#sleeve box with partition

[hippolotamus]

tagged by the lovely and talented @daffi-990 (new chapter!) @mountedeverest @wikiangela (be sure to check out their things) and various other people through the week. Brain did not wish to write this week, but I put together some unexpected words on a thing that's been bothering me in S7 😅 anyway, have some of Eddie's complicated mental gymnastics. (and I did another lil thing earlier but didn't tag everyone because i know not everyone likes BuckTommy but if it interests you...)

As much as Eddie gave Buck hell about Natalia, about dating someone from a call, he easily categorizes Marisol separately. Because Eddie is good at that, at making different mental compartments for sorting the things he needs to. Things like work (people they saved, people they lost), Christopher (school, growing up, friend circles), his time in the army, family (his sisters, abuela, Pepa, his parents, safe topics of conversation). Even one for himself (father, son, brother, husband, widower, firefighter). Needless to say, it’s an extensive list. A well practiced method that allows him to say ‘Marisol from the hardware store’, not ‘Marisol from the 911 call’, without feeling guilty or like he’s lying.  Other than the convenience of a half truth, he was genuinely pleased to run into her there. She’s pleasant, helpful. There’s something kind of adorable about her overalls and the way her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail. Something that makes her a little less intimidating and a lot easier to talk to. Like he doesn’t have to perform or put on an act. He can just be a guy trying to figure out the right adhesive for his son’s school project.  It’s a nice role to slip into. Easy. Simple. Easier still to justify having Chris there when he calls Marisol to ask her out.  That all comes screeching to a halt when he picks her up for their date. They're only supposed to be going for a casual dinner and movie. He chose a black button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms, and one of his nicer pairs of dark jeans. What he considers a respectable yet casual look. Marisol opens the door to greet him and something in his brain goes offline. Not for any of the typical reasons people usually get thrown off. But when has his brain ever acted the way it’s supposed to? It’s not- she’s not unattractive or off putting. Necessarily. But she’s… girly, soft, feminine. Her hair falls around her shoulders, slightly curled at the ends, and she’s applied enough makeup to be noticeable but not too much. She’s wearing a short-sleeved olive green dress that falls to mid-thigh and strappy heels.  Several of the neatly arranged boxes in Eddie’s head, with their partitions and labels, tumble together, spilling and jumbling their contents with another unmarked box full of thoughts he’d like to pretend he doesn’t know exists.

@actuallyitsellie @epicbuddieficrecs @loveyouanyway @a-noble-dragon @tizniz

@fortheloveofbuddie @weewootruck @saybiwithme @bidisasterevankinard @shipperqueen6

@ramonaflow @taketheplanspinitsideways @spotsandsocks @dangerpronebuddie @theotherbuckley

@stereopticons @kitteneddiediaz @mrs-f-darcy @diazsdimples @drowsy-quill

@your-catfish-friend @thekristen999 @filet-o-feelings @underwaterninja13 @lizzie-bennetdarcy

@rainbow-nerdss @steadfastsaturnsrings @queenmabcreates @inell @jesuisici33

@bucksbiawakening @shortsighted-owl @queerbuckleys @bi-buckrights

@elvensorceress @giddyupbuck @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @ladydorian05

@lemonzestywrites @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @the-likesofus

@thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @wildlife4life and anyone else who wants to 😘

[pink-tonic]

Interesting...📰

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Warning: Some odd behavior from Kana

Now I have another responsibility that I have to take care of this week. I need to be the nurse's helper.

I wasn't planning on doing this, but from the looks of it, the nurse does need the extra help.

I walk to school with Taeko and Taro like I usually do. I don't talk much with them during the walk to school since I'm thinking about what to do once we make it to school.

Should I just go straight to the nurse's office?

The three of us eventually make it to school, and we go to our own lockers and switch out our shoes into the indoor ones.

I think I should go to the nurse's office. It wouldn't be right not to check up on him in the morning.

I go over to Taeko and Taro and talk to them.

"Hey, guys," I greet them, and it catches both of their attentions, "I'm going to go to the nurse's office. I don't know if you want to come or not."

Taeko is the first to speak up, "I'll go later to check up on my knee, but you can go. We'll meet up later."

"Alright, sounds good," I gave them a wave, and I start to make my way down the hallway.

I make it to the nurse's office, and I open up the door. While I slide open the door, I secretly hope I don't find Mr. Kana wrapped around in bandages again.

Luckily, when I go inside, I see Mr. Kana walking around.

I greet him, and he turns around to look at me. A smile forms once he sees me, and he walks over to me.

"You came at just the right time!" He happily tells me, his smile only getting bigger.

I tilt my head, "What is it?"

He lets out a chuckle, showing how excited he was to reveal the news to me, "I got a uniform for you!"

"A... uniform? For me?" I question not fully understanding what he means.

"Yes! You're my assistant after all, so I told the headmaster that I need an extra uniform for you!"

Mr. Kana then turns away from me and walks over to a cardboard box. He picks it up and walks back over to me.

"Take a look!" He says to me while ushering me to take the box.

I take the box from his hands, and I look inside of it. It is a nurse uniform, and it's almost identical to the one he has on. The only difference is that this one has longer sleeves.

"You should try it on!" He exclames, "I'll be over there, so you can change."

Mr. Kana then makes his way to the other side of the room where the beds are.

I go over to the wall partition, so I'm hidden. I start to change out of my regular uniform and into the nurse uniform.

Once I have everything on, I put away my regular uniform in the box, and I step out into Mr. Kana's view.

He lets out a gasp and jumps from out of his seat. He walks over to me with his usual smile on his face.

"It suits you perfectly! You should definitely become a nurse!" Mr. Kana tells me while he takes in my new look.

Before he continues to gush about how I look, I hear the door to the office open.

But Mr. Kana doesn't seem to notice and keeps talking to me instead of addressing the new person in the room.

"Oh! You look absolutely wonderful, (L/N)!

His compliment catches me off guard, and I look at him with confusion, "Are you sure this is okay? I was only planning on helping out a little, Mr. Kana."

I then hear footsteps and the door closing. The sound catches both of our attention, and we both look over to the person.

