stopping before it really starts to hurt, and wiping his hand onto a towel strewn onto a chair near Mac’s bed.

He brings the towel to Mac’s abdomen, looking up to his face, seemingly for permission.  All Mac’s limited brain function can think to do is nod. Dennis wipes off his come softly and more carefully than Mac thought he was capable off.  For some reason this felt more intimate than when Dennis was jerking him off, or when his tongue was halfway down Dennis’s throat.

When the ash seems to have settled, Mac takes note of how hard Dennis still is, and what kind of best friend would he be to leave him like that?  Really, it was only fair to do something to take care of it.

He settles himself on the floor, directly between Dennis’s thighs, pulling off his sweatpants.  Dennis’s eyes were dark, carding a hand through Mac’s hair, gently encouraging him forward. Tentatively stroking Dennis’s cock a few, trying to refrain himself from licking his lips. His mouth was fucking watering thinking about putting Dennis’s dick in his mouth, about how long he’s thought of this, how long he’s wanted this.

Mac takes it in his mouth, slowly inching his way down to meet his fist at the base, trying hard not to choke.  Dennis’s hand in his hair pulls tighter, pulling Mac further onto his cock until he chokes.

“Shit, shit, sorry,” Dennis says when Mac pulls off, coughing a little.

“Hey, it’s fine, bro,” Mac tries to reassure him, wiping spit off his chin and stroking Dennis’s thigh.

“Don’t callー”

“Don’t call you bro with your dick in my mouth?”  Mac cuts him off, taking Dennis back in his mouth before he can reply.  It was satisfying to have the final word for once.

It wasn’t long before Dennis’s hands were tight in his hair again, and he was moaning his name like it was some kind of prayer.  Probably the first time Dennis had prayed in his life. Mac puts all his effort into doing it right, trying to make it the best blow job he’d given in his fucking life.  It wasn’t the longest one he’d given, Dennis seemed to be close already. His jaw was starting to ache but he could never stop, everything he’d wanted since high school seemed to be coming to fruition, he probably would keep going if he got stabbed.

Dennis came with a groan, covering the bottom half of Mac’s face.  Dennis takes a few deep breaths before starting to laugh almost, a smile wide on his lips.

“What?”  Mac questions.

Dennis grabs Mac by his sore jaw, harder than necessary probably.  “You look good like that.” He swipes his thumb across Mac’s cheek.

“Shut up.”  Mac’s faces goes red, wiping it off with the towel used previously before letting it fall to the floor somewhere.

His knees click when he stands up, feeling ten years older instantly.  Dennis is laying half on his bed, legs still splayed over the side. Mac sits on the edge beside him, falling back to mirror his position.

“So, did you get the answer you were looking for?”  His voice sounded raw.

“Yeah,” Dennis answers after a beat.  Mac feels like that’s an answer enough and knows that it’s not his place to pry and doesn’t expect Dennis to say anything else.  “I’m gay.”

Mac nods, they stare at the ceiling in silence before slowly migrating into bed, pulling back on boxers and sweatpants like it’s no different from other times they’d shared a bed.  It was just like the other times, really, except Dennis kissed him again before settling his head on Mac’s chest and an arm around his waist.

The morning came quickly, or more like 10:30am came quickly.  When Mac woke up, one of his arms was around Dennis’s waist and they were impossibly close.

The gravity of what happened really set in, last night he knew in the back of his brain there was always the slight possibility that it was some insanely detailed sex dream no matter how much more real it had felt in the moment.

Dennis stirred, taking a deep breath, and opening his eyes.  “Hey,” he says, voice rough and sleepy.

“Hey,” Mac answers pulling him closer.

The morning seems to follow the routine of their lives before Dennis had left.  When they finally get out of bed an eternity later, Dennis goes to shower and Mac makes a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.

It’s also so painfully regular, like nothing had changed at all in the past few months.  Like Dennis had never left.

When he gets out of the shower, Dennis walks into the kitchen in his old university sweater from the night before and boxers.  Mac pours him a cup of coffee, leaving it black like he likes it, that goddamn sociopath.

