#prompt: minor characters

[strangersteddierthings]

What's Eight Plus Seven?

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five

Prompt from @devious-kitten

Steve had a mild interest in DnD as a freshmen because of a cousin or something. The interest was killed by Eddie being mean since Steve is a jock. Post vecna Eddie finds dust covered DnD handbook Steve explains and Eddie faces a still hurt Steve as a results of his biases

((Half written fic, half rambling about how it would go down. Apologies for the formatting. Also I added more angst than the prompt called for hehe))

Steve has always loved sports. This is a well-known fact. He's played on some sort of sports team from the time he was old enough for his parents to be able to sign him up.

A lesser-known fact is that Steve loves fantasy. Or, at least, he used to. On the playground in elementary school, Steve could often be found playing knights and dragons, and it was anyone's guess if he would be a knight or a dragon on any particular day.

The summer between middle and high school, Steve spent with his grandparents from his mother's side, on the farm they'd retired on in Michigan. A month long stay that he'd shared with his cousins, Amber, Robert, and Christopher. Amber and Robert are twins, four years younger than Steve, and Christopher was two years older and infinitely cooler than anyone else Steve knew.

Christopher was on the varsity basketball team at his high school when he was just a sophomore, captain of the JV football team, president of the chess club, and in a games club.

Christopher was everything Steve wanted to be now that he was going to be in high school. Minus the chess club because

It was during that summer, Steve got to indulge in playing make believe for another summer with his younger cousins, without the judgement of people (his father and peers) who thought he was too old for such things. He also got to learn about make believe for older kids, because Christopher played a game called Dungeons and Dragons with his game club the last month of school before summer break and spent many evenings going over what had happened with Steve as a captive audience.

"I wish I'd brought the books," Christopher had whispered to him one night from the bed, peaking over to look down at Steve in his sleeping bag on the floor, "we could have played."

Steve wishes he'd brought the books, too.

At the end of July, Christopher, Amber, and Robert's parents show up to pick them up, five days before Steve's scheduled flight to Indianapolis. It's a sad goodbye because one summer a year isn't enough with his cousins but they live in Washington. Steve's always jealous their parents drive all the way to pick them up, but a little proud he gets to brag about how he's flown alone since he was seven. No one else in his class can brag about that.

His mom picks him up in Indianapolis and they go back to school shopping while there.

A week later, Steve receives a package from Christopher. Inside Steve finds Advanced Dungeons and Dragons books, three of them, and even though Christopher said nothing about advanced, he's sure he can manage. On the inside cover of the players handbook, Christopher has written:

Hey Steve, I think you'd rock playing a dwarf paladin. Let's play next summer? Christopher 1981

He spends the last three weeks of summer vacation reading the player handbook cover to cover and making a character. It's slow going, because letters don't stay where they're supposed to be on the page (that's a problem he's had his whole life, so he's not surprised but he is determined), and he's never been good at math, so getting the stats down on paper isn't easy. He can't decide what he wants to play, so he makes two characters; an elf magic-user and, of course, a dwarf paladin.

(He's a little disappointed you can't be a dragon.)

Steve's never been one to dread the first day of school, but he's never actually looked forward to it, either. It's just been another day.

Until today.

Today is his first day as a high schooler. And the only people who go to the first day are Freshman, except the upper classman that have volunteered to man the booths for school activities for the last hour of the day. It's supposed to help the Freshman get the lay of the land without being overwhelming and Steve's excited for it. He needs to see if Hawkins High has a games club like Christopher's school does.

Here Steve is, that last hour of school. He's already been to the basketball booth, promising to sign up as soon as the season started, and the swim booth because he's got a pool at his house and has been swimming for as long as he can remember and knows he enjoys it. He also stops by the football booth even though he's never played, or cared much, for it. (Maybe he's trying to emulate Christopher, sue him.). So, the final thing is to see if Hawkins High offers a chess club and a game club.

Steve is delighted to see that, though there is no games club, there is a Dungeons and Dragons club! That delight wavers because of the kid manning the booth. His hair is curly and falls just below his ears, with big brown eyes. Steve hates to think it, but he'd be cute if he didn't look like he wanted to stab Steve.

"Yeah, no, keep walking," says the boy, pulling the flier with meeting information on it out from under Steve's hand, where he'd been attempting to read it.

Steve looks up, brows furrowed in confusion. "I was reading that."

"And I said no. Jocks don't play Dungeons and Dragons."

"I could," Steve says, offended. He squints at the name tag sticker slapped diagonally across the way too big jean vest this guy's wearing. E-d-d-i-e. Eddie.

"Have you ever played?"

"Well... no, but-"

"No buts. Mitch let a jock join last year and that was a nightmare. He could barely read the rule book. And with how you were squinting down at the flier, and then my name tag, you're not going to be much better."

Jokes on Eddie, Steve's already read the rule book. Even if it was slowly. "I can read just fine."

"Can you math, then? What's eight plus seven?"

"What?"

"Simple addition. Eight plus seven. What is it?"

Steve knows simple addition. This is fine. It doesn't matter than he's been put on the spot, and that math is hard for the same reason as reading. He can do this. His hand twitches with wanting to pull it up and use it to keep track. He's faster at math when he can do that, but this jerk is mean mugging him and he just knows if he moves his hand, this guy will mock him the rest of the school year.

Eight plus seven. Ok. Make it easier, get to ten. It takes adding two to the eight to get ten. Ok. Take that two away from the seven now. That makes... five! Ok. Ten plus five is-

"Dude, it's fifteen," Eddie snaps.

"I knew that!"

Scoff. "Right. How about seventeen plus six."

Steve can feel his face turning red with embarrassment but he's not going to let this jackass be right. Round up. It takes three to get seventeen to twenty, so take three away from the six-

"23. Point proven. Go. Away. Go play your jock games and leave me- us alone."

Steve opens his mouth to argue, or maybe plead, that he can do this, and that, more importantly, he wants to do this, but laughter cuts through the air and for the first time, Steve notices the audience that has gathered. Three people are laughing at him, and his inability to do mental math, and it makes Steve snap his jaw shut and swallow.

"Mental math isn't that hard, Steve," one of them, Brant, says, as he elbows the guy next to him.

"Thank you!" Eddie says, "that's what I'm saying."

"Whatever, man, like I'd want to play make believe at this age anyway," Steve mutters and rushes away.

If, two weeks later, Steve watches Kyle trip who he now knows is Eddie 'The Freak' Munson in the bathroom, and drag him into a stall for a swirly, well, no he didn't. He briefly thinks of saying something to stop Kyle, but shoves the words down and instead turns on heel and leaves that bathroom just as the sound of flushing and Eddie yelling start. The thick bathroom door does a good job of muffling the noise and if Steve feels any guilt about that, he shoves that down, too.

Besides, Kyle's the captain of the basketball team and if Steve wants a chance to be on that team, he can't stay anything. It's a well-known fact that Steve likes sports, after all. He's going to stick to that. Screw Eddie Munson and his Dungeons and Dragons club.

Steve will get to play Dungeons and Dragons with Christopher next summer.

Except, halfway through the school year, Steve and his parents quickly board a plane bound for Washington. Turns out being as perfect as Christopher was is hard. Overwhelming.

They arrive the day before the funeral, and fly out right after it. Steve barely has time to mourn before they're shuffling him back to school that Monday.

Christopher died, and with him, so does Steve's desire to be just like him. He quits the football team. He keeps basketball because he does like it, even without Christopher's influence. He can't bring himself to get rid of the Dungeons and Dragons books, but he can't look at them, either. They end up in the downstairs hall closet, forgotten on the shelf.

So, years later, after rising to the top of the food chain (no one was ever going to embarrass him like Eddie Munson had again) and then falling to the bottom (who cares about high school popularity when interdimensional monsters exist) and of course, the years of fighting against said interdimensional monsters before ending it all in spring of '86, Steve finds himself, unwillingly, agreeing to host Hellfire since the school banned the club following the events of spring break.

Damn Dustin Henderson. Steve usually has the backbone to say no but Dustin had to play up 'getting a chance to finally just be kids' and fuck, how was Steve going to say no to that? Despite how quickly his own desire to be a freshman playing Dungeons and Dragon had been squashed, he can't be the one to ruin this for them.

"Thanks for hosting, man," Eddie says when Steve lets him in. He's an hour early but had asked if that was okay. Apparently the dungeon master has a lot of prep to do? Not that Steve would know.

"Sure," Steve says, dismissively, because while Eddie and he went through hell together, and Steve carried his sorry ass out of the Upside Down, Steve can't quite let his guard down around him.

It's funny. In the Upside Down, Eddie had made a point to tell him he's changed, is a 'good dude' now. So, what's funny is how much Eddie is exactly the same person he was five years ago. He was an ass to Steve five years ago, and as far as Steve is concerned, was also an ass to Lucas for wanting to play basketball just this year.

He swears to God, if he hears one negative thing about Lucas tonight, he's punching Eddie unconscious, no matter what the rest of Hellfire will do or say about it.

Eddie's been in his dining room for maybe five minutes before he finds Steve in the living room. Steve's got a movie playing but he couldn't tell you which one. He's not really watching it.

"Do you got a table cloth for that big table? Jeff's got a set of metal dice and I'd feel like a real ass if we scratched it on accident."

Steve takes a deep breath before answering. He hates that Eddie is considerate like this, has been since spring break if Steve's being honest, but he doesn't want to see Eddie's good qualities. So, he waves in the direction of the closet. "Yeah. There should be some in the hall closet there. Help yourself."

"Thanks."

He twists on the couch to watch Eddie cross the room to the closet door, listens as the door creaks opens, hears the quiet, pleased noise Eddie lets out when his eyes land on the stack of table clothes. Steve continues to watch as Eddie just grabs the whole stack and yanks them off the top shelf.

Which means his watching as the stack of non-fabric objects, which must have been half atop the table clothes, also tumble out of the closet, bouncing off various parts of Eddie. It's a bunch of miscellaneous items. However, Steve realizes with horror, the book that bounces off Eddie's head is his copy of the Monster Manual. Eddie has stepped back in surprise (and possibly pain), so the Dungeon Master Guide and the Players Handbook bounce off his torso and leg before landing on the ground.

"Fuck," Eddie curses, before he stares down at what just assaulted him. Steve just stares at Eddie, watching as he slowly comes to comprehend what he's seeing. He watches as Eddie bends down and grabs the Player Handbook, the last thing to fall, from a top the pile. "What the-"

Steve stands, suddenly defensive, but doesn't actually say anything or move closer. He just watches as Eddie examines the book, flipping it from front to back in his hand like the title will change if he does that enough times.

Then, Eddie turns to him, bewildered. "Present for one of the kids? Thought they all had their own copies."

"No."

Eddie flips the book open. Reads the words written in there so many years ago. "Who's Christopher? Wait. 1981? You were playing D&D in 1981?"

"None of your business, and no," Steve says, now kicking into action, stomping up to Eddie and snatching the book from his hands.

Eddie hold his hands up in defense before his eyes turn mischievous. The same glint in them now that was there when Eddie'd leaned into this space in the RV and called him big boy. "Are you lying to me, Stevie? You've played before, haven't you?"

It makes Steve's blood boil. "No. I haven't played!"

"Alright. You could now, you know," Eddie says. And it's the way he says it, all nonchalant and like he's trying to be coy about it- it tips something over inside Steve. A bottle that held his humiliation and hurt from all those years ago.

"Oh, now I'm good enough for D&D? Now I can join? Aren't I too much of a jock for you!?"

"Whoa, what's with the hostility-"

"What's eight plus seven, Eddie!?" Steve snaps. His memory might be shit these days, with all the concussions, but the unfortunate part about Steve is that he always seems to remember the bad. And he remembers Freshman First Day like yesterday. "No? How about seventeen plus six? Come on, mental math isn't hard. Or don't you remember? I'm just a stupid jock too slow on the uptake, or no, what was it you said? It'll be a nightmare to play with me, 'cause I might be barely able to read the rules?"

He watches as Eddie's face morphs from confusion, to understanding and horror. "Holy shit, Steve. That was you- you wanted to join Hellfire-"

"Yeah, and you made it pretty fuckin' clear I didn't belong in it."

"I'm sorry man. I shouldn't have- if I'd known you, I never would have-"

"That's the problem, Eddie!" Steve shouts, waving the book in front of him. "You didn't know me. You looked at me and decided for me that I was going to be a jock and nothing else and then humiliated me in front of other people! You didn't even bother to try to know me. I spent three weeks reading this stupid book cover to cover because I knew I was shit at reading and I still wanted to try anyway."

He sees Eddie puffing up in anger. "Well, I wasn't exactly wrong, was I? You were a jock, a bully even!"

"Yeah, because I was a dumb, hurt kid who decided that it was better to hurt than be hurt. As if you weren't exactly the same that day, lashing out at me first, at my reading ability, and mocking me for not being quick at math. Fuck you, Munson!" Steve walks away, not hearing anything Eddie shouts after him as he sprints up the stairs and shuts himself in his room.