My eyes widen as I see Ayato standing near the doorway. I don't say anything, and I end up watching Ayato and Mr. Kana interact with each other.

Mr. Kana questions Ayato about what he is feeling, but it doesn't seem like anything serious. Mr. Kana then walks away from Ayato and goes over to me.

"Are you going to help, (L/N)?" Mr. Kana asks me, hoping that I will stick around and help him.

I look up at the clock mounted on the wall, and I notice that the bell for passing period is about to ring.

I shake my head, "I can't, I have to go to class."

Mr. Kana then looks at the clock, "Oh! You're right! Alright, you should start to head to class. I'll see you later."

Then, on que, the bell rings. I nod and then leave the room. I slide the door close once I'm in the hallway.

I let out a sigh. I'm happy I don't have to be in that room any longer. There is no way I could be anywhere near Ayato. I'm too scared. I'm scared that he is going to hurt me again.

But I need to pull myself together and head to class.

While I'm making my way to class, I get stopped by one of the student council members. I don't remember her name, but she's wearing glasses, has straight black hair, and wears a stren look on her face.

"Where is your uniform?" She asks me while inspecting my clothing.

"Well, I'm helping out the new nurse, and he gave me this uniform. You can ask the nurse or the headmaster," I explain, hoping she is satisfied with the answer.

"Hmmmm... alright. I'll inform the other members so they don't stop you to ask. Have a good day," she tells me in an almost robotic voice, before walking away from me and down the hallway.

The student council might be a pain to deal with, but at least they do their job right.

I head to class, and this time without anyone stopping me.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The bell rings, and it's lunchtime now. I exit the classroom and into the hallway, and I think about whether or not I should go to the nurse's office.

There is a chance that Ayato will still be there, and I'll have to get close to him. The thought of getting close to him sends a shiver straight through my spine. Being near him is the last thing I would want to do.

"Quite the look you have there, darling," a familiar voice snaps me out of my thinking, and I look up towards the person.

It's Kizano, and he is looking at me with a confused and intrigued look on his face. He must be looking at me because of what I'm wearing.

"Yeah, I'm helping out the nurse. So he gave me this uniform, you're not the first to say something about it," I explain to him.

He lets out a chuckle, "I guess you were stopped by the student council, right?"

I nod my head in response.

He rolls his eyes, "Tell me about it! Those student council members wouldn't know style if it slapped them right across their face. I've been stopped by them many times because of my amazing cap." Kizano then gestures over to his iconic velvet cap that he takes practically everywhere with him.

I let out a laugh, "Yeah, I guess I understand you now."

"Well, I like to think you always understand me, darling," Kizano casually admits to me, "But I didn't just come here to talk to you, I want a favor from you. Is that alright?"

"Well, it depends on what the favor is," I tell him with a slight shurg, hoping it's nothing too outrageous.

"Great! Come with me!" Kizano happily exclames. Grabbing one of my hands and dragging me towards the stairs.

He takes me all the way to the first floor and into his clubroom. But while we were making our way to the clubroom, some students paused what they were doing and watched Kizano drag me along.

Kizano slides open the clubroom's doors and walks inside, and I follow behind him. He lets go of my hand and goes behind the mini set that is in the middle of the room.

"Grab a seat, darling! I want you to watch my performance for the play!" Kizano informs me as I can hear him looking for something.

I take a seat on one of the many chairs and wait for him to come out. I actually like this better than going to the nurse's office. But I suppose anything would be better than being near Ayato.

Eventually, Kizano comes out, and he is wearing something completely different.

"Do you like what you see, darling?" Kizano asks as he walks closer to me.

I nod my head, "Yeah, it suits you a lot."

"And that's the exact reason I decided to be the King of Hearts!" He tells me with a smile.

"So... what are you going to do?" I ask him, hoping that it'll take the whole lunch time.

"I'm going to perform the last scene for you. This scene has to be captivating and intriguing! I can not give a sloppy performance!" Kizano explains to me with a passion.

"Well, I would like to see it!" I tell him as I lean back in the chair.

I see Kizano stand up straight and take a deep breath. He then grabs the prop sword and grips it tight.

"I've told you, Alice, that you can not go any further! Step back, or else I'll have to use my sword against you," Kizano says calmly, but I can also hear a bit of annoyance in his voice.

Kizano then walks to his right and points his sword at the imaginary Alice. "If you come closer, it will be over for you. Now, get back you naive little girl!"

Kizano takes a pause and tilts his head, I assume that Alice is supposed to say something back to him, but since the actress isn't here, he has to instead pretend she is there.

"What do you mean, little girl? He would never betray me! I am his king, and he is my loyal subject!"

I can now hear Kizano's voice raise in anger due to the information that Alice is giving him.

Kizano then points his sword down and laughs. His laughter is filled with mockery. Mocking what Alice is telling him.

"You seriously believe that I would think that one of my loyal sub...," Kizano is unable to finish his sentence as he looks down at his stomach.

I assume the loyal subject that was being talked about makes an appearance and impales Kizano.

Kizano slowly moves his head and looks behind him. "So... it is true. You sided with her after all..."

Kizano then falls to the ground, and his breathing becomes heavy.

"Just kill me already, you fool," Kizano orders.

Kizano then gets up from the floor and walks over to me.

"Did you like it, or did you love it?" Kizano asks with a smile, knowing that he did a good job.

"It was amazing, Kizano! What happens in the end?" I ask, curiosity eating away from me. Wondering whether the man killed the King of Hearts or not.

Kizano lets out a laugh, "You'll see once the play is finished."

"Wait, when is the play going to open?" I ask, hoping he would give me an answer.

"When Megumo Saikou arrives, which is in around five to four weeks," Kizano tells me as he walks behind the set and changes back to his normal clothes.

"Megumo Saikou? That name sounds familiar..."

"He is the grandson of the founder of Akademi High," Kizano explains, "He is set to come back to school in a few weeks. With the killing of that first year, he was ordered not to come. But I was told by the headmaster that he is set to come back soon."

"So this performance is made to welcome him?" I question him, the topic catching my attention.