Everything was normal, except when Dennis took the cup of coffee, he gave him a quick kiss as a thank you.  That wasn’t normal yet, per se, but Mac could definitely get used to it.

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[oppressiveliberator]

Topic Meme: His mental state (I’m curious, seeing as he thought my very-real muse was a hallucination)

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Ghetsis is well into his 60′s approximately--which honestly, according to my father’s nurses and such, wasn’t that old.  Nonetheless, the guy’s had two severe psychological breakdowns resulting in stress-induced strokes.  A stroke cuts off the oxygen to parts of your brain and when that part eventually suffocates or is otherwise heavily damaged from lack of oxygen, I’m sure you can imagine what that’ll do to somebody’s body let alone someone’s brain.

On top of that, there’s the dementia.  That’s why he perceived Brett as a hallucination at first--Brett was out of place in an otherwise normal setting, a child he didn’t recognize in his hiding place.  Normally the Shadow Triad prevent any intruders or threats from getting anywhere near the hideaway, assuming one even stumbles into the magic slip space that puts you on the same plane of existence as it in the first place.  So.  Strange child where a strange child would, logically, not be?  Probably a hallucination.

(A lot of rambling under the cut, talk of mental illness, physical illness, disability, real life parental death. . .just a lot of stuff, probably a lot of nonsense, some of it a mite personal as a former caretaker. I’d’ve put icons in to space things out but.  I’m kinda tired after writing all of this lmao also I have to fast for a thing tomorrow so I’m just gonna. Head off once I post this and gets oem rest.TL;DR: google ‘symptoms of dementia’ and ‘effects of stroke’ and you’ll get a good idea of Ghetsis’s mental state at any given point in time.)

At least a small child is the least of his hallucinations.  He has them now and then, or otherwise misperceives reality or misspeaks about his perceptions, and they can vary from little things to big things.  They’re usually nothing major--something is there that isn’t or he hears sounds that aren’t real.  Sometimes he sees people or his mind misproccesses one person or thing as another(sometimes he refers to the Shadow Triad as N, Anthea, and Concordia for example) and he just kinda rolls with it sometimes.

Other times he tries to ignore it until it goes away or tries to ‘fix it’ one way or another. Major things are more along the lines of that he’s displaced from where he actually is, is floating, his environment is drastically changing--stuff that majorly impacts his ability to proceed.  But it’s usually like.  Galvantula crawling on him or voices and things like that.  Stuff that you might notice him responding to, but that can be dismissed or that he shrugs off.

If he hallucinates something detailed and realizes it(because, y’know, it doesn’t make sense, for example,) he usually just rolls with it until it ends--his mind doesn’t take well to being ignored or dismissed and can ratchet up the awful if it isn’t acknowledged, hence why he decided ‘well, there’s a hallucination child here, i’d better just acknowledge him’ lol.

In general, Ghetsis’s memory is not good.  Oftentimes it’s inconsistent--sometimes he remembers some things but not others, sometimes he remembers everything, sometimes he doesn’t even know who he is.  Now and then he’ll remember things in one state of mind, forget them in another, and if he goes back to the previous state of mind or a different one, he has no problem remembering the previous thing.  But he has no control over this.  While he mostly remembers more recent years events, he might struggle with some before them--or he might randomly drop one memory or process or another.

Sometimes these memory lapses result in things like not remembering what year it is and as such not knowing how old he is.  He may interpret himself as being younger because his mind just. . .receded back to that point in his understanding.  If you ask him where he is, he might say he’s at the Harmonia Estate even though that’s completely off base.  He’ll give you a radically incorrect number if asked for his age.  He’ll say he has no children.  He won’t remember what Team Plasma is.

Sometimes his mind reconciles things like his height in relation to other people and things and he doesn’t question them at all.  For example, he could see N and his mind says ‘that’s Natural. That’s your son.’ but rather than ‘he’s in his early 20′s. he’s the hero of ideals. he betrayed you. he abandoned you. you hate him. you miss him. you wish you had your son back’ his process says ‘he’s seven years old. he’s just learning to read. he learned to do a cartwheel yesterday. he’s having a hard time with the studies Gorm is going through with him, but for now he’s okay with the others. He falls down everytime he gets on his skateboard but he always laughs and gets back on it’ and he’ll treat N as though he’s a child.  He’ll acknowledge that N is getting big or getting heavy if he has to acknowledge his appearance, but his mind’ll just kinda.  Make that make sense to him.