Steve knows he was a dick in high school, and it's not Eddie's fault he was a dick. Steve made choices he's not proud of and no one forced those choice on him. But Eddie doesn't get to throw that back in his face. Not when Eddie made him feel humiliated and stupid on the first goddamn day of high school, long before Steve became mean himself.

[paingoes]

Cuckoo Egg

@echo-goes-aaa: Speaking of uniforms Slave whumpee belongs to a general in the army. As a punishment for being "disrespectful and ungrateful" the general puts him in uniform and sends him out "on mission" to "see what I do for you" Whumpee gets captured by the enemy, and it's only after an interrogation that the enemy realizes something is very very wrong with this soldier...

@sowhumpshaped: sucks to suck! saying this to both whumpee and the enemy. idiots lol also there goes a perfectly good general uniform, ugh. whumper's never getting that back

inspired by this post. i really couldn’t get over how much i loved this prompt, i wrote something out last night! it ran a little long so this is part one of two. i’ll upload the next section soon.

(Content: verbal abuse, implied physical abuse, institutionalized slavery, military content, minor character death, fear, begging, lot of crying, blood)

========================

“I didn’t mean it like-,” The sharp look his master gives him cuts off his speech. Cillian shrinks back in on himself, tucking his chin into his chest protectively.

“Did you iron the flag as I instructed you to? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.” Cillian says through gritted teeth.

“Did you take care to make sure the emblems on the uniforms were in their proper state? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.”

“When you disrespect the symbols of our nation, do you disrespect those who have given their lives so that you may live? Yes or no?”

“No, sir,” Cillian answers automatically. His eyes widen.

“No?” The general asks, danger in his voice.

“Yes, sir.” Cillian corrects himself.

“That’s right. And when I asked you why you had neglected your duties like that, did you accept your failure and apologize? Or did you talk back to me and disrespect me further?” The general stares at him, as if challenging him to argue more.

“I talked back, sir.” Cillian lowers his head in apology. 

The general taps the riding crop against his own leg. Cillian flinches, but it does not strike him immediately. The general bounces it idly, as if caught in deep contemplation. Cillian waits, barely breathing.

“I don’t think you appreciate the sacrifices we make every day for you. You’ve been sheltered all your life. If you spent a day out in that heat, you’d shrivel up. Where is your gratitude, son? Don’t you have any respect?”

Cillian looks down. It’s not a question he’s meant to respond to. He can recognize when he’s being scolded. The general’s voice booms throughout the small space. Small, stinging tears begin to form at the boy’s eyes. The general gives him a disgusted look.

“Maybe you would benefit from a day in the field. Would it stop you from crying your eyes out everytime you get disciplined?”

It is decided for him that quickly. He’s sent immediately to bed, knowing well he’s expected to rise early the following morning. He blinks and the sun is up. 

The general dresses him personally. He is particular about the details. Cillian only catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He has seen the soldiers brought into the manor. They have been large, strapping. Their muscles bulged out from beneath their uniforms, the fabric well-worn and natural looking. On Cillian, the effect is clownish. It hangs off him loosely. His sleeves and pant legs both have to be rolled up and pinned.

His master guides him forward, his hand clamped tightly over Cillian’s shoulder. For better or worse, the encampment is not set up far from their current lodging. Cillian is dropped off without fanfare, rolling out onto the hot sand of the desert.

He falls in line. One of the officers was made to expect him. She retrieves him quickly from the entryway, shuffling him in amongst the other soldiers. He’s noticeably shorter than most of them, just barely meeting the height requirements for enlistment. 

It was only meant to be a day trip. At the same time, she understands the exercise is punitive. She puts him onto one of the offroaders set to leave that morning. It pushes off into the hottest parts of the desert, well past where the gore begins but where it’s unlikely to see any action. There is not much that is required of him. She does not care enough about making a point to endanger her own mission. All he has to do is keep watch. He is not — under any circumstances — to be given a gun.

Cillian shifts uncomfortably in the seat. The leather burns him even through the uniform. The other soldiers there are content to ignore him. He gazes out into the horizon, his eyes catching on the painted rocks that jut out from the sand. The craters in the ground become more and more frequent the further they go. The offroader shakes in protest as it hits another one.

“Whoops,” the driver lets out a laugh, pulling over before the whole thing topples. They’re close enough, anyway. The soldiers pour out. Cillian climbs to the top of the vehicle. The sun beats down on him immediately. His neck quickly burns up. The dark brown of his hair captures the heat. It makes him feel feverish. 

The pack takes off further into the desert and in between the painted rocks. They carry their devices with them; gunpowder, thick coils of wire, shovels. It’s not demolition day today, but it will be when the insurgents next arrive on the scene.

You can imagine their shock when they are already waiting for them. 

They’re dressed in slick black despite the desert heat. Their bikes are tucked safely into the shade of the rocks. Almost thirty of them are pressed against the rock face, all of them armed. Outnumbered two to one, there is no fight.

Cillian isn’t fast enough. Of course he’s not fast enough. He falls quick and hard when they catch him, his hands bound up with zipties before he can even see the face of the man doing it. He does catch a glimpse of the soldiers fleeing. Most die before they reach the threshold. The bag is pulled securely over his head and the last thing he sees is the blood boiling in the sand.

===================

There’s a hand against his face. 

“The fuck? Did you waterboard him or something?” A voice says, feeling the dampness of the fabric.

“No. Crying, probably.”

“That’s hysterical,” The voice says flatly. 

Cillian thrashes as his wrists are yanked back. The knife nicks him. Its wielder curses. The ziptie breaks abruptly, but his hands are pulled in front of him just as quickly. He whimpers as the cold steel bites into his wrists, pinning both his hands to the surface. The hands depart and the door slams shut. It is dark and silent and cold.

He has no way of knowing how much time has passed, but the bag is abruptly yanked from his head. Even the dim light of the room is shocking to him after the hours spent in darkness. He winces. Tear tracks stain his face. His eyes adjust enough to just make out the features of the woman standing in front of him.

Black eyes. Black hair. It falls off her shoulders in sharp edges. Strangely pale skin. Her eyes don’t blink. Her blank expression does not change. She leans against the table, only inches from his face.

“I swear they get younger every year,” She mutters to herself.

“Please let me go,” He sobs. “Please, please.”

It’s like she doesn’t even hear him. Cillian gets the overwhelming urge to hide himself. Her stare seems to go right though him, so much he begins to think she isn’t here for him after all. He’s just in her sightline by mistake. Stupidly, he glances behind him. It’s a blank wall. When he looks back, her expression hasn’t changed. She still hasn’t moved an inch.

She tilts her head as if it’s about to roll off her shoulders.

“What’s your name?” Her affect is flat and cold.

“C-Cillian,” he sniffles.

“Sicilian?” 

“My name is Cillian,” he takes a shaky breath.

“Hello, Cillian. My name is Nicolette.”

Her slowness is agonizing. The silence hangs in the air, interrupted only by Cillian’s little gasps for air. 

“Please let me go,” he repeats, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please.”

It seems like the silence will go on forever. He startles a bit when she is first to break it.

“Cillian, why did you try to bomb us?” She asks.

How could he possibly answer? He panics at the question.

“I didn’t- I’m not-. I’m not with them,” he manages, cut off by his own sobs. 

“Cillian?”

He glances up.

“I don’t like liars.”

She withdraws from the table. Her hand disappears behind her back, appearing just as quickly. She places the dagger gently down on the table. She fixes him with a final look before she withdraws from the room. The door slams shut again. His frightened sobs are still audible even down the hall.

=================

She’s perched above him on the table, rolling the knife between her fingers. She rests her head in her other hand, her eyes narrowed. Cillian sobs, trying to put as much distance between the two of them as he can. The cuffs make it impossible. She’s practically sitting on his hands. 

“Cillian.”

He regrets having given her his name. He flinches at the sound of it.

“Are you going to be good?”

It’s a familiar question. His mouth answers before his brain can catch up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, I kinda like that,” she says, as if she’s surprised too. He blushes. She doesn’t notice. His face is already flush from crying nonstop. He jumps in alarm as her hand suddenly presses up against his chest.

“No,” he mutters in protest.

She flattens out the insignia on his breast pocket. “E5, sergeant? That’s not bad.”

“It’s just a uniform,” he whines in protest, about to break down again.

“Cillian,” she says in warning, “Enough games. You know what I want.”

“No I don’t!” He protests, “I’m not enlisted, I’m not-“

She cuts him off with a sharp slap. Again, his reaction is involuntary. He curls in on himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. 

Nicolette withdraws her hand, placing it back in her lap.

“They’re carving out supply tracks along the Eastern Stretch. Why? What’s the target?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, absolute misery entering his voice, “I don’t know. I’m not part of it.”

A brief look of frustration crosses her face. He almost misses it. He’s been so trained to anticipate that twinge of annoyance, he reflexively flinches.

Nicolette stops twirling the knife. His breath catches. It’s poised at such an angle that it’d be very easy to just stab him in the chest and end this whole thing. She moves the tip down by his fingers instead. It doesn’t touch, not yet.

“I don’t know,” he curls his hands up into fists, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. Please. Please.”

“You seem like such a nice kid. Why are you making this so hard on yourself?”

“I’m not trying to,” he sniffles, “I’m sorry. I’m annoying you, I know. I’m not trying to.”

“You aren’t annoying me,” Nicolette says. She does not elaborate.

The tears start back up. He doesn’t speak again. Nicolette twirls the knife on the table, its tip making a small dent in the surface.

“You know, in the old days of the war, your men would cut the noses and ears off of ours. When they’d come back to village, we could barely recognize them. They didn’t die from it. Neither did we. They only meant to terrify us. It’s the fear that gets you. It’s always the fear.”

Cillian twists his neck, wiping his face on his shoulder. He shivers.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

“Me too.” She stops twirling the knife, holding it firmly within her fist.

“I’m sorry,” he yelps, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, god, please. Please, I don’t know. If I did I would tell you. Please, please, don’t.”

He jumps back in the seat, his wrists still fastened firmly to the table. Her silence draw on. She doesn’t move. He keeps talking.

“I don’t know, I’m not lying, I promise, I don’t know. Please don’t. I wasn’t even supposed to be here today. I’m not one of them. It’s a mistake.”

“Some mistake,” she says, but she still doesn’t move. His crying is too out of control for him to speak further.

“Do you need more time to think about it?” She asks patiently. 

“No,” he insists, “I don’t know.”

She drives the knife clear through his palm.

(continued here)

[2nd2ndalto]