"Sort of. This play was made before that, but the headmaster told us to finish it up by the time he comes back so he can see it," Kizano tells me before reappearing from behind the set.

"That's very interesting..."

The bell then rings, signaling that lunch has ended.

"Let me take you to class," Kizano offers me.

I would deny his offer, but I can't help but to accept it.

"Sure."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The last bell of the day rings, and it's time for me to go to the nurse's office. On my walk to the office, I can't help but feel nervous.

I hope that Mr. Kana isn't mad at me for my unexplained absence.

But then I remember that Ayato might still be inside. I make the decision to enter through the door that would lead me to the nurse's desk instead of the beds.

I slide open the door and walk inside. I see Mr. Kana sitting at his desk, and it seems like he is waiting for me.

Once I close the doors, Mr. Kana looks over towards me.

"There you are, (L/N)! I was wondering where you were," Mr. Kana happily says to me as I walk closer.

"Something came up... sorry," I respond with nervousness lacing my words.

"It's okay. But let's sit down and talk, alright?"

"S-sure!"

I grab a chair, and I place it right in front of Mr. Kana's desk. Now I'm sitting across from Mr. Kana.

"So what happened while I was gone?" I ask Mr. Kana, wondering what he had to deal with while I was gone.

"Oh, nothing much. I just had to take care of Aishi, and the two siblings from yesterday came by as well. But nothing much. Now, where were you?" Mr. Kana questions me once again, not seeming satisfied with the first answer I gave him at the start.

Before I can respond, I take a short pause, "I told you something came up. I'm sorry again."

"I know that something came up. But I'm just wondering what it was."

"I'd rather not talk about... sorry," I can't help but to shift in my seat due to how uncomfortable I feel. Why does he want to know so badly where I was?

"It's fine, but I want you to trust me at the very least."

I then feel an unexpected touch. I had my hand placed on the table, but in a quick movement, I can feel Mr. Kana's hand being placed on top of mine.

"Ummmm... Mr. Kana, I don't think you should be doing that."

"Oh! You don't like it? My apologies. I thought it would calm you down."

"I-it's fine."

Mr. Kana then pulls his hand away, and a dejected look takes over his features. And I can't help but wonder why he had that look on his face. Did what I say hurt him that badly?

"But I do have a question in mind."

This catches me off guard, and I wonder if I should ask what the question is. Another pause makes its presence, but in the end, I decide to ask what it is, "Yes, what is it?"

"Would you mind going out with me soon?"

"What?" I'm in disbelief at what Mr. Kana just asked me. He is an adult. He should not be asking me such a question. I was only meant to help him, not to hang out with him outside of school.

"I want to get to know you better, (Y/N). So would you like to go to a restaurant together, the two of us?" Mr. Kana's soft smile is present once more, but I feel this smile isn't one he gives to many. It feels softer and more welcoming, a smile you would give to someone... you love.

An uncomfortable silence takes over, and I'm sure Mr. Kana can feel how uncomfortable it feels. But I decide to respond to his question instead of letting the silence speak for me.

"I'll...I'll think about it, okay?"

"Oh! That's fine! But please tell me soon, so I can make reservations."

"Yes, of course. But I need to go, can I?" I quickly tell him, hoping to get out of the nurse's off as fast as possible.

"Sure! Please get home safely," Mr. Kana smiles at me and gives me a wave.

I nod and slip out of the room quickly.

As I walk down the hallway and towards my locker, I think about what just happened.

Was he flirting with me?

He had to be, right? I'm not over analyzing anything, right? I'm not going crazy, right?

The questions, the smile, and the sudden touch... it can't be nothing, right? It has to be something. It has to mean something!

I shake the thought out of my head and switch my shoes out. I close my locker and head out of the school.

My walk back home is normal, and I don't feel anything watching me. Which I'm thankful for. This day is already hectic as is, and I don't want to walk home with the feeling that someone is watching me.

I eventually make it back home, and the first thing I do is collapse on my couch.

[feybeasts]

I know I do a lot of navel gazing apropos of nothing lately but I've had a lotta reasons to wear my heart on my sleeve.

And I just wanna say- despite the flaws this site has, and there are many, the people I've met and interacted with here are, genuinely, some of the most real, nicest folks I've ever met. And... I guess sometimes I feel... anxious. Because of how much of a mixed bag I am- not everything I do is to everyone's tastes, art-wise, and I know it's easy to just... put me into a box, a 'type' of person online because of it but... I hope the honesty and the respect I've tried to show here does go some distance just towards... de-stigmatizing folks like me.

Yeah, I do niche furry kink content. It's most certainly not gonna be for everyone, that's never gonna be a hill I die on- a right to tailor one's experiences online isn't just a nice notion, I feel it's vital for survival. But I hope too that people understand that that content, at least for me, is just a small part of who I am. Yeah, a lot of my OCs are shaped like they are because it's comfortable or aspirational to me, but they're also people, characters I care deeply about, little slices of myself I put out into the world. I could partition myself out, throw things onto alternate accounts I'd forget to use, but my tumblr experience is, in some way, an attempt to put myself out there as I am- no mask, no... act, just whatever I am in the given moment, wholly without pretext.

I could go on and on about my relationship with kink, how it's always been more of an exploration of self, a means through which I've tried to find what makes me happy with my own self-image, but far smarter people than me have written volumes on that already, and I do encourage folks to seek out some of those works. But what I really want to do is just say... I know I'm a weird pile of wildly different aspects. I know I'm not the kind of person people are gonna be expecting to throw out deep navel-gazing dross like this.

But... you've all pretty much accepted me for that anyways, and... I'm grateful. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

[ravenkinnie]

I'm on a minor brainrot but brain goes brr I love fear of abandonment and punk

ao3 link

The corner of the handheld mirror is shattered. It paints Gwen’s face into a body horror mosaic held together by the heavy black sculpted vines crawling over the handle, the frame. There's no dimension where this mirror belongs to Hobie, probably borrowed or just picked up from someone else living in the abandoned warehouse turned graffiti-painted squat he's staying in, one of the voices Gwen can always hear beyond the partitions Hobie set up to carve out his space.