There’s not really any way to snap him out of this--sometimes he can be led back to a proper psychological state, other times you’ve just gotta wait it out.  Ideally, let him sleep and he’ll be better when he wakes up.

There are days where he’s in clearly awful condition.  Sometimes he can’t talk or acknowledge anything, just completely unresponsive.  Other times it seems like nothing was ever wrong with his mind in the first place.

As you can imagine, that’s mostly just processing things. . .his already horrifically inconsistent personality that he changes to befit the situation and person he’s speaking to is now even more inconsistent and he’s got little to no control over it.  Oftentimes he’ll be himself to some degree.  Other times he might be horrifically depressed or lost and reclusive or sorry and miserable. . .sometimes he’ll be emotional and wild--and he’ll lash out aggressively if anybody tries to help him, even if he clearly needs it.  He might not remember his interests or his relationships with people or be able to focus. . .he’s all over the place, although I’m still kinda tentative about portraying it.

A lot of it is inspired by my dad and his condition when he was alive and I was taking care of him. So while sometimes I may laugh at it sometimes or occasionally use it for comedic effect, honestly part of me does want to portray a lot of these struggles he has realistically--but I’m also a very ‘laugh at everything because what else are you gonna do be miserable all the time?’ type of person(or i try to be--I find it important to see the comedy in everything because honestly life is ridiculous and there’s no reason not to laugh at it or enjoy it as long as you also accept the severity of it) and I worry I’d portray something too comically or be interpreted as making a joke even when I’m not.

. . .But, yeah, Ghetsis’s brain is fucked up basically.  Look up what happens to stroke or seizure patients and the effects of dementia and you’ll get a decent grasp of what it’s like to be my Ghetsis in the present day.

Despite it all, he’s still Ghetsis. . .but between age and arrogance and madness, he’s lost a lot of his ability to give a fuck and he just.  Does whatever he wants within his ability. Boundaries? Filters?  Often completely absent.  So sometimes he’s Ghetsis--master manipulator, King in personality and intentions, regal and serious and calm and strategic and careful and classy and elegant and deceptive--and sometimes he’s Ghetsis--Professional Fuck-Upper of Shit who constantly has Break My Stride by Matthew Wilder playing in his own head who just does whatever and exists to piss people off and have fun.  But the thing is?  Ghetsis has always been somebody even his closest people couldn’t tell the personality of.  What he’s like, who he is, it escaped even the sages.  It escaped everybody that this man was evil for literal years.

So in a weird way, he’s exactly the same. . .just a little more extreme and spiteful. Normally he’s a liar because it helps him fit smoothly into society without suspicion, but now sometimes he’s brutally honest and you realize how disturbed he is, how fucked what happens in his head is.

. . . . . .And yet.  He’s bounced back from so many things before.  He’s been a radically confusing and difficult and inconsistent person before.

Sometimes you can’t help but think ‘this is a trick too.’ 

Either way. . .he’s a mess.  You’ll almost always still be able to see that he’s Ghetsis in his thoughts and actions and words, but sometimes he’s. . .different. Sometimes that’s just Extra Ghetsis, and sometimes you see what’s beneath the Narcissism and he cries and apologizes and struggles and lets himself be helped and asks for help and says he just wanted to help let him help how can he help he doesn’t want to be useless he doesn’t want to be broken let him prove he exists and functions even if it’s just to himself.  Better yet, let him die. He can’t live like this anymore. He’s not living. He hasn’t been living for years, he’s a broken, worthless entity and he just doesn’t want to be anymore. Those’re still rare sides of him to see--you’re more likely to get completely unresponsive, mute, dissociative, confused old man type Ghetsis than self-loathing Ghetsis who regrets his actions and who he is and has been and what he’s done.