I have a headcanon that all the demigod kids routinely end up in each others beds/cabins at night, because nightmares and trauma and whatnot. So I wrote this smol fic.

~~~~~

There Is Rest and There's You

The first time Nico sees Annabeth leaving the Poseidon cabin at an ungodly early hour (having been dragged from his warm bed by Leo and Jason for an ungodly early errand), he flushes, quickly looking away. Because it's obvious, even to him, that she’d spent the night. But Annabeth merely sleepily raises a hand in greeting and continues on her way back to her own cabin.

Jason, maybe noticing Nico’s discomfort, simply shrugs. “Musical cabins,” he explains. “Happens a lot.”

Leo nods in agreement. “Yep. I had some really wicked nightmares last week, three nights running. I ended up on Jason’s floor. Would have been in the bed, but Piper got there first,” he adds, disgruntled.

Huh, Nico thinks. Musical cabins. That's a little weird.

After that, he pays more attention. It’s not unusual, as it turns out, to find the Apollo cabin overstuffed with various campers early in the morning, rivalling even the occupancy of the Hermes cabin. Sometimes it’s couples tucked in together, but more often it’s friends, siblings. Seeking comfort, and sleep.

It's six months into Nico's stay at Camp when he begins forgetting to lock the door to Cabin Thirteen. He nearly runs Harley through with his sword the first night he finds the younger boy fast asleep in his cabin. But after that, it quickly becomes routine to wake to the quiet comfort of someone else’s soft snoring across the darkened room. Most often it's Will, brushing a warm hand over Nico's forehead before settling into the other bed, but sometimes it's Harley, and several times Leo, complaining that Jason’s bed was already full.

It’s a little weird, but surprisingly nice. Nico begins leaving his door unlocked most of the time.

On a night late in February, the nightmares are worse than usual. Nico wakes in a cold sweat, heart pounding, tears welling behind his eyelids. He does what he usually does - dresses quickly, and walks. There’s something meditative about the rhythm of his boots on the ground and the sharp, cold air on his skin that usually settles him.

But the thing is, it’s really cold. And after only about half an hour he finds himself standing in the central green, torn. He can't feel his toes, but he can’t quite stomach the thought of returning to his own empty cabin, either.

His frozen feet lead him up the stairs to Cabin Seven. And gods, it’s warm inside.

There’s a soft rustle of blankets from Will’s bunk.

“Nico?” Will’s voice is soft and scratchy. “What’s wrong?”

The taller boy is out of bed and across the cabin in a heartbeat, reaching for Nico’s hand. Scanning him, Nico knows, blue eyes wide with worry.

Nico shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just - couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs, and the concern on Will’s face fades to sympathy.

“The bunk above mine is empty,” he says simply.

And that’s that. Nico climbs up, snuggles in. Will’s messy blond bedhead pops over the edge of the bunk, his smile fond. He squeezes Nico’s arm. “Sleep tight.” And then he disappears.

Nico worries it might be awkward, in the daylight. It’s anything but. The Apollo cabin is a riot of sound and motion in the morning. Austin flings a stuffed turtle at Nico's head. Nico's foot is hanging off the edge of the bunk, and Kayla tickles it, cackling when he squeaks.

“Breakfast time, sleepyhead,” she chirps.

“Sleep well?” Will asks as Nico climbs back down.

And the thing is, he really did.

Time passes. The nightmares wax and wane, but they get easier, mostly.

Until one night in July. It’s almost a year to the day since he came to stay at Camp - Nico thinks, later, maybe that’s why the nightmares hit particularly hard. He wakes shaking, gasping for air, convinced he’s fading again, permanently this time. It scares him so much more than it did when it was actually happening. He shoves his hands against the wood of his headboard, hard, positive they’re going to slip right through. They don’t, but he can't shake the panic.

Nico’s up and out the door in the space of a breath, no hesitation as he makes a beeline, barefoot, for Cabin Seven. The air is cool for July, the full moon shining bright above.

He can feel his panic ease the second he closes the door behind him, soothed by a quiet symphony of soft breathing.

But the bunk above Will’s is occupied tonight, and as Nico's eyes adjust, he realizes all the others are, too.

“Nico?” Will’s voice is a whisper. “Nightmare?” He sits up, silhouetted in moonlight.

“Yeah.” Nico steps closer. “Looks like you’re all full in here, though. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He turns to leave, but Will grabs his arm. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. You go back to sleep.”

Will gazes at him in the dark, fingers still wrapped around Nico’s wrist. “Or you could stay. Here.”

“There’s no room, though.”

“I have room,” Will whispers.

Nico blinks at Will’s bunk, then back at Will, his stomach attempting to leap into his throat. Will’s eyes are wide, nervous.

“I... um -” Nico begins. He can feel his face heating at the thought of it.

“Gods, di Angelo, just stop talking and get into his bed. Literally no one cares,” Kayla grumbles from the next bunk over. There appears to be at least one Demeter kid in her bed. Maybe two.

Will’s fighting a grin now and he shrugs. Nico shrugs back, then… climbs into the bed. Will scoots over to make room, pulling the blankets over them both. And gods it’s warm, and it smells like Will, and when nothing else calms him, that always does.

Nico lets his eyes close. Then -

“Do - do I feel like I’m fading?” he asks in a whisper, echoes of the nightmare flashing behind his closed eyelids.

Will gazes at him. Then he reaches for Nico’s hand.

“No,” Will whispers. Someone clears their throat nearby and Will grimaces, yanking the blankets over their heads.

“Did something happen?” he asks, his breath brushing Nico’s face.

“No, just - nightmare."

Will nods in understanding. “No. You’re good,” he smiles. He goes to pull the blankets back down, then seems to reconsider.

“That’s um… that’s usually why I end up in your cabin. At night.” he admits, quiet. “Sometimes... I just need to make sure that you’re still solid.”

Nico stomach flip-flops. "Oh."

Will shrugs, sheepish. He pulls the blankets back down, settling on his side. "Here," he says, reaching for Nico's hand again. "Then neither of us has to worry." He tangles their fingers together, reaching out to lay his other hand on Nico's arm, tethering him.

Will's soft smile in the dark is dazzling, and his hands are warm, and Nico worries his own answering smile might just light up the entire cabin.

When he wakes hours later to the familiar sounds of chaos, his head tucked against Will's shoulder, Will's face buried in his hair, well. He thinks maybe this musical cabins thing isn't so bad after all.

Notes

This is a short one! I tried to challenge myself to write something coherent in 1000 words or less. I almost managed it.

It is also my personal headcanon that Harley kind of attaches himself to Nico & sees him as a big brother. This comes up in something else I'm working on as well.

I would love to hear your related headcanons! Snuggly demigods! Sleeping in heaps like puppies!

Jason may not come up much in my fics but please rest assured he is Always Alive.

[jasmines-library]

Let It Linger

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Prompt: shock/dissociation.

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: after a rough hunt resurfaces some unwanted memories, you slip into your own mind. But Sam is there to help you through it.

Warnings: Dissociation, ptsd, mild depression, character death.

Word count: 1.1K (short but sweet.)

Note: not too keen on this one but it was written in a hurry. Not my best work - not proof read.

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

The hunt couldn’t have gone more wrong. 

You had been hunting a shtriga; a nasty, humanoid creature that feeds off of a human’s lifeforce- usually a childs. This one had attached itself to a young girl no more than five or six. The issue with shrtrigas was that they were hard to kill, only vulnerable once feeding. So, much to your reluctance, the three of you were forced to rely on allowing the creature to feed on the girl so that you could lace it full of iron rounds. 

You watched through the crack in the wardrobe as the window slid open, pushed by a bony, tree-like hand. The shtriga floated across the room, positioning itself above the small girl. You watched wide eyed as her life drained out of her body slowly, white tendrils drifting into the air like smoke and into the creature's scarred face. You pushed the door open and slipped out of the small space, cocking your pistol and standing behind the shtriga. You aimed, finger poised on the cold and worn trigger. But then your eyes settled on the pained expression of her fragile body as the creature continued to feed. And you froze. 

The creature loomed above the girl who lay helpless in the bed before you. It was tall and shrivelled with dark eyes. You watched frozen as the wisps rose from her body and tried into the creature's mouth. You had only stepped out for a minute to get some water. 

You screamed, a loud blood curdling scream, but still it made no move other than to hover closer to the girl. She shared some of the same features as you, your nose, your lips. Her eyes were different though. You had always admired her eyes and the way that their hues shifted as they hit the light and how they lit up when she smiled. Though now, as you stood helpless, her eyes were almost completely white, bloodshot and rolling into the back of her head. Her lips were parted as she tried to suck in air that refused to enter her lungs. You would never forget the way her body slumped back onto her pink sheets as the creature slunk back out of the window. Despite her whimpers and weak cries of your name your body refused to move. It took too long for you to snap out of your own mind and rush forwards towards your sister's limp body. She trembled as you lifted her into your arms. You rocked back and forth slowly, whispering assurances into her ear and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. By the time the denim-clad man and his son appeared in the doorway, her heartbeat had already stopped. 

The men exchanged glances before taking a step towards you. It took a while to coax anything out of you between your sobs, but after pushing they managed to get a name.

“Y/N”

“Y/N?”

“Y/N?!” 

Dean was yelling at you. At some point he had scrambled out from under the bed and had gripped your shoulders tight. You flinched at the gunshot as Sam fired at the creature which howled and slunk away. Your eyes shifted from staring vacantly to Dean’s greens. Your pistol shook in your hand, so you dropped it, sending it clattering to the floor. 

The room was silent. Too silent. 

Pushing away from Dean you moved towards the bed where the girl lay morbidly still. 

“No…No…”

Taking the girl in your arms, you cradled her head. Tears spilled from your eyes. You had fucked up. You had frozen and it had cost this girl her life. 

~~~

You were silent the whole way back to the bunker. Just staring blankly out of the rain covered windows of the Impala, knees hugged closely to your chest. The brothers both cast glances from the front seat, and had even called your names a few times, but you were seemingly oblivious to the world around you. 

When you arrived back at the bunker, you almost mechanically retreated into your room to curl up on your bed. 

Time didn’t seem to move. Nothing seemed to matter. You didn’t feel like you. The world around you had begun to feel like one giant blur. Your body didn’t feel like your body. You felt as though you were moving and seeing through one giant lens or through another person. Nothing seemed sane and quite frankly you didn’t even care anymore. You couldn’t stop thinking about that girl- about your little sister all those years ago. 

You fiddled absentmindedly with your fingers, picking out the dirt from beneath your nails. You were laying on top of the covers with your knees pulled up to your chest. You weren’t sure how much time had passed before there was a gentle knock on the door. It barely registered in your mind and you made no move to get up to answer it, only continuing to stare blankly white wall opposite. Your lack of response made Sam furrow his brow

“Y/N?” His tone was tender but cautious. 

Your eyes shifted towards the heavy sound of his boots padding across the floor. He knelt down beside you on the bed, calling your name again. There was still no reply. You moved your head when you felt his hand enclose around yours, warm and calloused against your skin. He had those puppy dog eyes set about his face as he studied you. 

For a while you said nothing, just clutched onto his hand. Sam didn’t leave your side as you tried to fight through your own mind. 

“Sam?”

He twisted round to face you resting his chin on the mattress so that they were inline with yours. You were silent for a moment after that. Struggling to think of what to say next. You felt a lack of control within your body. It felt like you were learning to use your body all over again. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled. Tears cascaded down your cheeks. “I couldn’t… I just couldn’t.”

Sam wiped away your stray tears. 

“It reminded me too much of her.”

“It’s okay, kiddo. We can’t save everyone.”

“But if i hadn’t-”

“Shh.” Sam cooed. “It’s okay.”

“Sam… stay with me. Please.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean really stay with me.” You manoeuvred your body to face him. He could see the way your bloodshot eyes struggled to settle on anything for too long. He could see the tracks that your tears had left as they rolled down your cheeks. “Promise me you’ll never leave me…please.”

“I promise.”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY SEVEN ⛤ DAY NINE ->

🏷️ Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

[topsyturvy-turtely]

turtely's OTP challenge!

now on AO3! (tumblr link)

read the (slightly improved) 7th part here:

summary: When Mrs. Hudson passes away, the unusual family of three is devastated. Sherlock shuts off, Rosie cries every day and John is desperately trying to keep it together for their sake.

Until one day, Rosie asks for "Lock", and the great detective shows a talent John wasn't aware of yet.

General Audience, 2112 Words. Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Parent!lock, Minor Character Death, it's sad i am sorry, but it is REEEEAAALLLLY sweet, i promise you won't regret reading this. (i mean you never know but i tried my best to make this rude prompt into something wholesome still)

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr @compact-and-beautiful @kabubsmagga @sunshineinyourmind

[naurielrochnur]

The prompt this week on the rote discord server is "Unfinished Business" so of course I took the opportunity to draw Small Ferret.

It was an absolute delight to draw Small Ferret in all his throat ripping glory.

[whumperofworlds]

Two whumpees kidnapped. The whumpers come by their cells with a third whumpee, and tells them, "If your family doesn't pay, this will be you!" And kills the third whumpee in front of them.

[ray-gt]

A Night at the Quasar Cafe [gtgotcha4gaza]

For: @biggnansmol, @gtgotcha4gaza Prompt: First Date (giant/human) Summary: Sabine Ducote is professionally curious, or at least that's how she likes to describe her work. Part private eye, part bounty hunter, she makes a living dealing in other people's business. But when a favour sends her to a sketchy out-of-quadrant "Boundary Bar" to meet with an informant four times her size, Sabine realises just how dangerous curiosity can be.

CW: side character death, descriptions of minor violence

[ao3]

The Informant

Sabine’s ship communicator flashed a bright red and she didn’t know whether to smile or groan when she saw the ID. She decided on both. She ignored it for a while, focussing on navigating to the jump point, hoping the call would die.

On the back of her neck, the hairs pricked.

Let him wait

But when it began bipping incessantly - angry at being ignored, like a toddler pulling at her pant leg - she finally answered.

“With all this cold calling, Jay, I’m beginning to think you’re sweet on me.”

Jay’s voice erupted with something between a cough, a bark, and a laugh. Sabine could imagine the volcanic ash pouring from his thick, scarred lips, and between his black mandibles, as he sat in his office, looking over the bright lights of Blue Marine, the casino empire he built from nothing to cover an entire moon.

No doubt, there was a Nethulyan cigar between his pincers - Sabine could almost smell the smoke through her ship’s speakers.

“Ah, Saba,” He said with a wheeze. “You know me, can’t be tied down. But if I were to go for one of you gross, fleshy humans, you’re first on my list.”

“Every girl’s dream. Though really, Jay, being first hasn’t exactly done me any favours.”

“The Irixes still on your tail?”

She couldn’t help but tense her fists around the ship controls. She fought every instinct in her begging to turn around, to check no one was sneaking up on her. Rationally, she knew it was impossible for the Irixes to be on her ship, but it didn’t stop the slow wave of goosebumps washing over her skin.

“Yeah, yours isn’t the only list I’m top of.” She muttered, reworking her route to accomodate an approaching comet. “Hugo got life.”

“I heard. Took every lawyer within 20 systems to stop him getting a sunset. Well, that’s the business, ain’t it?” She heard Jay’s mandible’s click together over the line - his equivalent of a mother’s disappointed tut. “Lotta money in the Go’oran trade, but it’s a risky market and the competition’s killer.” This earned another laboured laugh, chuffed at his own joke. “Hugo’s top dog. They’ll be lost without him for a while.”