She turns the mirror to peek at the shaved line of her hair; it looks odd and choppy, even though the line has never been even, Gwen’s own hand not particularly steady at lining the hair. It might be because Hobie cut it to the sharp dark contrasts of this dimension, his dimension, where everything looks heavy and choppy to Gwen. In her own, the hair on the shaved side falls soft and smooth, lines blending into each other perfectly.

She tips the mirror again, to look at Hobie’s head behind her shoulder, where he's bending over towards the floor.

"It's crooked," she says.

"It doesn't conform." Hobie gathers chopped strands of hair into his hands, throws them into the cardboard box on the floor working as a trashcan. Gwen is pretty sure the other week the box doubled as a hospital, when one of the cats always lounging around the squat gave birth inside it.

She turns the mirror, giving a theatrical pout as she pretends to examine Hobie’s work again. "Maybe a hairdresser would have been better."

"Don't buy into the industry, Gwendy." Hobie throws himself down onto the sagging couch with sides ripped apart by cat claws. He grabs a box from underneath the couch, lays the lid on his lap before smoothing a rolling paper on it, messily putting together a blunt. "Create an idea, make it a fake art, sell your own body back to you, all bullshit."

It diffuses like gentle oranges of a sunset above the Hudson, right behind Gwen’s ribs, the easiness in the pointless conversation. She hasn't felt this easy with someone since Miles, the only one since Peter.

She lowers the mirror, turning around on the uncomfortable barstool serving as a chair to face him. "You fixed those wicks yourself?"

"I paid in favours like we were meant to live." Hobie pauses for a moment, trying to roll the blunt tightly enough. "And Blue Ribbon."

He gets a chuckle out of her, in the same easy way Hobie always manages. Maybe being around him is so simple, so uncomplicated because he reminds her of Miles. They have the same air about them, the same genuine, straightforward way of being unquestionably good. No conversations or discussions around whether Hobie would give Gwen a place to stay when Jessica introduced them, no questions when he gave her the thick mattress to sleep on, taking the space on the floor himself.

Or when she freaked out at the Spider Society headquarters that first day, when the notification on her phone went off, a reminder of the oestrogen injection that has been a part of Gwen’s life for so long she didn't think about leaving her supply back home, about the consequences of cutting herself off everything back home, everything crashing down in the moment the stupid alert popped up on the screen. It felt stupid to worry about an injection too, with the magnitude of everything that has happened, that could happen as explained by Jessica and Miguel but the awareness of how silly it all seemed in the grand scheme of things only made the tears sting more. Hobie didn't have to ask, just took one glance at her phone and clucked his tongue. The next thing Gwen knew was the wordlessly offered paper bag with the vial and clean syringes, the same one that Hobie always leaves next to the mattress now.

Gwen squirms on the stool, itchy hair trapped underneath her shirt – Hobie’s shirt, small clusters of holes on sleeves, bigger ones with uneven cigarette burned edges by the hem as if Hobie stubbed them out on his own clothes. The logo for his band faded in the wash, bleeding some colour into material; it's an old logo too from three bassist and two drummers ago, before he threw the drumsticks to Gwen, told her to show what she got.

It's not like Gwen doesn’t have practise being taken in like this. After her mom died barely few days before Christmas that year, in the drained stark white and greyish blur of days, May and Ben became almost permanent fixtures at their already tiny apartment. Her dad was there but he might as well have been gone, his face just as drained and his eyes as empty as everything around. He scared Gwen somewhat, the utter stillness of him that felt in such contrast to everything reeling and storming inside her, all the facts and details of her reality yet to sink in.

There was no questions then too, about where they would spend that Christmas and every year after that, no hesitation when Peter and May took her hands in theirs, her dad on the other side, bowed their heads as Gwen muttered the gratitude prayers, her dad's lips barely twitching, barely moving to repeat the words. She hasn't really prayed by herself since, the thought of sitting at that dinner table thanking anything watching over the universe feeling wrong, tasteless.

She slips off the stool, tries to shake the hair out of her shirt. Her foot almost slips on the pile of pinkish slide on the floor; the life in the warehouse isn't just human and feline but the cats take care of the mice, the rats just fine. Gwen wishes they would do it cleaner too, the tiny macabre piles on the floor making her stomach churn every time.

Maybe that's what Hobie likes, the strays. The anomalies that find new ways to fit into their situations. He likes Miles, Gwen knows from how all the colours of him flicker when she talks about him, like Hobie can't help the fondness that bleeds from Gwen into him.

Her fingers brush the choppy shaved line. She lets the longer side grow out but every time her hair gets to her ears on the other one her mind keeps repeating the words she heard from her mom once, about how hair holds memories. Her mom's straw blond hair stayed the same shape that Gwen has seen in her parents’ wedding photos, wispy bangs and ends brushing shoulders. She's not sure whether it makes her feel closer to her or to Miles sometimes, but it doesn't matter anyway.

She catches Hobie’s eye, right before he lets his gaze fall to his lighter. A brief look, a little hesitant maybe like he's checking whether she likes it.

Gwen smiles at him. "It looks cool."

Hobie smiles back, softer than the sharp curl of his lip that shows his canines. Maybe Gwen is just drawn to kindness, the same way Hobie is to anomalies.

***

The day is saved.

The day is saved, Gwen repeats to herself, again and again but the words don't stay. The anomaly is contained, already sent off to the headquarters but the wreckage left behind, most of the sketch linework of the city crumpled and shattered under its heavy reptilian feet, looks gruesome. Squashed and ruined, impossible to imagine being put back together.

She's shaking a little, grasps onto her thighs through the thin layer of her suit to stop her muscles from twitching. Aftershocks from adrenaline, one thing Gwen still hasn't learned to cope with yet, hasn't figured out how to stop. Right at the top of the list and after that: the sour taste in her mouth seeing the destruction in so many universes, so many different ways to take a home and turn it into dust.

A hand grasps onto her arm. Gwen turns around quickly, keeps her feet firm on the ground to stop her body reacting instinctively against the intrusion as the frazzled linework on one of the civilians her web got out of the way of the beast registers. The thankful words, the gratitude in the way pencilled hands hold hers comes through her ears muffled, like the blood rushing through her systems turned everything inside into cotton, blocking all ways out, all ways in.