But yeah.  Ghetsis’s mental state is.  Not great! It’s much worse than he lets on most of the time! His physical state is pretty poor, too, although that varies too.  Some days he can walk without assistance, some days he needs his cane, a walker, a wheelchair, some days he’s bedbound completely and if he tries to use his leg(s) he’ll just wind up falling down.  Sometimes he can speak with little to no problem, sometimes he can’t do anything but mutter nonsensically, sometimes he can’t even make sounds.  He’s just. . .not well.  But somehow he’s still recovering.  One could suppose it’s simply because he’s Ghetsis and he’s always been a little. . .powerful. Ethereal. Magical. Special. A cut above the rest.

Like my dad, he’s been told or had his caretakers told many, many times he probably wouldn’t make it more than a few years, months, weeks, he’d be lucky if he lived through the night.

But Yveltal be damned, he’s still here.

And he’s gonna be here for a while, I imagine.

If he gets his way, he’ll be here forever.

[max-is-tired]

Run Boy Run (This World Is Not Made For You) 1/2

Pairing: None here, platonic Logince in the next chapter.

Word Count: 2.012

Trigger warnings: Implied character death, nothing else that I can think of??

Notes: Here is the second part of my Atlantis AU, in which Logan is nothing like the original Milo Tatch and the museum's board of directors barely avoids getting murdered by an angry researcher, probably. (Also, I hurt myself writing the first part of this chapter. You're welcome.)

Read it On AO3!   Previous Part   Next part

“Dad?”

Startled, William looks up from his desk, eyes rimmed red with fatigue behind his glasses. He’s been working almost nonstop since morning, analyzing and translating photos of mysterious artefacts and old manuscripts over and over again. But the only thing he seems to have gotten out of it are a sore back and a mess of papers and documents that’ll be a pain in the arse to put back in order.

William immediately spots his son, his head peeking from behind the studio’s door. Smiling, he motions him closer, stretching his arms out to try and remove some of the muscle pain. Silently, Logan enters the room and shuts the door, before padding across the thick carpet covering the floor to his father’s side.

“Hey Lo,” his father murmurs, picking him up and gently placing him on his lap, “what’re you doing still up? I thought you had gone to bed a while ago.”

Still silent, Logan quietly scoots closer to his father’s chest, holding his teddy bear –Mr Crofters, a gift from his mother before she passed away- in his arms. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles sleepily, barely biting back a yawn, “felt lonely.”

William sighs, leaning back into his chair. “Sorry kid,” he apologizes, idly combing a hand though his son’s hair, “I lost track of time. Papa’s got a lot of work to do.”

“It’s late though. Papa needs to sleep.” Logan protests, yawning. “You can do work tomorrow.”

“Just five more minutes.” Tries his father, thinking about all the material he still has to study and that old Norwegian shield with those strange inscription that might just be the final piece he needs to complete the puzzle –he’s so close, William knows it. He can’t stop now, not after all the sacrifices and closed doors he has had to endure in his life. He’ll show them, shove the proof right onto their faces if he needs to, he’ll prove that he had been right all along even if it kills him-

Logan grabs onto his arm, shaking his head. “That’s five minutes too long!” he complains, his face scrunched up into that stubborn pout that reminds William so much of Sherry- Logan’s mother, his partner, the one that had believed in him even when everybody else had decided to turn their back on him. “Sleep is important, you taught me that.”

Sighing, William throws one last, longing look at his papers, scattered messily on his desk. He knows his son and he’s aware that, at this point, the kid won’t give up until they’re both in bed, sleeping.

“Alright, alright you little rascal.” He finally concedes, shaking his head with a defeated smile on his face, “I swear you act so much like your mother it scares me sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

Picking him up, William chuckles. “She had to barge into my studio almost every night, because I never paid attention to how late it was,” he explains, ruffling his son’s hair, “and if I tried to protest, she would literally pester me or even start dragging me out by force until I caved and agreed to go to sleep.”

“Really?!” Logan giggles, sleepiness momentarily forgotten, “can you tell me more about her?” he asks, almost tentatively.

William smiles, kissing his son’s head. “Of course, kiddo.” He murmurs, closing the studio’s door behind them.