“And they’re channeling all that loss into finding my arse and roasting it on a spit.”

“Come on, Saba. That’s not their style. They’d much rather spaghettify you in a black hole.”

“Which is why I’m getting as far away from Keridian as I can.”

“This is what happens when you take jobs with the authorities. No protection, no thank you - just a lowballed cheque and lot of enemies. Never met anyone more crooked than a judge, I’ll tell you that much for free.”

“About the only thing you’d do for free.”

“I have something you might like.” His voice peaked in a tease, like a used ship salesmen slapping a claw on a vessel that wouldn’t even reach orbit.

“I’m lying low.”

She knew there was no point hinting with him. It wasn’t that he was daft. He’d pick up a hint, but he’d prefer to crush it between his pretty orange pincers than take it seriously.

“I know, but I’ve always said the best way to get over an old job is to pick up a new one.”

“We’re talking about one of the biggest crime families in the galaxy, Jay, not one of your exes.”

“Eh,” He offered in response, taking a long drag of the cigar. She knew he was rolling his head on his neck, unconvinced. “You want a job.”

“I want quiet.”

“Quiet’s boring. You want something that makes you curious.”

“Isn’t that what kills the cat?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Earth thing.”

“Ah.”

Her navigator flashed, warning her she was approaching the jump point.

“Look, Jay, I’m about to make a jump and I’m not calling you back.”

Jay clicked his mandibles again and voice became unusually sober.

“I need you to take this job, Saba. I don’t trust anyone else. Consider it the Favour.”

Sabine ground her teeth together and veered her ship off-course, pulling out of the high-trafficked bottleneck leading up to the jump point.

Jay wasn’t a good person but, really, neither was she. He was one of her first clients when she entered the trade and they quickly formed a profitable partnership. Sabine was good at getting information and Jay was good at using it. It wasn’t a question of morality - they’d both happily take money from the sinners and the saints - but there was an unspoken honour code to these things. Once you commit to a job, you finish it. And a favour is always repaid.

She put the ship into an idle orbit around a nearby moon and stood up. Pacing, she took groups of her braids and begun weaving them together into one large plait. She couldn’t speak. It was like she’d been caught snitching by the Moth-Ean cartel and had her jaw sealed shut.

“You still there?”

Sabine rubbed her eyebrows.

“I can’t believe you’re calling in the Favour. With the Irixes sending word to every contact in the Quadrant. I’d be surprised if my face wasn’t slapped on every Keridian bounty board available.”

“Stop acting like this is your first time in hot water. You want safe, Saba? I could’ve given you a job working tables at Blue Marine. The Irixes are no worse than the Tooras, or the Solaris Siblings, the Li Party, or any of the other targets you’ve had.”

Sabine sighed and shook her arms in an effort to rid them of the tickling nerves shivering within. He was right. This wasn’t the first time people had tried to intimidate her and stop her from working - if they killed her or chased her off, that’d be a win for them. She had to keep going like they didn’t scare the living shit out of her.

But, there were very few people as deadly as Hugo Irix. It’d taken more time, resources, and personal sacrifice than she’d like to admit to become a trusted member of his circle, learn the key nodes of the Irixes Go’oran trade network, and systematically turn them in with enough evidence to get Hugo a life sentence in maximum security.

The look she’d shared with him as she stepped up to testify….

“What’s the job?”

“There’s my Saba! I was afraid I’d lost her. Don’t worry, compared to Hugo, this is child’s play.”

Sabine doubted that. Knowing Jay, he wouldn’t use the Favour on something simple. He had a better eye for value than that. She didn’t interrupt him though and he kept going.

“And it’s far enough away from Keridian that the Irixes won’t follow you. They have very little presence.”

“Out of Quadrant?”

“Boundary. Have you ever been to the Quasar Cafe?”

***

Sabine approached the Reeka woman from across the adjusted bar, weaving past other mixed size gatherings. As she passed, she heard snippets of conversations, locking any interesting details away in case they became relevant later.

Mostly, the folk who occupied the mixed size bars wanted to keep their business to themselves. It wasn’t illegal, per se, to mix with other species of such varying sizes, but it definitely wasn’t the norm. The hushed chatter of business deals or awkward flirting floated around her like the gentle thrum of a ship engine.

There was the shabby business woman whose eyes never left her cradled glass as a large, brick wall of a Hexigal slid a black bag across the table with his pinky. It would take her both arms to lift it. As it was nudged, the bag squirmed but made no sound.

“As promised.” Grumbled the Hexigal. The woman neither moved nor spoke.

Then there was the over-confident human, teething a martini olive as the reptilian skin of the large Olura (nearly double his height) opposite him shifted from a deep blue to a brilliant chartreuse. A blush if Sabine could hazard a guess. Or, at least, close enough.

Next to the Reeka, a Zidirin (half Sabine’s height) and a Vojuk (5 times and then some) spoke in low tones over a game of mahjong. Seeing the familiar Earth game in a Boundary Bar half a galaxy away almost made her do a double-take. How did it get there? Where’d they learn it?

Despite the sea of curiosities that flooded the bar, the Reeka woman stood out, and not just because she was four times Sabine’s height. Reekas were a colourful and extravagant species. Jaunty, gaudy, vivacious. It was said Reeka weddings often ended in funerals when someone inevitably laughed, drunk, or danced themselves to death.

Sabine had never met one before. The few she’d seen were only in passing as they rarely ventured outside their territory. Her skin was a pale green and her hair a vibrant candyfloss pink. And despite the attention she garnered simply by existing, she was nervous.

Coy.

Her eyes, like polished peridot, kept glancing around - aware of everyone, focussing on none. Her long, slender fingers knotted themselves in the bright orange fabric of her skirt. She’d clearly come straight from work. The clash of orange and red fabric was harsh, even for the Cafe, and reminded Sabine of the uniforms diner waitresses used to wear in the 1950s.

She looked like a fresh hunt, unsure of the cage. Trusting neither the feeding hand, nor the whip. The patter of rain and the rattle of chains were, to her, equally menacing.

Sabine had met with a lot of informants before - blabber mouths who didn’t know the meaning of ‘relevant’ and the tight-lipped types who’d rather have their teeth pulled than give anything up. The opportunists, cowards, good Samaritans.

The ‘What’s in it for me's…

The ‘Maybe if I’d’s…

The ‘You didn’t hear it from me’s…

But for the most part, they looked like this. Baby giraffes on gangly legs, wide-eyed, wondering how everyone else can walk around normally when the ground was shifting beneath their feet.

Most people in the galaxy didn’t know how to turn on a stunner, let alone fire it. Most people couldn’t fly an interplanetary ship, let alone interstellar. Most people heard Hugo Irix’s name for the first time when he was arrested. They weren’t as tightly woven into the fabric as Sabine. The weren’t aware of the back rooms, back alleys, backstabbing.

This kind of informant both comforted and saddened her. Could she even remember a time when the universe shocked her with its real face?

She rolled her neck on her shoulders as she approached.

There was one part of this job which was different from the others. Her first Reeka. Her first… well, anyone this large.

In principle, the big folk handled the big folk. The same went for Sabine and her circles. People kept to their business, and that business only mingled in the most extraordinary circumstances.

Well, Jay, She thought. Consider me curious.

“Vivara?”

The Reeka’s head snapped up, both over-prepared for and surprised by the interruption. Though her gaze went too high - too used to meeting her own kind at eye-level. It took her a beat to realise the empty space ahead of her and adjust. She seemed, if only just, surprised by just how far her eyes had to travel before they landed on Sabine.

It didn’t matter that she was expecting a human, or that she was meeting a stranger at a Boundary Bar in the mixed section - she still looked surprised. She didn’t even attempt to hide her shock and fascination. Like her childhood doll had suddenly sprung to life and called her name.

She wasn’t alone. Much to Sabine’s own surprise, her skin began to buzz when their eyes met. While she’d dealt with larger folk - mostly walls of flesh valued for the way their arms resembled tree trunks - she could hardly call them ‘big’ now. Here, in a way that was entirely foreign, was a towering creature, both impressive and lithe. Powerful and delicate. Features refined and precise. She existed at scale that should be considered brutish, but there couldn’t be a word less apt. Under her rounded stare - innocent, fascinated, unsure - Sabine was hyper-aware of herself. To be swallowed whole in one glance left her feeling like she was naked with a cold wind tickling across her skin. An odd sensation to be sure, here at the back of an intimate, humid bar in a forgotten corner of the Galaxy.

She cleared her throat, pushing the feeling away with a shake of her head.

Focus.

“Sorry, I’m late.” She said as she sat opposite the Reeka, adjusting her jacket in a stolen moment to compose herself.

From her pocket, she produced a small, round device. It looked like a standard communicator, mid-range and unremarkable, but had been modded with far more sensitive microphones to record their conversation. She pressed a small, indiscernible button on the side and placed it on the table between them

She wasn’t late. She’d been at the bar since before Vivara arrived, tucked into a corner and watching to see if anyone was tailing her or if she truly was alone. Only when she was satisfied, did Sabine make herself known.

“The IH472A was a nightmare.” She continued. “But you know how the end of the week is.”

The Reeka woman didn’t say anything. Despite their difference in size, she seemed intimidated by Sabine - scattered and frozen like the shards of glass that stared back at you after taking a bat to a mirror. Not that Sabine knew anything about that.

It didn’t bother her, she knew how these things started. Now she was seated and ready to interview, she felt that initial buzz begin to fade to a dull, distant hum.

She met the large peridot eyes again and smiled her best smile, which Jay thought still needed work after all these years.

What the fuck is that, Saba? Are you trying to fuck me or kill me?

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested mandibles would make her face more appealing.

I know a girl - very talented. She did Charley’s second pair. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do anything about Charley’s personality.

“I’m Sabine,” She said. “Thanks of meeting with me, Vivara. I know this all must be overwhelming.”

At the mention of her own name, Vivara’s green cheeks deepened in colour. It was as if it shook her from her trance and made her aware of how much she was staring. Her shoulders ever so slightly relaxed back onto her chair and she untwisted her fingers from her skirt to tuck a loose strange of pink hair behind her ear.

“Sorry,” She muttered, her voice lower than her pointed, elfin features suggested. “I’ve never been to a place like this.”

She gestured around her with jagged movements. From her jumpiness, her waitress uniform, and the neat curl of her pink hair, that was hardly a revelation. But she suspected there was more in the comment.

Sabine nodded. “That’s ok. I’ve been to enough Boundary Bars for the two of us.” Liar. “They’re aren’t as scary as they seem. Jay’s people chose the Quasar for your benefit more than anything else.”

She frowned. “Really?”

“Yes. They figured you would want a place where no one would recognise you, but that wouldn’t require you to leave Reeka territory.”

“I appreciate that. Can you imagine if people knew I was going to a Boundary Bar.” Vivara’s laugh was breathy, and the sound of it made Saba’s buzz spike. “I feel like I’m so out of my depth here. But if I went into your Quadrant, I don’t know if there would be anywhere I could even fit through the door. And if I could, where I wouldn’t be gawked at.”

There was a harmony in the way she spoke, a natural fluidity that took her from one word to the next. Sabine could see the version of her that existed prior to her being involved in this mess. Open. Free. Unburdened. She decided not to tell Vivara that even here, in the Quasar Cafe, where Reekas were regulars and mixed meetings were the norm, she still drew the attention of everyone present. Every now and then, the focus of the mahjong players on the neighbouring table was broken by a glance in her direction. She didn’t blame them, even Sabine had been shocked when she saw Vivara first arrive.

But it did make things difficult for Sabine. With everyone so aware of the beautiful Reeka in the room, either consciously or subconsciously, they’d be suspicious of why someone like her would be in a place like this. As she chipped away at the wall of strangerhood between them, Sabine worked through options. What legitimate reason would she have for being here? With her of all people.

“You’d be surprised.” She said. “The galaxy is much more diverse than you might think.”

“Are most people in your Quadrant as… - sorry, there’s no other word - small as you?”

For reasons unexplained, Sabine felt her blood go hot. There was something about that word, small, that brought the difference in size between them back to the forefront. She’d never been described as small before, being above average height for a human woman. She’d been called weak - even short by a few of the taller species - but never small. Small felt all-encompassing. An assessment. A metric of how little space she took up. Small could be dismissed with a flick of the wrist.

It set her jaw.

“You’ve definitely never been over the border have you?”

Vivara’s cheeks deepened again. “Sorry. No. I haven’t. I don’t really know what I’m meant to do here.”

Sabine rolled her head on her shoulders, enjoying the way the space between the vertebrae popped as she did.

“There’s no rush, we can start when and where you’re most comfortable.”

Saba read the files Jay sent through a few times when they arrived. This wasn’t even her first interview on the matter. Before arriving at the Qasar, she’d spoken to a few cursory people. But this was her most important.