Still feels good, though. Still makes it feel worth it.

Her wristwatch pipes up the moment the person is out of sight. Jess' hologram shows up with barely a graze of Gwen’s fingers over the buttons.

"How’s it going?" Her voice is casual, light in a way that immediately rings an alarm bell in Gwen’s head.

"Good!" She coughs to cover up the edge in her voice, waves her hand as if to disperse dust from the wreckage around her. There is none but Jess won’t be able to see that. "All good, just cleaning up, you know how it is."

Her hand goes instinctively to the sting in her ribs, right underneath her breast, burrowing into her to make its way into her heart. Or maybe out of it, the embarrassing desire to hear Jess say Gwen did good, not just that she did fine. She tries to cover it up with quips and bits but around Jess it's much harder, harder to pretend Gwen doesn't want her to see something in her, to recognise some mystical magical spark that means she doesn't just get to stay, that she even belongs somewhere, by right and talent. She might hope it lessens the adrenaline shakes, the sour taste at the aftermaths, make Gwen’s words always steady and her actions always fruitful like Jessica's herself.

"Good, good." The nonchalance in Jess' voice as her hands move out of sight, probably adjusting computer screens, gets to turn Gwen’s stomach for a moment before she asks, "So I'm supposed to see a boat parked on a highway here?"

Gwen turns around. On the docks there is an unmistakable empty space that should be holding something. "I was just about to sort that out," she says, her chin raised to give her false confidence some basis.

"Proactive," Jess comments. She gives Gwen a sharp look. "Now be quick too. Before it catches on other monitors." She wouldn't tell Miguel, not before she gives Gwen a chance to fix her mistakes. It's not exactly kindness, Gwen guesses but it's the closest she's come to one with most people.

Dread pools in her stomach regardless, at the thought of Miguel finding out about another of Gwen’s mishaps, another issue caused by her. Peter says he's all bark, no bite and while Gwen has never felt those fangs sink into her, the bark itself made her trace the shells of her ears, checking if the eardrums burst leaking blood onto her white suit. Besides, he doesn't even need a bite, all he needs is to decide Gwen doesn't have what it takes, that she should go home. A possibility much worse than anything else Miguel might do to her, than any of the anomalies might.

She considers calling Hobie, but it makes her feel stupid, a child tugging on an adult’s sleeve begging for help. Even though Hobie is barely more of an adult than her but with everything he's done for Gwen so far, the scale doesn't balance. She's on her own just like him, she should figure it out on her own just like he does.

The anomaly is extremely easy to find, if only because a massive passenger yacht stuck in the middle of a traffic on a highway causes a bit of a scene. The other reason it's easy to find: the hastily drawn lines of the yacht make the cartoonish large eyes with perfect flicks of lashes it gained in this dimension look uncanny. She has to blink few times before she sees Peter Parkedcar in the mess of smog and beeping cars, engine revving in a way Gwen doesn't know how she recognises as sympathetic.

In the end, its better she didn't call Hobie, his whole shtick probably the worst thing she could subject an inanimate object that gained consciousness by fluke to.

"It's just a road." Gwen isn't sure what she would imagine a boat to sound like but the small rasp makes the wheels in her brain turn: is it the engines inside that produce the low tones? Has she ever spoken to Peter Parkedcar? How does a car get bitten by a spider, actually? Maybe she should have spoken to him before.

"All there is, a road, I can't... I can't go on like this, always going on." Gwen can sympathise - she thinks she would be equally freaked out if she suddenly happened to gain consciousness too. Or maybe she did, in a way, that’s why the crushing weight on her makes every new sensation so overwhelming.

She turns around for a moment, to assess the damage of the traffic and hide the giggle threatening to burst out but she barely makes it few steps away before the boat rasps, "Don't leave, please, don't leave me."

Well, that Gwen can relate to.

Back at the headquarters, Jess gives her a tiny nod. It's almost nothing, a blink and you miss it gesture, but in Jessica Drew's language it might as well be a full-bodied hug.

***

The washing machine sounds like a helicopter taking off. It waddles too, rattling from side to side like it's about to gain its own consciousness and walk out of the dingy apartment it lives in.

Gwen isn't sure how Hobie’s ex-girlfriend can sleep in the same room with the heavy ruckus, the pull-out couch only few steps from the kitchen corner. It might be why she only let them in before heading out herself. Gwen was too flustered to think about it then, with the quick look the girl gave her, with her snappy this your new lass, yeah?. Before Gwen even had time to process and protest, the girl tucked the long side of her hair behind Gwen's ear, smiled and with a quick sweet thrown Hobie’s way she was gone.

Gwen takes herself to the bathroom where Hobie is soaking his crust pants in the tub. The apartment is tiny, the distance from the washing machine too small to help with the noise but watching Hobie swirl his pants in the water with a broom stick like he's a wizard perfecting a potion is far more entertaining than the waddling washing machine.

"I went home the other day," Gwen says.

Hobie doesn't even look at her. "Liar."

He doesn’t say anything more; Gwen can't help a smile. He never asked for the full story, for the exact reason why she showed up at the headquarters shaking with her mask in her hands and Jessica's arm around her shoulders. He must assume there is one, the same way Gwen assumes there are many behind the squat, the ex-girlfriend who still lets him use her apartment to do laundry, the blue laces in his platform boots. It's a silent agreement to not push for these things but Gwen suspects if she did, Hobie would tell her. Hobie’s presence is comfort either because of or despite that, Gwen isn't sure. If Hobie pushed, she’s not sure she would tell him, but she is sure he won't push in the first place.

She scratches her eyebrow, the dry itchy skin around the irritated eyebrow piercing. He probably shouldn't have given it to her on the sagging couch with just a needle and a lighter, but the irritation is mostly Gwen’s fault. She can never learn to stop poking things.

Peter did a double take seeing the small titanium balls hugging her eyebrows. "That's... nice," he hesitated, Mayday wriggling in his arms. If she were Miles, he would probably make a quip, comment on the redness blooming around the piercing, maybe chastise him for the conditions he got it in because really, Miles? Do you want to actually lose your head?