(Later, when Logan is finally asleep in his bed with Mr Crofters firmly clutched in his hold, William finds himself staring at his son with a melancholic smile on his face. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gingerly picks up an old frame from the nightstand. From the photo, his wife smiles at him, as beautiful as he remembers her to be.

“I’ll prove them all wrong, Sherry,” he promises, “just you wait.”)

“-and that is why I firmly believe it is our duty as men of science to do everything in our power to retrieve the Shepherd’s Journal and, finally, uncover the secret behind the myth of Atlantis and his mysterious power source.”

Silence falls, and Logan finally lets out a breath he hasn’t even realized he’s been holding. His stance relaxes, his shoulder slumping slightly, and he nods to himself. With a speech like this, only a fool would refuse his proposal.

Sadly, he’s very much aware of just how many fools are part of the museum’s board of directors.

Logan sighs, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it from those foolish thoughts –it doesn’t work, not completely, but he decides to ignore it. He has a presentation to give, an expedition to organize and a long lost civilisation to –hopefully- bring back to the light of day for everyone to see.

This time, Logan knows he’ll be able to convince the board. They asked for proof, for something that could really justify an expedition tasked with finding a place, until now, named only in legends and fairy tales. And he got it, the result of long nights spent researching facts, traducing old texts, and consulting his father’s notes and discoveries for new, interesting leads.

The only missing piece is the Shepherd’s Journal, buried somewhere on the southern coast of Iceland –not Ireland, as a very superficial translation had formerly stated. He often wonders how utterly stupid whoever originally deciphered it had had to be, to be able to confuse two letters so different like that.

However, that won’t be a problem for long. Once they finally manage to retrieve the Journal, it will be only a matter of time until they find Atlantis for good.

The phone suddenly rings, abruptly snapping Logan out of his thoughts. Groaning, he leans over the blackboard to grab the receiver, trying –and failing- to not get chalk on his shirt. “Cartography and Linguistics, Logan Sanders speaking. How may I be of help?”

On the other side of the line, an angry voice starts ranting –in a very crude and unnecessary manner, Logan notes while barely holding back an irritated sigh- about the absence of warm water and properly-working heating.

“Please remain in line for a few moments.” He answers, voice carefully neutral. Silently, Logan walks towards the boiler on the other side of the room and quickly turns a few valves, before hitting it with a nearby spanner.

“Is this more adequate?” he asks, grabbing the receiver once again. Logan listens quietly as whoever called yells at him some more, biting back a few choice words he would really like to share with them –he can’t get himself thrown out of the museum, not now that he’s so close to reaching his goal.

When they finally hang up, Logan puts back the receiver, barely containing his irritation. He’s a linguist, a researcher, probably one of the most intelligent and resourceful men this museum has to offer –and he’s not saying it out of vanity or narcissism. It’s a fact, a certainty, something as obvious as the colour of the sky or the presence of oxygen in the atmosphere.

He should not be stuck in a little office –if it could even be called one- in the basement of the museum, forced to spend all day answering angry calls about the absence of warm water in the rest of the building and taking care of an old and battered boiler. He deserves to do more, he wants to do more.

Hopefully, today he’ll finally be able to get out of there for good. One way or another.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Logan starts picking up all the papers and documents piled up on his desk, mentally listing off what he needs as he goes. Once he’s sure he has everything necessary for his presentation –he checks everything twice, just to be sure- he nods, takes a steadying breath and turns around, ready to climb the stairs that will take him out of the basement.

However, before he can get out his eyes land on an old frame on his desk, his parents smiling widely at him from the photo. Logan’s gaze softens, and he finds himself picking up the frame with a little, sad smile on his face.

“Mom, dad,” he murmurs, bittersweet melancholy swimming in his voice, “I’ll make it this time, just you wait.”

Suddenly, a strange “whoosh” sound attracts his attention, his gaze snapping to the pneumatic tube in the corner. Logan grabs the capsule, a little irritated at whoever thought it was a good idea to send him a communication now that he has a presentation to give. Then, he reads the notice, and his blood immediately runs cold.

Dear Mr Sanders, this is to inform you that your meeting today has been moved up form 4:30 pm to 3:30 pm.

“What?”