Jay’s son, Jayron, had, without his father’s knowing, began dealing with a powerful Reeka crime syndicate, with the intent to establish his own Blue Marine in Reeka territory. However, before Jay could put a stop to it, Jayron disappeared.

His last known location? Back booth of a diner, served by the only waitress on shift - a green-skinned Reeka with bright pink hair.

Which is why they were there, meeting at the Quasar. Jay didn’t want a Reeka investigating, having little knowledge of their networks and who was on whose payroll. And he didn’t trust the authorities, particularly when it came to inter-quadrant cases.

“I don’t really know if I’ll be of any help.” Vivara rambled. “I didn’t even know anything was wrong until your friends contacted me.”

Saba’s lips twitched at the implication she and Jay’s network were just a group of friends. That she was there for any reason other than professional obligation. It was sweet - the kind of naivety she was always so hesitant to tarnish.

If she could be honest, Sabine never really liked Jayron. Where Jay’s over-confident irreverence painted him as a seasoned and savvy businessman, those same traits were brash and childish in his son.

“Let me be the judge of what is and isn’t relevant. All I need from you is what you remember.”

“Ok.” Vivara nodded. Then she frowned. “So, what are you? A bounty hunter? A private eye?”

“Sometimes.” Sabine shrugged. “I like to think myself as professionally curious.“

She paused. Behind Vivara, she noticed another Reeka walk past and sit himself down at a nearby table. He had bright orange skinned and blue hair, and when he glanced in their direction, his eyes were cerulean. They flicked between her and Vivara. There was a squint in his gaze and tension in his shoulders, and his fingers danced on the rim of his glass. He wasn’t, as some might assume on first inspection, here for leisure.

He was here for Vivara.

There you are.

She knew they’d send someone. Nothing like a Boundary Bar to make everyone think they’re more discrete than they actually are. That was the real reason for the Quasar - information. Some from Vivara herself, and the rest from what her presence would tease out, like mice from the walls.

The last thing she wanted was to make Vivara aware of anything that would make her even more nervous. Sabine’s priority was to diffuse suspicion and collect the information she needed without putting Vivara in any further danger.

In this instance, she had the advantage of anonymity. The Reeka networks didn’t know her name or face. They had no reason to suspect this was anything more than two people having a drink together.

Just then, a waitress walked past them and Sabine waved her down. She was another Reeka woman with deep blue skin and black hair. While her clothes were dark, her smile and demeanour were bright.

At her approach, Vivara’s eyes found the floor - as if she were embarrassed that another of her kind would find her in a place like this. Even though, to the waitress, they were the least interesting patrons she’d served that week, let alone that night. She worked the mixed section of a Boundary Bar between different sized territories, while striking, Vivara was far too vanilla to be anything more to this waitress than a passing thought.

“Welcome folks!” The waitress beamed. “Can I get you anything to start?”

Sabine smiled, “Just the house for me. Vivara?”

She looked over at her informant. The floor must have really taken her because it took Sabine repeating her name to get her attention. And even then, she seemed to refuse to meet the waitress’s eyes.

“Ummm, the same, I guess.”

“Easy!” The waitress said, unperturbed. “And how long have you two been together, if you don’t mind me asking?”

That got Vivara’s attention. Her head shot up, her face, neck and chest flushed a deep forest colour. But before she could protest, Sabine interjected.

“Actually, this is our first date.” She made a point of sending a coy look at Vivara. “A mutual friend set us up. And we picked the Quasar because… well, you know.”

Vivara couldn’t have looked more lost if she tried. The poor thing could only stare, embarrassed, as Sabine took charge of the conversation.

The waitress placed a hand on her chest as she cooed. “Of course, aren’t you lucky! I wish I had friends like that. Well,” She said with a knowing smile. “I’ll get your order sorted. Have a good night, girls. Sing out if you need anything.”

When she was well out of sight, Vivara leant across the table, her size more pronounced the closer she got and Sabine found herself leaning back and away despite herself. She could feel Vivara’s breath wash over her.

“Why’d you say that?” Her whisper was harsh and it sent an unfamiliar thrill through Sabine’s veins.

“What?”

“That we’re on a date!”

Sabine shrugged. “It’s always easiest to go with what people believe. Why would I waste the effort trying to conjure a new lie that would barely convince her. You’re so obviously nervous. You’d sweat less if you were trapped in a tin can on Venus - that’s a planet from my system.” She clarified when Vivara frowned. “-You can barely look me in the eye and you’re stammering through every sentence. And that’s normal.” Sabine added softly. “She thinks you’re acting like that because we’re on a date. Let’s roll with it. We’re on a date and you’re telling me a story.”

Vivara pursed her lips. “Usually my dates are taller.”

Sabine felt her eyebrows raise on their own accord. “And mine are more articulate.”

Vivara’s shoulders sagged.

“Sorry,” She said for the third time that evening and guilt wound it’s way around Sabine’s heart and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Sabine’s eyes stole a moment to glance at the shadowing Reeka man. He was typing into a communicator. She raised a hand to Vivara.

“Not yet. Let’s start again. We’re on a date.”

“Right. Yes. Wow, it’s been a while since I was last on a date.”

“You’re joking.” Sabine wasn’t even acting. Even if Vivara turned around and told her exactly where Jayron was and all the contacts involved with his disappearance, that at would be the second most surprising thing she could have revealed that night.

Sabine didn’t date often either. She told herself it was because she was busy, or that it was risky. That she didn’t want to bring innocent people into her world, and that the people in her world were too far gone to ever be in a healthy, trusting relationship. Scavengers and bottom-feeders don’t thrive in partnership. They always end up eating each other.

That was her experience at least. A couple of flings that either burned out pathetically or exploded in a violent supernova. And now, she could hardly claim to be the most appealing piece on the market with her back in the firing line of every Irix contact in the Quadrant. The few beds she was welcome in would turn her away now.

She couldn’t remember the last time she made someone blush. She could barely remember how. And she could hardly take credit for Vivara’s nervousness - for her flustered sentences, her dry-mouthed rambling, her fidgeting fingers. The darkness in her complexion and the avoidant gaze were far more attached to what Sabine did than anything to do with who she was.

That was fine. That was the life she chose. If choice was the word.

But Vivara? Was she falsely interpreting the stares of other patrons? Were Reekas just that otherworldly that Vivara’s smooth, lush skin, gemstone eyes, and bouncy fairy floss bob were just average?

Vivara shook her head. “No, I don’t date often.”

“I can relate.”

“I mean, I get a lot of… approaches.” Vivara clarified and Sabine smirked. “Particularly at work, but the kind of clients I get at the diner are hardly the kind of people you’d want to spend any time with.”

Ah, there it is.

The Reeka man was looking at them again. Sabine made a point of laughing, and began weaving her braids together, eyeing Vivara with intent.

Vivara, unaware of their observer, let out a breathy chuckle. She pressed her hands to her cheeks.

“Is it warm in here, or just me?”

“It’s warm.” Sabine smiled, granting Vivara escape from her own flushing cheeks.

“Ok, good.” Vivara fanned herself with her hands. “I was going to say, you usually have to work harder to get me to blush like this.”

At that moment, their waitress returned with two glasses of a clear spirit - one that fit in her hand and one she pinched between her fingers. Of all things, that’s what made Sabine’s palms go clammy.

“Here you go!” She beamed, placing the glasses in front of them with a wink. “You let me know if I can help out with anything else.”

“Thanks.” Sabine smiled and Vivara echoed it with a low mumble.

Any time she became aware of the crowd at the bar, Vivara closed up. Sabine couldn’t let that happen. She needed her to feel confident enough to speak.

She took a sip of the spirit. It was harsher than she was used to, burning the back of her tongue like she was swallowing lighter fluid. She did her best to hide it, but it made her eye twitch.

Vivara seemed to have no issue. She sipped at her glass as if it were water. She met Sabine’s eyes and laughed.

“Strong?”

Sabine coughed. She didn’t need to, but it did the trick. Vivara laughed harder, resting a gentle hand on her chest. The sound of it, the music, made Sabine’s tongue feel heavy.

“Much stronger than the stuff I’m used to.”

Vivara raised her eyebrows, “Really? I was about to say it’s a bit weak.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Vivara shook her head and her pink hair bounced around her shoulders. “No. What we serve at the diner is a lot more intense than this.”

“I think that would probably kill me.” Sabine muttered. Half of her meant it, wondering what kind of battery acid Reekas drank casually at a diner. The other half of her leaned into the hyperbole, itching for another hit of the Reeka’s laughter. She got it and with it, her whole body flooded with a warm hum - much faster than what anything in her glass would achieve.

“I can’t imagine you at the diner.” Vivara said. “This is strange enough.”

Sabine was too focussed to be offended by that. This was her in. Vivara was talking more openly, more naturally. Their conversation was so boring that any inquisitive ear would have turned away.

“Who do you usually see at work?”

Vivara’s expression became serious as she caught on. It wasn’t ideal, but Reekas weren’t known for their stoicism. All emotions were as easy to read as an alphabet picture book. Her brow settled lower over her eyes and she took a swig of her glass.

Her unoccupied hand returned to burying itself in knots in her skirt.

“It’s a busy place.” She started. “Loud. The tables are always full and we’re always understaffed. We get a mix too - families like it because kids eat cheap, lonely folks like to disappear in the noise, people come during their lunch break or after work. We’re open early until late.”

“Regulars, or mostly strangers?”

“Both. Definitely some I know by name, but also plenty I don’t.”

“And in the case of the night two weeks ago?”

Vivara shook her head. “They weren’t regulars, but they didn’t stand out either. They just struck me as normal businessmen. From the way they dressed, I assumed they were workers from a nearby office. Probably higher paid than most. I’ve been working at the diner long enough to know who will and won’t tip.”

“And this group looked like they would?”

Vivara rolled her eyes. “No. The richer they are, they less they tip and the more they expect you to perform. I knew as soon as they walked in that this group was going to be trouble.” She stopped, and bit her tongue. “But not trouble like -“ She waved her hand mostly in Sabine’s direction. “That.”

Sabine smirked. That. Could she blame Vivara for painting everyone associated with Jayron’s disappearance as that? Victim, perpetrators, investigators - they were all, in their own way, trouble.

“Gotcha.” She nodded. “Wealthy, put together. Enough to make you groan, but nothing to set your alarms off.”

Vivara nodded. “That was until I arrived at their booth to take their order, and I saw… well…”

“Jayron.”

“Yes. Though I didn’t know that was his name. When I said we usually serve a mix, I meant a mix of Reekas. It was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone from another species in person.”

Sabine had to make a concerted effort to stop her jaw from dropping.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.” Vivara’s face flushed again. “I didn’t realise my life was so sheltered.”

Sabine whistled. “So, I must really be a freak of nature to you.” She laughed at Vivara’s appalled expression and waved down her building defence. “Only a joke. You’re doing great for a first timer.”

“Thank you.” Vivara said though she looked bashful, embarrassed by her own naïveté. “If I’d known other species were so pretty, I’d have ventured out sooner.”

Sabine felt her own face warm and suddenly her jacket felt too tight. She couldn’t stop her furrowed brow.

Vivara leant in closet and a tension curled in Sabine’s chest.

“We’re on a date, right?” The Reeka offered in explanation.

The tension released and Sabine let out a long breath. She admonished herself for the small twinge of disappointment she felt now knowing it was just part of the act.

Unaware of her own effect, Vivara continued her account.

“I was so rude when I saw him.” Vivara groaned. “I didn’t know what to do. I just stared. And the others at the booth seemed to think that was funny.”

At that moment, their waitress walked past their table. In response, Sabine made a show of leaning over and placing her hand lightly on Vivara’s. She laughed and pulled her braids over one shoulder.

“Oh my god!” She crooned. “That’s so funny. You have to tell me more about it!”

In the back of her head though, she hyper fixated on the smoothness beneath her fingers, the warmth. The size of the hand beneath her own. Every minute pulse and flinch was on display below her. She could feel them in intense detail.

Vivara stared down at the offending hand - at where the two strangers touched for the first time. The waitress passed and they both pulled their hands away.

Sabine’s gaze flicked to the orange Reeka man. He was, or at least pretending to be, distracted by a game on a high screen above the bar. A few patrons were equally captivated. By the sounds of the spectators, the local team was losing. Sabine didn’t recognise the sport - probably Reekan in origin - but she did recognise the way the man’s head flung back.

“Ummmm,” Vivara said, bringing Sabine back into focus. Vivara was still staring at the space where their hands had met. Her cheeks awash. “Sorry, I forgot what I was saying.”

Sabine smiled. “You saw Jayron for the first time. Can you tell me more about that? How did he look, what were they talking about, how many people were in the booth? Those kinds of details are really helpful.”

“He looked… well, it’s hard to tell because he’s so different. But I’d say he looked overwhelmed. Constantly looking at the others, but I don’t know if it was for reassurance or out of fear. He’s about half your size and he was sitting up on the table, which I don’t think he liked. I mean,” She gestured between the two of them. “At least here, there are mixed sections and we can sit here as equals. But at the diner, the power imbalance was scary and I wasn’t even part of it.”