But Gwen is not Miles, she's just another person with a shadow of Miles behind her, one that hangs heavy between her and Peter. He's another layer between her and Miguel, one much softer than Jess, a voice behind her back saying go easy on her. But outside those moments, he seems to avoid her like the heaviness of things they hide from that shadow between them is too much, fractures starting in the foundation they stand on.

There might be other things too. The way sometimes Gwen looks at him and it appears as soon as it passes, a brief flicker of thought that her Peter will never reach that age, that Gwen will but she will never see that age on him. And another, even quicker than the former, that there might be another face Peter sees when he looks at her, one he would never mention because she's just a kid but one that throws different shadows, obscures Gwen completely sometimes.

Gwen Stacy dies in every universe. Miguel didn't mince his words telling her, didn't cushion them with any soft places to land. Gwen twists and turns on the thick mattress some nights, the words replaying in her head, along every other Gwen falling through the sky, the brief moment where they are suspended like Gwen is but knowing there's nowhere to swing, there's only the ground to crash to. She knows the exact feeling, the lightness, the speed of falling through the sky, the absolute peace of being stuck, for just a brief moment, in the space of nothingness, no structures, no walls to hold her. But she knows the hand in hers too, that Gwen can always find her way up, that if she can't then Miles would. She only knows herself though, maybe all the other Gwens were sure of that too, that there was always a web to swing on, an arm to grasp theirs. Maybe they were sure one time too many, that one time being enough.

The question slips out before Gwen even realises she's about to ask it, "Do you think Gwen Stacy dies in this universe too?"

Hobie looks right at her, his usual air of distanced irony gone, everything serious and stable colours. He's never voiced it but it's not hard to guess the depth his doubts about Miguel's theories go or at least the distance he chooses to maintain from them.

Probably part of why he lets her crash in his dimension is that he doesn't believe an anomaly will cause anything. I don't believe in nomalies to believe in anomalies and Gwen wishes she could too but then she remembers the falls, no web to swing on. And she remembers the blue uniform splattered with blood, all the times she watched her watch light up in swirls of watercolours before switching it off. She can't risk it, she doesn't want to risk not believing.

Hobie might have seen her corner of the warehouse light up with pastels, might know what's hiding behind her words. It might be why he says, "She looks fine to me." He uses his hand to wring the water out of his pants; it comes out grey, much duller than anything in his dimension is. Gwen doesn’t stop herself from making a disgusted face. "I don’t believe in paradigms."

"You calculated the number of chords per each Ramones album."

"Patterns I believe in, yeah." He shakes out his pants, his eyes steady on Gwen. "You gotta look for the right ones."

There's a weight to his words, like he's weaving something between the letters for Gwen to find later.

The watch feels heavy on her hand. It leaves red marks on her skin when she shifts the wristband.

***

The parties at the squat are nothing like the shows Gwen has experienced before. Not that she's been to that many, sneaking off maybe twice while her dad was on night shifts, but the contrast is so sharp it makes her head spin.

It's so loud, the bass and reverb making the walls shake but it's barely music, a chaos of instruments that do not go together with a soundtrack from someone's boombox adding more layers of pure noise. It’s a large wave, current that takes everything inside her head and washes it out leaving only the riffs and the lyrics that don't match shouted from different corners of the warehouse.

She takes over the drums, beats to the rhythm then out of the rhythm then to another rhythm until it all converges, until her hands hurt and her breath catches. Then she turns in the crowd, stomps with Hobie’s chucks that couldn't hope to make the same thud and shake the ground the same as all the platforms around her. Someone grabs her hand, pulls her into a mosh pit and it’s all a mess, the outside matching the inside, all better than thinking about the quivering pathetic thing in her chest, at Miguel's anger and at Miguel's words and at her mistakes almost sending her back, almost causing the worst, triggering the canon that she has to escape, has to stomp and turn away from.

A girl with a mohawk of vibrant blues and greens taps her chin and Gwen has seen that gesture before, has felt the light tap on her chin. She always shook her head, but she can only blame the tremble in her chest and the reverb tingling in her fingers when she opens her mouth, sticks her tongue out, lets the girl put the little pill on it. She doesn't think before she swallows it.

At first, nothing happens. Gwen continues turning on the makeshift dance floor, her heartbeat beating to the rhythm of the drums, her head full of noise the same as before. Next moment she knows, she's talking to someone and everything shifts, her stomach drops and everything melts. All features blended perfectly into a mess of colours that radiates then softens, her heart almost melting with it because everything feels gentle and diluted and just like home. None of the lights and outlines and contrasts feel sharp, dark shadows with a luminous quality instead of black nothingness, a giggle bubbling in her chest, full of relief and hope.

She loses herself in pastels, finds herself again minutes or hours later with her back on the dirty floor, the lights on the ceiling blending together into tender kaleidoscopes. A hand comes into her line of sight; Gwen grabs, lets Hobie pull her to her feet.

He lays her down on the mattress, sitting next to her to keep watch. Gwen turns onto her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow. It smells like his ex’s laundry detergent, soft from the fabric softener so much so that she grasps the sheets to make sure she doesn't sink through the mattress, through the floor, into the earth.

She watches Hobie, his legs stretched out, his guitar on his stomach, strumming the strings gently. He looks softer too, the harsh edges and shadows of him blended like candy colouring melting onto fingers, like all the kindness inside him could stain her if she managed to touch it, the tickle in her fingers she only gets around Miles. Suddenly, her chest gives a painful pang, an empty ache, all the watercolours draining into a greyish hue.

But Hobie stays painted into tender shades, emptiness inside spreading like it could swallow Gwen whole, a sudden need to take it in, to feel that softness for herself. She props herself up on her elbows, pushes herself up until she can press a small butterfly kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Hobie’s hand comes up to the back of her neck, stopping her before she can lean back in again. "Gwendy." He gives her a soothing squeeze, leans away slightly. "You don't want it."