He has barely managed to read the first notice, that another “whoosh” echoes in the otherwise silent basement. Logan is starting to have some idea of where this whole thing is going, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Slowly, he picks up the second capsule, hoping against hope to be wrong. But apparently, he’s not so lucky.

Dear Mr Sanders, due to your absence the board has voted to reject your proposal. Have a nice weekend, Mr Harcourt’s office.

Logan stares at the notice, eyes wide in disbelief. Then, surprise is replaced by anger, boiling in his veins like liquid fire.

“This is enough!”

“Mr Harcourt!” Logan calls, marching down the halls of the museum. The few people in the area are quick to step aside and let him pass, intimidated by the downright murderous expression on the young man’s face.

On the other side of the hall, Mr Harcourt visibly startles, eyes wide in surprise –it’s obvious he and the other members of the board thought they could get out of the museum before Logan could find any of them. He quickly pulls himself out of his shock tough, and doesn’t waste any time in bolting down the corridor towards the exit.

But Logan is a man on a mission, and he quickly reaches the man at the entrance of the museum, where a carriage is waiting for him –the fact that Mr Harcourt is actually quite short, and his quick pace is nothing compared to Logan’s long and rage-driven strides, helps quite a lot.

“Mr Harcourt!” Logan repeats, grabbing the door of the carriage to stop him from closing it, “I demand an explanation!”

Mr Harcourt sighs, clearly irritated. “Look Mr Sanders, this museum funds scientific expeditions based on facts, not legends and folklore.”

“Atlantis is not a legend!” Logan bristles, barely containing himself from grabbing the collar of the other man’s coat, “There is more than enough evidence to prove it! and if you would just listen to me-”

“Enough!” Mr Harcourt suddenly exclaims, interrupting Logan’s rant, “You have a lot of potential, Logan. Don’t throw it all away chasing fairy tales like your father did.”

At that Logan freezes, body completely still. Then, he suddenly relaxes, and when he looks at the other man once again his expression is unreadable, completely devoid of any emotion.

“If this is really what you think, then I won’t waste anymore of your time.” He says, reaching into his pocket and slapping an envelope on Mr Harcourt’s face.

“W-What is this?!” the man stammers.

“My letter of resignation.” Logan explains, voice neutral. “Since it appears none of you idiots have enough common sense to listen to a proposal sustained by facts and a meticulous research, there is no reason for me to stay here and continue to be your little slave down in the basement. If you won’t fund this expedition, I will find another way to retrieve the Journal.”

“You can’t be serious! You’ll flush your career down the toilet!” argues Mr Harcourt, clearly outraged. But Logan ignores him, slamming the carriage’s door shut.

“We’ll see who’ll have the last laugh, Mr Harcourt.” He replies, before turning around and leaving the museum once and for all.

He’ll find another way to get to Atlantis, come hell or high water.

Taglist: @keithkhoegane @ekkye @teacupfulofstarshine @tis-i-squid @i-really-dig-the-purple @shippernaturalsanderspjoandscifi @certifiedfangirlluna @rememberfateau-nowoffical @crownswriter123 @egg-achechris @noodlesforlife13

[ciderapples]

This night is different; This night is special

Stranger Things 2 finale fill (mild spoilers)

*

Hopper picks El up and thinks she feels lighter.

No, he knows it. She’s lighter. Even as limp, dead weight, she’s too easy to lift over his shoulder. Wherever she was, they weren’t feeding her.

Well, she’s got boxes of Eggos coming to her, now. Boxes and boxes.

Miraculously, the elevator still works. Hopper tries not to look down, or around, or anywhere, as the thing ascends toward the lab. He’s never been good with heights, and probably not any better now, thanks to this. The metal platform bangs and starts under his feet but he manages to maintain his balance while El’s little bird-leg fingers curl up in the hair at the back of his neck, cold as ice. He shivers, but it’s just another layer of shivering on top of the adrenaline shakes.

Does it wreck his credibility, when he tells her it’s okay, if he’s shaking like a massage chair?