“That’s probably why they picked the diner. Crowded, loud, full of a species so much bigger with no one else to relate to. They would’ve wanted to isolate him.”

Vivara shivered. “That’s so scary. They stopped talking when I approached and I must have looked so stupid! My usual waitress spiel died as soon as I saw him. Then one of the four men prods Jayron with a thick finger and says, I don’t think she likes our pet, Little Jay…and I laughed!” She buried her face in her hands. “It just came out of me. I laughed. He was in trouble and I just laughed.”

Sabine buried the feeling of secondhand humiliation. But it mingled with her exasperation. Of course Jayron had to pick a Reekan syndicate for his first grand venture. Of course the desperation to out-do his father led him well out of his depth. Led to him going missing. Led his father to getting involved. Led to her getting involved. Vivara getting involved. How long would that list get before he was found? If he was found. And, if he was, Sabine knew he’d just go off and do it again. The cycle would start over.

And beneath all of that, there was her sadness for Jay, who knew his son didn’t have the gumption to take on his empire, and yet encouraged him to dream.

Behind Vivara, the Reeka man sipped his drink and watched the game. Then he paused mid-sip when his communicator flashed. He returned the glass to the table and inspected the new message. After a moment, he began typing furiously.

Once, and so briefly you could argue it didn’t happen, cerulean met obsidian and then both glanced away.

Fuck.

“It’s ok.” She said to Vivara, identifying the easy exits she’d scouted when she first arrived. As always, she had back-ups for the back-ups. “It’s a normal reaction to laugh when we’re stressed. Maybe part of you knew something was amiss, and for your own safety, you played along.”

Vivara glanced up from her palms. Her shoulders relaxed and she nodded, almost desperate for the out Sabine offered. “Yeah. Maybe that was it. I think I suspected something. All conversation died when I came to the table again with their orders but later, I heard more of what they were discussing.” She chewed her cheek. “I don’t usually make a habit of eavesdropping, but for some reason - nosiness, fascination, or fear - I was paying extra attention to whatever I could catch whenever I walked by.”

Sabine nodded, she found herself pulling in closer. This would be the lead. Maybe here would be something she could work with.

“And?”

Vivara took her glass and downed the rest of her drink in a way that would surely burn a hole in Sabine’s throat if she were to do the same.

“It was only snippets.”

“It usually is.” Sabine said, there was an anticipation curling and writhing in her stomach.

“I heard just a few phrases in passing. I remember ’next shipment’, ‘Florean Sector’, ‘Marcho Galvoni’, and ‘each pretty pincer’. But I don’t know if that’s helpful?”

Sabine steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips. She nodded, committing the snippets to memory. She knew she had the communicator recording everything, but trusted her brain better.

Next shipment.

Florean Sector.

Marcho Galvoni.

Each pretty pincer.

They weren’t answers, but it was enough. She’d worked with less before.

Jayron, you fucking idiot.

“And when they left,” Vivara continued. “I didn’t see Jayron. I remember, despite the rush, looking for him as they left and being confused. But then,” She shrugged. “I didn’t see him when they entered, and the cafe was busy.”

Sabine frowned. “Did they have any bags with them?”

Vivara’s eyes widened like an angel first encountering sin. “Oh yes, they did. I remember. Just a brief case.”

“Would it have..?” She left the question unfinished. Vivara was already nodding.

“I think so.”

“And their colouring? The men in the booth?”

Vivara frowned, and for a second Sabine wondered if there was a better way to phrase that question. Vivara didn’t correct her, but that didn’t mean much.

“One had a deep red complexion and neon yellow hair. Another two were so similar I’m sure if they weren’t twins, they were at least siblings - pale blue skin, mustard hair. But the one who was doing most of the talking was all white - skin, hair, eyes. He was mean - cruel. I struggled to look him in the eye.”

What does that make me? Sabine thought as she could count the few times during their conversation Vivara had actually met her gaze.

She noted the descriptions. This last seemed unique enough for a Reeka that she could get a lead or two. But before she could follow-up, the shadowing man stood from his table, drained his glass, grabbed his communicator and began walking toward their table. She froze and admonished herself when Vivara noticed.

“What?” She frowned, beginning to look around.

“It’s nothing.” Sabine lied.

But then ‘nothing’ stopped beside Vivara at the mixed bar. The two of them together were an impressive sight - all-encompassingly large, dominating her entire view with their bright, saturated colours.

Noticing his presence, Vivara seized. Her whole body when rigid and her gaze once more returned to the floor. Her green face was ashen and Sabine thought she might faint.

But, despite Sabine’s assumption about their shadow, he paid Vivara no mind. Instead, his bright sea-blue eyes bore into Sabine in a way that sent an electric bolt through her nerves and left them sizzling like powerlines in the rain. Now, more than any time before, she was aware of the difference between them - the sheer gap in size, strength, presence. If she were to be cornered by him, there would be little she could do.

She didn’t recognise him but the look in his eye was knowing, which unnerved her even more. She was well-known in some circles. Mostly in circles where being well known did more harm than good.

“Sabine Ducote?” He asked and she didn’t grace him with a reply, simply opting to maintain his stare. If he knew her name and face, this was just performance.  “I thought it was you, but had to check with a few contacts to confirm.”

Vivara’s pink curls bounced as her head swung frantically between the two and their silent standoff.

“What’s happening?” Her voice was rising in urgency.

The Reeka man placed a gentle but firm hand on Vivara’s back, making the larger girl freeze. Her eyes when to Sabine’s with some silent plea for comfort. Assurance. Sabine wondered if this was what Jayron looked like at the diner.

“Don’t worry.” She said and knew it was unhelpful. She wasn’t willing to give anything away yet.

“I agree.” The man smiled. His hand still lingered on Vivara’s shoulder and the Reeka woman’s expression was as if she thought it would leave a stain. “You have no need to worry, love. Your girlfriend though?” He smirked down at Sabine who, was calculating whether reaching for her communicator or her stunner first would be wiser. “Well, see for yourself.”

He placed his communicator on the bar between them. It was huge next to Sabine’s own and what she saw on it made her feel as if all her bones had suddenly dissolved - that she’d flop onto the floor to be mopped up by the waitress later.

There, on the display, was her face - her white, thin braids, her dark skin, the scar across her nose. It was a candid photo but she couldn’t place where it was taken. It was too zoomed in to gauge any location. What she did recognise was the Irix sigil stamped in the upper left corner of the photo.

Bounty brand.

Across the bottom of the photo was her name. Another instance where the Hugo prosecutor’s screwed her over. Instead of using her case alias, they, in front of Hugo, called her to the stand by her full name.

She swallowed when she saw ‘PRICE NEGOTIABLE’ underneath her name. Open priced bounties were beyond rare. This would send every money hungry hunter in the Galaxy after her, even well outside Keridian territory.

“Hugo sends his regards.” The Reeka man grinned.

But before his hands could move to the stunner tucked under his coat, she had hers drawn and ready. One quick pull and there was a pretty new red freckle between his surprised brows. His cerulean eyes rolled and as his body crumpled to the floor, his hand slid off Vivara’s shoulders, causing the larger girl to shriek.

Around the bar, all eyes turned to them and Sabine sighed. Her heart pounded. She was in deeper shit than she or Jay could have ever imagined. As patrons began to stir, uncovering the cause of the interruption, Sabine snatched her communicator and quickly deleted the bounty message from the Reeka’s.

“What’s happening?” Vivara’s voice was wavering and panicked.

Sabine looked at her and peridot clung to her gaze desperately. Her chest aches at the sight. She didn’t have time to explain. Their Reeka shadow knew nothing of Jayron business as Sabine assumed, but was instead there for her - for the mess Vivara had nothing to do with.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she reached over and stole a precious second to place a sure hand on Vivara’s again.

“I’m sorry.” She said, and meant it. “Thank you for everything. I hope you never have to see me again.”

And then she bolted, leaving Vivara in a stunned silence as fellow patrons and staff of the Quasar swarmed around her. They were intrigued more than anything, and did not share Vivara’s horror at the lifeless form beside her. It was, after all, a boundary bar.

As she ran towards the closest exit, Sabine heard their waitress tut her tongue to a couple she was serving.

“Been there.” She said.

Sabine didn’t have time to think about anything except getting as far away from the Quasar Cafe as possible.

Though lingering in the back of her mind was a stupid thought she couldn’t quite shake.

All things considered, not a bad date.

______________________________________________________________

(@biggnansmol - thank you so much for donating! I'm sorry it's been a while coming. I hope you enjoyed xx

I loved this prompt and wanted to put a different spin on it. And let's be real, if it's a story by me it will have two key components: awkward gay flirting and batshit insanity. And added bonus if it's in space.

I had so much fun with this one. Someone sent me an ask recently about there not being enough wlw stories in GT - happy to make another contribution with these girls.

-ray xx)

[plusultraetc]

Fourteen Days of MHA | 6/14: Minor Character

Monoma takes Ibara’s loss in the tournament worse than Ibara does.

He doesn’t blame her, which is a relief, because Itsuka has been babysitting his nonsense all day and that might be her breaking point, and she’s pretty sure the principal wouldn’t appreciate it if 1-B started their own mini-tournament in the stands. But he is visibly stricken when Iida Tenya propels Ibara out of bounds, and with her, 1-B’s hopes of even making it onto their first year Sports Festival podium.

It’s tough, but at least 1-B put up a good fight. They had their moments, too—Ibara’s first match, for one, and Tetsutetsu’s somewhat-surreal draw with a student from 1-A who has almost exactly the same quirk. Tetsutetsu had been weirdly upset when he first found out about Kirishima’s power, but had cheered up a little when Itsuka pointed out that his quirk was so good, UA wanted two of them in the hero course in the same year.

By the time they return to their homeroom for dismissal, Tetsutetsu has made a new friend, Ibara has been consoled, and Monoma has mostly recovered from his bottomless despair and is frowning thoughtfully at the chalkboard in a manner that appears innocent enough, but probably promises some new 1-A-related machinations in their class’s future. Then again, who knows. Maybe their defeat at the Sports Festival and watching Bakugou Katsuki destroy half an arena will be enough to get him to back down.

It surprises her when Kan calls Monoma back as the rest of 1-B files out the door. She and Tetsutetsu wait for him at the threshold out of one part solidarity, two parts plain nosiness.

Vlad King places his broad hand on Monoma’s shoulder, and Itsuka prepares for whatever wise, thought-provoking, character growth-inspiring advice a pro hero and teacher at one of the most prestigious schools in the country will give them.

“Don’t worry,” he says, very seriously. “We will get them next time.

Damn it.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

please please emotionally steamroll your villain whumpees

humiliate them

parade them around town

take away whatever gives them power, permanently, and flaunt it

hurt them until they can't move and taunt them for not fighting back

turn them into a shadow of themselves. just completely break them down

[pinkytoothlesso11]

Heart of Stone chapter 28

Jim POV: Still reeling from the death of Nari, preparations are made for the upcoming war against Gunmar, Bellroc and Morgana.

Merlin creates sets of armour for some of their team members, Strickler included.

And a surprising visitor comes with a fire warning...