Her eyes sting, his warm hues blend through the sudden blur of tears obscuring her vision. "Don't tell me what I want. I want-" The words slur in Gwen’s mouth into a bitter sludge, impossible to find the ending to the sentence in the mess. "I want to-"

Gwen doesn't see Hobie lay his guitar to the side, but he must have because he pulls her to his chest, tucks her under his chin. "Tell me when you stop trippin'," he says, his heartbeat strong in his chest.

Gwen breathes in and out with the thud of his heart, feels the rough worn-down material of his shirt under her cheek, the studs on his jacket digging into her arm. Her mind comes to a slower swirl, a barely there pace of thoughts escaping her as her eyelids grow heavier.

"Why Gwendy?" She manages to get out, the words blurred like his colours.

Hobie’s breath is warm on her scalp when he says, "'Cause you left Neverland."

Her mouth still tastes bitter when the light of the morning comes through the large windows, the shutters open. She opens her eyes, blinking rapidly against the unbearable brightness. Her mind feels even heavier than her tongue does in her mouth, all limbs turn to lead.

Next to the pillow, on the floor right by the mattress, stands a full water bottle and a Styrofoam box giving off the scent of fresh pastries. It's as comforting as a heartbeat in a chest against hers.

Gwen turns to her other side pulling the covers over her head as her foot hits something heavy. She groans in tune to the annoyed meow.

***

Her hand hesitates above the watch. This time, the screen doesn't bleed watercolours, it radiates the steady lines and rich colours of Earth-616, the skyline that feels familiar now.

Jess' words keep replaying in Gwen’s head. "I told Miguel you can handle it." The sharp look above her glasses, the warning in her gaze. "Don't prove me wrong."

Every time her hand grasped the watch before, every time she imagined this exact moment, it was different, though. It would be a reward, not a test, nothing but Gwen’s own want making her press the buttons. Nothing that Gwen would have keep from Miles, no words to swallow, everything spilling out about the stray cats leaving mice in her sneakers, the sharp contrasts of Hobie’s world, Hobie himself. Her dad.

She can't lie to Miles, she's not sure she ever could. But keeping things from him isn't the same, yet it feels like the difference is so minor it might as well not exist at all.

But then the ache in Gwen’s chest grows and grows just thinking about Miles’ easy eyes; she doesn't want to do the better thing. She doesn’t want to say she can't do it, to hand it off to someone else, doesn't want to see Jessica's disappointment. She wants to go, to see Miles, to prove she can.

Maybe it's why Gwen has always been drawn to kindness, because the right thing doesn’t come as easy to her, because she needs to be near it to feel its warmth, let it seep into her skin, stain her fingers. A pattern she can recognise, slurred sentence in her mouth she can at least finish.

The portal opens with a loud whirl of sounds. Gwen doesn't let herself think twice before stepping through it.

[jadeazora]

A special box containing 30 packs each of the sets Snow Hazard and Clay Burst will be released on Friday, Apr14 via Japanese Pokemon Centers!

It comes with an Iono-themed deck box, containing some partitions that have art of her on them, and 64 Iono-themed card sleeves.

[inkribbon796]

Egotober 2023 Day 6: Like Children Again

Summary: Every once in a while the Lost Ones need a night where they just hunker down in the living room and sleep there like a bunch of seven year olds.

Prompt: Pillow

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31

They didn’t tend to do this a lot, not since they were much smaller, and much newer in the Manor. Tonight the living room of the Manor was covered in pillows and blankets, making a huge pillow fort area. The outer area you could mostly walk through, but the inner edges you had to crawl. Snacks were left for the kids around the edges of the fort to keep them from making too big of a mess.

Dark opened a random portal or two to check on them but mostly the seven Lost Ones were left to their own devices.

Yan leaned over to put her elbows on her eldest adopted brother’s pillow. “How's Florida?”

“Too hot,” Patton looked up at her as he was working on a cat-themed coloring book. “But I’ll get used to it. Appa’s place down there has good air conditioning.”

“I want to go, tell him I can go,” Yan pleaded.

A pillow came from the side and hit her off of Patton’s area. Arthur had his black notebook on his lap and leaned over. “Fat chance, I only just got him to let me go, and if you go he’ll be all over us.”

“C’mon,” Yan said as she tossed the pillow back at him.

The young author easily dodged and the pillow almost dislodged some of the blanket wall. Which Illinois had to hold up before enough of the weight could start dislodging and bringing down the fort.

“Hey,” Illinois called out before his magic set the curtain rod holding the partition up. “Quit roughhousing in here, go outside.”

Yan leaned over and pulled the blanket up to lean over Illinois’s shoulder where he, Bim, and Yancy were watching Army of Darkness.

“Hey, Ills.” Yan smiled.

“No,” Illinois said without looking at her.

She frowned. “I didn’t even ask. You’re so mean.”

“There’s no convincing Appa, you’d have to wait another year at least.” Illinois finally looked back at her. “Wait your turn like the rest of us had to.”

“No fair,” Yan said as she moved into their area to watch the movie. Illinois let her slide up next to him.

Arthur and Patton were left in the other area for a couple of minutes before a portal opened up next to them.

Dark’s ringing was dulled but still present. “Boys, if you would, a moment?”

The two adopted brothers looked at each other before crawling through the portal and jumping down to stand in Dark’s office.

“Perfect,” Dark said as he pulled a small, thin wooden box out of a different portal. “I’ll make this quick. Patton, during your stay, you’re in charge.”

“Figures.” Arthur was barely audible but Dark gave him a sharp look.

Dark’s expression turned more into a frown. “I need you two to be able to blend in. Remember, your future careers in the Network depend on how well you do. I need you to be able to pretend to be fully human and have covers. If you can’t, you’ll be pulled back into Egoton and we will discuss what to do from there.”

“We got this, Old Man, don’t worry,” Arthur said.

“That remains to be seen,” Dark said as he opened the case and his aura pulled out two silver pines. Each a gleaming star with deer antlers curled around it. The pins were moved to clip onto the inside of their sleeve where a cufflink would sit on a fancy dress shirt.