“It’s okay,” he says anyway. He snuffles it into her Aqua-Gelled hair and she makes a really human sound: a kid sound. A very old memory flashes through him like radiation, leaving behind an electric residue that he’s used to by now (but hates just the same). He gives El a squeeze because he needs to feel the pressure, himself — pressure he doesn’t know how badly he needs, just to feel connected to something besides the black and gore — and she wakes out of her dead hang for a moment to curl every limb around him, clutching drowningly with her head tucked under the ruff of his coat. It makes her even easier to carry.

He shakes his head. So many Eggos. 

When the elevator clanks to a stop, he carries El over the bodies of dead demogorgon babies with a very weird stab of regret. They were kids, too. Somebody’s murderous, open-face kids who wanted to eat guts, but still. He gets to carry his baby out, and—

His arms jerk hard around El’s ribs and he goes instantly cold.

In another half-second he’s made himself relax but she’s already made a squishy little sound in protest to the sudden crushing.

“Sorry, kid,” he gruffs.

His baby? No. He’ll never, never think that word about her again. He can’t. But suddenly it’s all he can think. His baby, his baby.

Her smallness, her lightness, her full-bodied adhesion to his pudgy, useless body rips the old memories up out of him and he wants to mash his face down against hers and cry like she’s not old enough to judge him for it: like she’s six years old and he just got her back from the grave. But he fights it. He cries silently, invisibly, like a man, with no sign of El catching on as he shoulders out the front doors and heads for his car.

It doesn’t take much effort to get her deposited in the front seat and buckled in.

He can’t look her in the eye; not just yet. He’s not stable.

“Be right there,” he manages to say, as he slams the car door on her face, turns his back on the car and takes a few fast steps toward the rear. He can’t trust that she won’t hear, so he opens his mouth as wide as it goes, soundless, quieter than the tears dropping onto the asphalt, and cries. Bent half over, he braces on the taillights and worries for a second that he’s not going to be able to get a breathe: the muscles that squeeze his ribs clench relentlessly, and whatever sits over his stomach is tied in painful knots. His knees feel unsteady enough to worry about. He won’t be able to run them anywhere else, if there’s unfinished business left out there. Just the thought of it makes him put a hand back to feel his gun. As his fingers tremble over the grip, something grabs them and he almost screams.

El doesn’t say anything, as usual, even though Hopper’s vertical jump gets him about three feet in the air. He turns midway and lands with a gasp that’s half furious, half embarrassed, and mostly relieved that it’s just her and not something with sharper teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, gulping back oxygen. “That has to stop. No more of that.” He dops his hat, dops his head, dops the entire bridge of his shoulders and scrubs his hands through his hair before jamming the hat back in place and straightening up.

El just looks up at him, empty. The blood is still all over her face. She has cheekbones, now, and somehow he’d never noticed, but she still seems no older than the day he met her.

His baby.

Aw, shit.

He kneels.

She steps toward him, then toward him again. Suddenly her hands are on his face, poking awkwardly at the edges of his eyes where everything’s wet.

“Why?” she says.

He keeps eye contact because he has to, but there’s no way to stop his eyes from welling up again. Why bother now?

“Because I love you, kid,” he says. He starts to say something else to soften it, but then — doesn’t.

El pauses, her face hollow and blue in the dark. “Love?” she echoes, in her way.

“Yeah,” he sniffs. “That’s your word of the day. Don’t you know that one yet? I saw the way you looked at that ki-”

All the little bones inside El’s tiny jeans, her kid-size grownup jacket, they all launch at Hopper at once, so hard he exhales audibly on contact. The surprise of it doesn’t wear off until he feels her cold hands icing through his flannel, and then he folds himself around her as best he can. Between his bearlike arms and the tent flatps of his XXL coat, it works pretty well.

*

They roll into Joyce’s driveway, and the minute Hopper turns off the car is the minute he remembers he doesn’t live here.

El is looking at him with a quiet confusion.

“Just, uh, here to check on a few things,” he says. “Then, home.”

For some reason, this puts a smile on her face, but then it fades. “Mike?” she asks. Hopper puts both hands on the steering wheel and blows out a steely breath. Her face falls.

“Yeah,” he says. “We should make sure everyone’s okay.” He unbuckles himself. Then her. She beams. “Come on,” he says, “let’s go.”