[paingoes]

Crash Out - CTRL

(Content: (ex) royal whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, guns, minor character death, rescue, reluctant caretaking, blood, past torture, wound care, panic attack, crying, guilt, comfort)

~~~~~

Antony looked again to the girl stood in front of him, one of her arms propped up against the ancient computer tower. Her other hand hooked two fingers on the collar of her broken heels. She’d come dressed like it was a new job interview. He supposed in some ways it was.

He carded through the folder she’d brought him, recognized Vi’s monogram at the corner of the page. The two of them spoke in a language no one else could. Even without the aid of the cipher-breaker, he could make out some of the fine script off memory alone. Amendments to the passion project. Top secret. Vi wouldn’t even send it over the wire, but she’d sent it with her.

“I’m an excellent shot,” Lorelai had said. And a smooth talker, apparently, if she had wormed her way out of the imperial arms. She’d been proud of that, he could tell as she recounted the story. She described the soldier who’d released her, asked for him to be spared if CTRL so happened across him. The infantry all looked the same to him, but he said he’d do his best.

She wasn’t bad, he thought. He could see why Vi had wanted her. But something about the gesture felt too showy for his tastes.

Look what I bagged, he could hear Vi’s voice in trills down his mind. She was beautiful, there was no question. But more than that, she was cute. Incorruptible and delivered right to their doorstep.

She could be such a roué when she wanted to be.

They were not onboarding, exactly, and she had picked a hell of a time to show up. The timing was no good for him — and it seemed it was no good for her either. 

“I can’t stay all night,” Lorelai had said, as if he’d invited her to.

He liked her, though. He didn’t mind walking the dark tunnels of the base with her, didn’t mind showing her around. 

“Long way from home, then,” Antony said casually. “All on a whim?”

She laughed lightly, the same trill in her voice.

“It might as well have been, the way it happened.” She brushed a hand through her hair. It caught on her broken nail. She unhooked it. 

In the range, he watched the target light up where it was shot. He watched the way she reached to reload — in the wrong place, on the wrong rifle. Muscle memory.

“Military school?” He asked. And she blushed, as if she had caught the same tell but was too late to stop it.

Then - “Are you always this giddy in a warzone?”

“No.” She put the gun down. “I don’t mean to be. You think I’m a tourist, don’t you?”

“No,” Antony answered. “Just that you’re strange.”

She couldn’t argue with that. As they started back towards the center, he held the door open for her. She did something like a curtsy as she passed through. And for the fifth time in twenty minutes, she glanced at her phone. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she saw the display.

“Something wrong?” he asked her.

Lorelai scrolled back up the message log. She bit at her nails, then stopped as her gaze returned to him.

“I told you, I didn’t know they were planetside when I first got here.” She refreshed the messages again. From the colors alone, Antony saw no change on her screen. “I left my friend — and my ship — out by the edge. Now he’s not answering my texts.”

“Oh,” he paused, “You think something might’ve happened.”

“I don’t know.” She bit her lip again. “I left the keys with him, I don’t know.”

Antony paused a minute. He was not in the business of charity. For a long while, their footsteps on the concrete floor were the only sound.

“What are the ship coordinates?” He offered, finally. It wouldn’t hurt just to send a scout. She’d done Vi a favor, so he could spare one for her. The fighting hadn’t even started yet.

Lorelai looked up in surprise. Maybe she wasn’t such a smooth talker, the way he’d taken her for. Maybe all those encounters had gone just like this. He felt a kind of chivalry for her, some deeply buried instinct. Maybe she brought that out of everyone.

She listed out the long string of numbers that revealed the ship’s location. She must have memorized it, even before she left.

~

The sky held the first gloom of twilight and so CTRL’s units felt no need to persevere. Even when they could see in the dark, it wasn’t a fun game to play. 

But Milo had liked it once, the way the woods turned evil at night. He’d lived in the center all his life — all his best memories had been in this stretch of land. Maybe that’s why he took it so personally when the soldiers arrived. Even when they were all flushed out, the woods still would not be safe to play in for the kids who lived there now. It wouldn’t be safe for years afterwards, when all the mines were finally dug out and the bodies all excavated.

They’d taken out two imperial units in one day and sustained minimal injuries in return — all stealth. The off-roader ran wild through the undergrowth. They didn’t need to take their chances.

But then another unit was right there — and their coxswain could not help herself.

“Floor it,” she said.

It was so easy when they were all congregated like that. Nobody was even standing watch. All close together, all it took was a single-

Milo covered his ears, covered his eyes. He didn’t enjoy it, not for anything. But he enjoyed it more than the alternative, easily.

Body parts were strewn out into the dirt. Those who survived the first explosion were shot dead right after, too dazed to even crawl away.  Cleo plucked them all off with her revolver in swift and unpretentious shots. Milo scanned around for any signs of life, anyone lying in wait to avenge themselves upon them. There was no movement.

The coxswain stood up through the sunroof, taking in the scenery just the same. The camp was shoddily arranged, probably only pitched a few days before. Maybe even a few hours.

She elbowed him. It was only then that his attention was drawn to the large hole right by the edge of the camp’s clearing. It cut a rough shape into the earth, but it was — unmistakably — a grave that had yet to be filled.

His heart sank. There was no one unaccounted for on their side. It wasn’t one of their own. If it was full, then…

She elbowed him again.

“What?” He threw his hands up. “It falls to me?”

But the others had already unloaded from the vehicle, taking what they could of the discarded imperial weaponry and food stuffs. Milo grumbled, taking unenthusiastic steps towards the grave.

His eyes widened as he caught movement inside.

He gasped in shock, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. They were all there then, none of them eager to see a corpse but all too eager to see what else could possibly be there.

It was not a comforting sight. The figure there was bound and bleeding. Both their hands were tied behind their back. A thick rope was wrapped around their ankles — and another length connected the two restraints. Even with the limited movement, the figure had rearranged themselves into a half-upright position against the wall of earth. A blindfold — once white, now colored with dirt and blood — covered their eyes. Blood dripped in a thin line from their mouth.

“Holy shit,” Milo said.

The figure tensed at the sound, seemed to back further into the wall. Milo was pretty sure they were a boy the longer he looked, but couldn’t really tell. He looked to the coxswain for advice. Cleo stared at him like he was crazy. The others did, too. Why did this fall to him?

“Okay,” Milo said louder, “Hold on a sec. Stay right there.”

As if they had any choice. 

Milo carefully lowered himself down into the grave. It was a tight fit. He was glad the other had tried to rearrange himself. He wouldn’t have had the space to maneuver otherwise. Milo landed on the soft earth, crouching down beside the figure. He took them in.

That couldn’t be right.

When he looked back up at Cleo, he could tell she saw it too.

He untied the blindfold. The prince stared back at him with eyes so full of fear and hatred that he actually startled. 

“Holy shit,” he said again, “Your Highness?”

He visibly cringed at the title. Milo supposed he shouldn’t have used it. He wasn’t prince anymore, and CTRL wasn’t supposed to recognize that authority even if he had been. But it’s not like they were on a first name basis with each other. He didn’t know what else to say.

The prince said nothing. He seemed too occupied with trying to breathe properly inside of the tomb, though his eyes followed each of Milo’s movements with a laser precision. The air did feel thinner in here, stale. The earth was cold and seemed to wick away any life inside of it.

“Hey,” Milo’s hand moved to his knife. “If I untie you, you’ll behave? No hitting?”

He stared at him for so long that Milo began to wonder if he’d been deafened too. Or maybe just dazed, hit in the head too many times. He looked confused. 

Finally, he gave a small, slow nod. Milo removed the knife from his belt and cut away at the binds around his ankles. Without the pressure holding them there, his legs fell into a more natural position, but did not move any further. No kicking. A good sign. He placed one hand on the prince’s shoulder, gently tilting him forward to cut his wrists free from behind his back.

The prince pulled them forward slowly, just as cognizant of the threat as Milo was. Milo saw the absolute state that his hands were in. There were rope burns around the wrists, but that was far from the worst of it. The palms had been worked raw. One had a hole right through the center of it. The wound bled openly onto the soil.

Milo put the knife back into his belt, scooting backwards a bit.

“Can you stand?” He would’ve usually offered a hand, but he was very careful not to touch those right now. He stood up and took his forearms for support instead. The prince stood unsteadily. His limbs were all locked up, like he’d been tied there for a while. Milo caught him before he could stumble all the way. He leaned against the dirt wall to keep upright.

Cleo and one of the gunners helpfully extended their hands down.

“Boost,” Milo said, forming a cage with his fingers. The prince stared at him, untrusting, still unable to speak around his own gasps.

“Boost,” Milo insisted.

They nearly had to carry him out of that pit.

They pulled Milo up next, after joking for a few seconds about just leaving him there, which was not very funny. He clambered up along the dirt. He hadn’t liked those clothes anyway — and the soil was easier to wash away than gore.

He saw that the prince had collapsed onto the ground. He seemed unable to even sit up, leaning back on one elbow for support. It had to be the blood loss.

“He needs bandages,” Milo said, though Cleo had beat him to it. Her hands were cleaner anyway, better for the job.

She knelt down onto the grass beside him, taking the punctured hand in her own. The prince yanked it back abruptly, protectively. He got more blood on his shirt in the process.

“You’re bleeding,” she said impatiently, like it wasn’t obvious. She held up the water bottle. “I’m just gonna patch it up. I’ll be quick.”

She gestured to the torn up, makeshift bandage that now hung in tatters on the prince’s wrist. He did not offer his hand back, but when she reached for it again he did not resist. The torn strip of fabric fell away.

She poured the water over his injured hand, washing away the dirt and blood that had coated every inch of it. Milo watched carefully — it was a nasty cut. He thought he was seeing it wrong, but no. It went all the way through his hand. It had to hurt.

The prince made a small, choked noise as she pressed the gauze to it, confirming his suspicions. His hand was shaking slightly, barely steadied by her grasp. She wound the bandages tightly, stopping the bleeding for the first time in what was surely hours. Was he always that pale? Milo couldn’t remember, couldn’t tell from the pictures he’d seen.

Cleo handed the water bottle to Milo, which he took thankfully. He moved over a bit. Before he could pour it out, the gunner stopped him. She grinned mischievously.

“You’ve got royal blood on your hands.” She pressed her hand to his own, smearing some of it onto her fingertips. “That was one of my bucket list items.”

It’d been one of his, too. This was not how he had pictured it.

They loaded back into the off-roader. Cleo took the prince’s arm again, helping him to stand even though he fought against it. She shrugged, letting him walk the remaining few steps to the vehicle without help. Even though he was clearly about to keel over.

By then, the sky was fading from twilight and into the true dark. Milo was glad to get out of there. Something about that camp felt haunted. Probably something to do with all the dead bodies.

He slid into the backseat beside the prince, who immediately backed up into the furthest side of the vehicle, one leg drawn up protectively in front of his chest.

Milo said, “You’re quiet.”

He’d been told the opposite was true. But the prince just stared at him wide-eyed, his expression heavy with doubt and accusation. Milo noticed he hadn’t really closed his mouth once since he’d found him. His chest was heaving rapidly beneath the bloodied shirt. Panic attack, maybe. 

“Drink,” Milo said, removing his canteen from his bag and offering it to him. Dehydration was a consequence of blood loss — and even if it hadn’t been, who knew how long he was in that grave?

Somehow, the look grew even more accusatory.

Good instinct, honestly. Milo almost admired it. He took a swig from the bottle, just to prove it wasn’t poison, before offering it up again. 

This time, the prince took it. He held it carefully in his less-injured hand, fingertips only, shaking just a little.

“Better?” Milo asked once the bottle was empty. 

The prince handed it back, nodding with an expression that Milo could really only describe as abashed.

~

“My family was very protective, so no.” Lorelai shook her hands out a little bit. “No prior experience.”

“Bit of a big jump,” Antony had to point out. 

“To armed militias? Yes, I’ve been told.” She smiled. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t have to be armed, necessarily. I’m good at data input. I’m good with field work. All I’m saying is, if you wanted me to, I could.”

“And do you want to?” He had to ask. The secret question hung in the air. Do you enjoy it?

She seemed to sense the trap as soon as it was laid. Her smile grew crooked.

“Do you want me to?” She asked slyly. Her tone was almost playful.

He rolled his eyes. She was only a handful of years younger than him, but she seemed so much more like a kid. He guessed that was what money did. The scars along his arms ached right on cue.

She glanced at her phone again.

“Nothing?” He asked.

“No. You?”

“Nothing.”

She’d kept it under tight cover this entire time, but the worry slipped through whenever she saw the unchanging screen. It was more than worry now.

At that same instant, the doors to the compound opened.

He saw Cleo first, then a blur of motion to his left as Lorelai sprinted across the room. He caught sight of the prince standing upright for only a second before she tackled him. He just barely caught her as they fell onto the floor.

He murmured something to her in his native Latin. Lorelai, who was sobbing into his shoulder, responded in kind. Antony guessed she really had been holding it down. And it looked like she’d been right to be worried. The prince was pinned in place by her — and though half his face was buried in her hair, the bruise was still visible on his cheek. There were matching ones all along his arms, stark against the pallor. Blood stained his skin and clothes.

Antony looked to Cleo. Cleo looked to him. 

What do we do?

He almost didn’t want to interrupt the moment — he was sure if he said anything in that instant, neither of them would even hear him. 

“Watch them,” he gestured to one of the guards on-duty. He knew Lorelai was unarmed, was certain they wouldn’t have brought Paris inside if he had a weapon — though he would’ve appreciated some notice that he was being brought in at all. 

Milo crossed the threshold. He looked worse for wear.

“He’s gonna need a medic,” he explained, unhelpfully. Antony could tell that much. 

~

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” He didn’t keep the irritation out of his voice now, remembering the way she’d said my friend. Well, if that’s all-