*

Hopper’s not going home. He knew it the moment he had to ask himself why he’d driven to the Byers’ house.

When he walks in, the place is empty. He’s beaten the rest of them here.

For a long minute, he stands in the middle of Joyce’s living room, feeling the ugly creepiness of Will’s crayon scrawls sucking the sense of triumph right out of him, and then Eleven comes and stands beside him. She stares over the walls, the ceilings, and his face. Then she walks up and slaps her hand flat against a vee in the maze, ripping pages off the wall in her fist. She looks back at him for approval, but knows she’s going to get it: she’s already smiling.

He joins in. He works high, she works low, and the living room is totally clear by the time the first car roars back into the driveway. Hopper moves to the hall, then Will’s bedroom, as the kids pile in the door. The short ones reunite with happy boy-screams and peals of victorious laughter and someone is yelling something about leveling up. The Harrington kid comes wandering down into the hall toward him, looking shocked and a little worse for wear.

Okay, a lot worse.

They look each other over, and let it pass with some manly nodding, and the both of them tear into the papers on the wall.

*

Joyce Byers and family are the last ones to walk through their own front door, and when they do, the map is almost completely gone. They’ll find stray sheets for the next few days — up over the fridge, or behind a door, or fallen into a cabinet through the cracks — but right now it seems pure as holy water.

Joyce stares at him, stunned, but grateful. He does his best ‘just-doing-my-job’ face and it seems to put her at ease.

She goes right to the kitchen and starts pulling down food: junk food, good food, any food she has. Even with his wits frayed, Hopper observes that there isn’t a lot, but he grabs the bag of Jax and acts greedy.

The kids are like wolves. They eat, they howl, they run and jump and pounce in the front rooms and eventually Hopper is forced deeper into the house by the sheer energy of it. He goes down the hall and swings a right into what seems like a dark, empty room.

It’s dark, all right.

“Hey,” Joyce says, quietly. “I’m…in here. Didn’t want to scare you.”

He puts a hand up and starts to back out, but that’s not what she wants.

“You don’t have to, um, go,” she says. Her face is slightly less wild than usual, probably from the total and complete exhaustion, and she sits on the bed in a slumpen ball.

“Okay,” he says. He hugs the door frame and stays where he is.

She’s smoking. She takes such a long drag he doesn’t know that he could compete.

“You okay?” he asks. “Not- I mean, given the circumstances. How’re you holding up?”

She looks up at him incredulously, with big pale moon eyes. Somehow it’s hilarious.

“Yeah,” he says. “I hear that.” He wanders in, suddenly freed to do so, and reaches for her cigarette to share.

*

This night is different and special.

This night will not be examined later for things that are wrong or different or strange, aside from the things that happened before they arrived here, back home again.

This is why, when the cigarettes have all been smoked, Hopper pulls back the blankets in Joyce’s bed and puts her in it, and why she pulls his arm down with her. He keeps everything on but his jacket, gun and hat. The buttons and trim on the rest of him don’t seem to hurt her when she presses back against them.

Joyce’s shape is bigger than Eleven’s, which Hopper feels nestle up against his back in the middle of the night. She’s followed by the boys, then even Max, who drag their sleeping bags in and lay them like the walls of a fortress around Joyce’s bed.

Hopper’s body jolts awake when Eleven crawls into bed, making a tiny cat-size dent in the mattress. The rustling of Max and the boys wakes Joyce quickly enough, but he snugs her up so the panic doesn’t get its claws in, and it doesn’t take long before her breathing evens out again.

If she’s worried about what the boys will think of them, she doesn’t voice it.

This night is different.

El settles into a comfy spot where she can poach as much of his body heat as she requires, and Hopper puts a hand back to pat her reassuringly on some unidentified part of her body, swaddled in blankets. When her hand wiggles around his waist he almost breaks his face smiling.

Joyce falls asleep before the boys quit whispering. Hopper can tell by the slow of her breath, and the little twitches of her body, like she’s still fighting somewhere. He’s sure she is. He’s sure she will be, for a while. But he’ll be here. They’ll all be here.

He kisses her head, through her still-wild hair.

“Night,” he whispers, and is out like a light.