“You didn’t ask,” Lorelai said, “I didn’t think it’d come up, honest.”

Antony facepalmed. 

The two of them hung just outside the medbay. Lorelai’s nice blue jacket had been turned purple from the contact. The gems on her face glistened just the same as her eyes.

“It’s a pretty fuckin’ huge conflict of interest,” he explained.

“It’s not like I’m married to him,” she said in that honeyed accent, almost apologetic. 

Antony sighed. She continued.

“And it’s not a conflict, not anymore. You heard what happened. Empire hates him.” 

The hatred was clear, but that didn’t mean there was no conflict. Antony could think of a long, long list of conflicts. They had names and families. 

“I hate this,” he said to no one in particular. Lorelai frowned. “I guess you’re in no rush to go anywhere now though, huh?” 

It was fully dark now. No stars were out tonight. Only the neon glow of the low-flying battleships. She nodded, a small blush rising to her face.

“You can’t stay long,” he told her. The needle was dipping dangerously close. The real conflict could pop off at any second. He needed them both out quickly. He didn’t need to bring that same wrath down on the base. He just got this job.

“But you can stay for tonight, I guess,” he conceded. “Don’t think you’ll make it far otherwise.”

~

CTRL had carved them out some corner downstairs — not a bedroom. Many of their own didn’t even have bedrooms. But it was passable for what it was, a collection of pillows and blankets against a soft mat, guarded by an armed sentinel. 

Antony would not have felt safe enough to sleep there, but then he never would have gotten himself into that situation in the first place.

From what he could tell, the girl had fallen asleep quickly, making herself right at home. The prince had not. Antony looked up over the comms to find him leaning in the doorway. He leaned more heavily against his left than his right. The fracture of his rib showed when he walked. He looked more alive after they’d given him plasma, less ready to pass out at any second. But not by much. 

He’d washed the blood off him. His hair now lacked the pinkish tint it’d taken at the base of his neck. The bruises were all the more visible along his bare arms than when he’d had blood and soil to hide them. He was wearing what Antony distinctly recognized as one of Milo’s shirts.

He’d regained his speech, apparently.

“What do you want?” He asked through gritted teeth. His voice sounded sore, cut up somehow. It was clear that it hurt him to speak.

“Excuse me?” Antony replied, still not appreciating the tone.

“What. do. you. want?” Paris glared back at him. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Antony said. He was out of patience for this kind of thing. What did he want? He wanted to live until the end of the week. In the long term, he wanted the destruction of Empire. Somewhere in between, he wanted to see the beaches of Sedonia again. He had no desire to share any of these dreams with the lapsed prince and was sure he’d have no interest either way.

“What do you want from me?” Paris clarified. Naturally. Antony didn’t expect for him to be thinking about anything other than himself.

“I want you to get the fuck out of my sight, frankly,” Antony admitted.

And a shadow of a recognition crossed Paris’s face. Contempt was a language he could understand. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“What? It doesn’t mean shit. I told her: you are leaving tomorrow morning and that is the end of it. Goodnight.” Anthony waved him away.

“Don’t fucking giving me that,” he hissed. “You didn’t have to lie to her. What do you want?”

“Are you stupid?” Antony asked. “I want you gone. That’s all.”

“Are you seriously just letting me walk out of here?” He said it like he was angry about it, a heavy note of accusation just beneath his words. 

He reminds Antony of a mouse he’d once saved from his cats. It had been curled up in the corner of the box he’d trapped it in. Nearly every part of its body stayed deathly still, but each rapid heaving of its chest as it tried to catch its breath showed enormously on its small frame. Its eyes had been enormous as it stared out the edge of them. He could tell how fast Paris’s heart was beating just by looking at him.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” Antony squinted at him with a disgust he didn’t bother hiding. “We don’t have a court system. We don’t even have a cell. I could kick it off to Galatea, if you want. Do you want that?”

Paris gave a small shake of his head, visibly alarmed at the suggestion. Thank god. It was an empty threat, anyway. Antony would hate to bring Galatea into this, the busybodies that they were.

“As far as I’m concerned, you were never here.”

Paris only looked angrier. He looked like he wanted to kill him.

“You’re lying,” Paris spat. His hands curled up his fists at his side. As if he’d get any use of them now.

Something clicked in Antony’s brain. He tilted his head, a soft and astonished smile appearing on his face.

“Oh wow,” he realized, “You can’t stand it, can you?”

The prince’s eyes widened. He knew he’d hit the mark. He dug in.

“You can’t accept that not everyone is like you. You think we have to take advantage of any weakness, because that’s what you would do, isn’t it?”

His voice picked up too quickly, too loudly. He was sure everyone could hear it out in the hallway. Paris recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

“That’s all you know how to do. You think the whole world is as cruel as you are. But it’s not. It wasn’t. It’s cruel because you made it this way! It didn’t have to be!”

Decades of rage and frustration bled into Antony’s words. He couldn’t help it. God, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He watched as the shock eclipsed Paris’s expression, as the fury seeped out of it. He’d got him.

“You spend your whole fucking life abusing and exploiting everyone you come across and you think it’s okay because it’s just the way things are! But it’s not! It’s not fucking okay! It doesn’t have to be like this! It never did!”

His own anger got away from him. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. Now he was the one struggling to catch his breath, the one about to pass out. It took everything to bring himself back.

He looked up at Paris — he’d been looking his direction the whole time, but he’d stopped seeing him somewhere in between. His head was somewhere else. Now he regained his focus. 

Paris looked like he was about to cry. For a minute, with his hair still wet and the oversized shirt, he appeared so young that Antony almost felt bad. Almost.

“You can’t stand it,” he repeated, “Oh god, this must ruin everything for you.”

He was even paler than he’d been when they found him. His eyes were wide, but the pupils were all dilated. He was shaking. Antony didn’t have the patience for it anymore.

“You leave tomorrow morning,” he said. “There’s a back door, you won’t have to deal with the Imperial checkpoints. You should sleep while you have the chance.”

Paris nodded, taking a few unsteady steps backwards to the exit. He didn’t answer. Antony felt his irritation flare up again.

“And would it have fucking killed you to say thank you?!” he snapped. 

To his amazement, Paris’s face reddened several shades, eventually settling on a soft pink.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He couldn’t look at him.

~

Morning came. Cleo sat up on the fortress walls with Lorelai. Dew was settled onto every surface. It was colder that sunrise than it had been in months, but not unpleasantly so. 

“Um, I spy…something orange,” Lorelai said around bites of a red apple.

“It’s the surveyor mark,” Cleo said.

“Shit, how are you getting them all first try?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve played this game here?” Cleo responded.

Lorelai shrugged. “FMK?”

“It’s 4AM,” Cleo said.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

The trapdoor flipped open. One of the scouts popped through midway.

“Car’s ready,” he said to Lorelai. 

She nodded and pass the remaining half of the apple to Cleo. She left all clad in the other girl’s clothing, down to the tennis shoes.

“I’ll see you around, then?” she said hopefully, the same way she had to Vi, without quite the same implication.

Lorelai climbed down the ladder until she’d hit the ground level of the base. She found Paris where she’d left him. Conscious now, but just as silent and sullen as he’d been the night before. She did not particularly blame him for that.

His hands were still a bit too bloodied to hold, so she placed her own gently around his wrist, feeling the pulse that still beat there. He rose reluctantly from beneath the blankets. She knew moving hurt him. 

Antony was waiting by the exit. She was relieved to find she had not totally burned that bridge. Antony said none of this had ever happened. He meant it. She’d check in with them later, once she’d gotten Paris across the border. It wouldn’t be long now, anyway.

She watched Paris slip Antony a folded up note. She knew what it said. It was signed from him, but it was in her handwriting. He couldn’t have bend his fingers around the pencil.

Ships are moving in Gamma formation but half of them are unarmed carriers. It’s a feign. Late gen G-12 ships have a point of catastrophic failure at ball turret joint. IRW Palace is in orbit so there’s a 99% chance Lt.Furness is here. He will try to torch the whole forest if he feels like he’s losing. Keep an eye out for that. Invest in flame retardant.

Thank you.

                                                         ~Paris

Antony’s eyes scanned the paper. Paris walked away before he could see a reaction, but Lorelai saw him slip the folded note into his jacket pocket. She waved goodbye before she clambered up into the transport.

The ride back to the ship was fast and quiet. The woods went by so much quicker on wheels and they did not run into any trouble. She couldn’t believe she’d trekked through it, alone and on foot, just one day before. It felt like forever ago.

She was pleased to see her ship was right where she left it, free of crack marks and bullet holes. The driver opened up the door for them. They fell out onto the forest floor.

“Make sure you do those hand exercises. I’m serious,” the driver called after Paris. He nodded in response, not really paying attention. His eyes were all far out.

The transport disappeared back into the forest, leaving thick tread marks in its wake. 

She opened the door for Paris, because she wasn’t sure he could it himself. He climbed in silently. She slid into the driver’s seat. It was all icy inside. She adjusted the ship’s settings to break through orbit again. It gradually warmed as the engine kicked to life. She felt a sense of homecoming that surprised her.

She glanced over to him to find him still staring off into nothingness.

“…Are you okay?”

It wasn’t a very good question. She knew that. She already knew the answer.

He nodded mutely. Lorelai frowned. She waited a while, hoping he’d go on. But the distant look in his eyes remained and his lips did not move. She realized the rest of the drive would probably be in silence. He got like that sometimes, even on better days.

“…Okay. I love you.”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said. He gripped the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling it up to cover his face. As much as he tried to be quiet, he couldn’t help the way his body gasped for air in-between sobs. 

“Oh, honey,” Lorelai gasped. 

She’d seen him cry before. It happened enough out of frustration, bitter tears forming at the edges of his eyes, wiped away just as quickly as they came. Not like this.

She placed a hand in between his shoulder blades, trying to steady him. She might as well have not been there at all.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” his voice broke up. He curled away from the touch. “I-I-I-“

None of the words were making it out. Lorelai moved mechanically, so used to piloting by now that she could do it without thinking. She put one arm behind the passenger seat, checking behind her before she backed out.

“Okay. Okay, breathe,” she whispered, because he needed reminding sometimes.

He stopped trying to speak through it. The ship entered the open morning sky. The inside of it was filled up with the sound of his half-sobs, barely muffled from within the fabric of his shirt.

“Easy,” The ship was on autopilot now. The sky gradually darkened as it pulled out of the upper atmosphere. She ran her fingers in circles along his arm. “In for four, out for eight. You remember. You’re fine.”

She could feel him struggling to make up the ragged breaths through all the convulsions. Little half-formed words slipped to the surface, none of them coherent. 

“Breathe,” she insisted.

Slowly, it steadied. He was still crying, but it didn’t possess him the same way it had. He reluctantly removed the fabric. His face had turned red and blotchy underneath it. He turned away as if he was embarrassed by it, like it might’ve offended her. 

“…’m sorry,” he mumbled into the glass pane of the window. She looped her fingers into his own, careful of the blisters that had formed there. His skin was warmer than hers now. It was the only time she could remember that happening. 

“It’s okay.” She pressed her lips gingerly to the bruises on his knuckles, the same way he’d done for her when her arm was cut open. “That was a lot. I’d cry too. I’d cry way worse, you know me.”

“…’s not that,” he said. His voice still shook even on small sentences. He wiped desperately at his eyes.

“What is it?” She brought her other hand to hold his now. She traced her fingers gently over the raw skin, as if she might be able to read his fortune that way.

He shook his head and he did not answer.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @dietofwormsofficial @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen

[mademoisellekalopsia]

Day 1: A Whimsy Halloween Greeting

[ratwithhands]

Got dragged to two (2!!) parties and had to wait until I got home so I could stay up and finish this. So verrry tired.

Anyways, here's Emmet at Anville taking pictures of the turntable from the bridge. Thought I'd give him a typical railfan hobby, so here he is doing train photography. I heard that photographer railfans in Japan are called Toritetsu so ig that could be a descriptor? Homeboy just likes getting their good angles to look at later. Hope you like it and see you later.

[taihua]

FengQing 16 for the ask meme writing prompt? 👀

16. --in grief.

The street smelled like blood--blood that was still wet when Feng Xin and Mu Qing arrived at the scene, just in time to see the light snuff out from the last Xuan Zhen deputy official's eyes.

Feng Xin saw Mu Qing's balance waver, and he threw out an impulsive hand to steady him. For once, the gesture wasn't knocked aside.

"He... killed them?" Mu Qing's voice was quiet, but it carried both confusion and anger. "How could he?! They haven't done anything to him. If he wanted to fight, h-he should've found me."

Dozens of little cuts crossed the officials' skin, the work of the wraith butterflies. Crimson Rain Sought Flower probably hadn't even lifted a hand personally, as if he considered it a challenge beneath him.

"I'm going to kill him," Mu Qing continued, betraying himself by the crack in his voice. "I'm going to kill him."

"Don't rush in blindly," Feng Xin started to caution, realizing at that moment that his hand was still on Mu Qing's arm. He moved to withdraw, but Mu Qing was faster, bringing his own hand to clasp over Feng Xin's.

"He killed my deputies, Feng Xin." When Mu Qing looked up, his dark eyes were glinting around the edges with unshed but welling tears. "We should have been faster. It's... it's your fault..."

An accusation like that would usually earn him a punch in the face. This time, Feng Xin only flinched as Mu Qing closed the gap between them to bury his head into his shoulder, feeling the hot exhale of his breath against the silk of his collar.

The arm that Feng Xin wrapped around Mu Qing's shoulders was tentative. So was the way his lips brushed against Mu Qing's hair, in a way that left room for plausible deniability.

"We'll find him," he promised. "He won't get away with this."

[auseyre]

My favorite minor character is also my favorite misfit, so a twofer

The man always playing two games at once

The man that embraced Zombie!Pete

The man who can read people like a book

The man

The myth

The Legend