Dark closed the case with a sharp SNAP and used his aura to check their placement. His aura burrowing into the very metal itself. “There are many gangs in the area. Deceit of the Twin Serpents is one of them. These should mark you as my top enforcers and give you less trouble.”

“Awesome,” Arthur smiled, turning his sleeve over to study it.

“Remember that you are my enforcers, you do things my way. You represent me and therefore you have to obey my rules to the letter. You are Pathos and Author, not anything else.”

“Got it, boss,” Patton did a mock salute, a huge smile on his face.

Dark managed a proud smirk. “You two will make your father proud, I’m sure of it.”

After that he opened up another portal right to where they had been before in the fort. “You both start on Monday, you have the weekend to pack and I can send you anything else you need. Including a trip home with just a tap of the pin.”

“Won’t need it,” Arthur said as he climbed back into the fort.

Patton gave another big smile and climbed into the fort where there was minor jealousy from Bim and Yan.

None from Illinois, at least visibly, which was what the young author had wanted.

All in all it was a nice night, watching movies. Talking about boys, except for Kay who just wanted to talk about random animal facts.

They fell asleep watching a horror movie and Dark was there to wake them up at the respectable hour of ten in the morning.

Another successful night at the Doom-Warfstache household.

A/N: Huh, what's Patton doing here? Ehhh, I'm sure that's not important. :)

[snappedsky]

Borderlands: Skies the Ultimate Treasure Hunter

And we’re back!

We begin this new series with a short drabble, in which Jack taught Skies how to feel good.

*Link to next chapter in reblog*

--

The Meaning of Style

Previously

“Why do I have to go to this thing?” Skies asked with annoyance.

“So I can show you off, obviously. My new bodyguard who survived a Siren attack. All those stuffy CEOs will be so jealous,” Jack replied. He was wearing a three piece black suit, straightening the bow tie as he checked out his reflection in a full-body mirror. He nodded to a box on his desk. “Now hurry up and change.”

Skies groaned as she grabbed the box. “I’m really not good at these things.”

“You’ve attended parties like this before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but only to kill someone.”

“Well, we’ll see how the night goes. Now, change.”

Skies sighed and went behind a partition. When she opened the box, she scowled in disgust. “Ugh, you really want me to wear this?”

“Yeah, yeah, come on,” Jack replied impatiently.

Skies quickly changed into the outfit and glared down at herself, hating how her arms wrapped around her for some sense of comfort.

“Come on, Skies,” Jack groaned as he paced back and forth. “I wanna be fashionably late, not late late.”

Skies stepped around the partition. She was wearing a sparkling, full-length black dress with a slit down her right leg and spaghetti straps. It was beautiful and fit her perfectly, but her discomfort radiated like heat from a star.

“I’m...really not a dress person,” she grunted.

“Yeah, clearly,” Jack agreed, rubbing his chin. “I can’t have you folding in on yourself like this at the party. You don’t look intimidating at all, even with your awesome prosthetics.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go,” Skies suggested hopefully.

“No, no. You’re going. Just wait a second,” he ordered as he went to his computer. He typed on the keyboard for a second before another box digistructed onto his desk. “Try this.”

Skies took the box, sighing as she went back around the partition. She gratefully got out of the dress and opened the box. She cocked her head curiously.

After a few more minutes, she changed into the new outfit and stepped out.

“Now that’s more like it,” Jack grinned and pointed to the mirror. “Have a proper look.” She was wearing a two-piece black suit, similar to Jack’s but without the tie and waistcoat. It also didn’t have a right pant leg or right sleeve, putting her robotic leg and arm on full display. She wasn’t accustomed to wearing suits this fancy, but she had to admit, she looked good.

“It’s not bad,” she nodded.

“Hell yeah,” Jack grinned, “let this be a lesson to you. ‘Style’ isn’t about just wearing something that looks nice. You have to feel good to look good.”

He clapped her on the back and ushered towards the door. “Now come on. Let’s go make a bunch of wrinkled dicks jealous.”

Skies smirked with amusement and followed him out the office.

---

Now

Skies stands in her bedroom on her ship, the Sky Rider, looking at herself in a full-body mirror. She slips on her boots, hooks her pistol holster and ECHO device off her belt, and pulls on her new ‘SANC III’ t-shirt. Then she grabs her brand new black trench coat- missing the right sleeve-, loaded up with all of her bombs and knives, and throws it on. She pops the collar, flips her long, messy brown hair over her shoulders, and grins.

“Looking good.” She looks at Jack’s masks hanging off her wall. “Right, Jack.”

Skies flicks the mask as she walks by and grabs her vintage Hyperion pistol- Bodyguard- and her Atlas assault rifle- New Beginnings. She exits the Sky Rider into the cargo hold of Sanctuary III, ready to begin a new day with the Crimson Raiders.

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

20k Leagues under the sea, Jules Verne

CHAPTER XV

A WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA

This cell was, to speak correctly, the arsenal and wardrobe of the Nautilus. A dozen diving apparatuses hung from the partition, waiting our use.

Ned Land, on seeing them, showed evident repugnance to dress himself in one.

“But, my worthy Ned, the forests of the Island of Crespo are nothing but submarine forests.”

“Good!” said the disappointed harpooner, who saw his dreams of fresh meat fade away. “And you, M. Aronnax, are you going to dress yourself in those clothes?”

“There is no alternative, Master Ned.”

“As you please, sir,” replied the harpooner, shrugging his shoulders; “but as for me, unless I am forced, I will never get into one.”

“No one will force you, Master Ned,” said Captain Nemo.

“Is Conseil going to risk it?” asked Ned.

“I follow my master wherever he goes,” replied Conseil.

At the Captain’s call two of the ship’s crew came to help us to dress in these heavy and impervious clothes, made of india-rubber without seam, and constructed expressly to resist considerable pressure. One would have thought it a suit of armour, both supple and resisting. This suit formed trousers and waistcoat. The trousers were finished off with thick boots, weighted with heavy leaden soles. The texture of the waistcoat was held together by bands of copper, which crossed the chest, protecting it from the great pressure of the water, and leaving the lungs free to act; the sleeves ended in gloves, which in no way restrained the movement of the hands. There was a vast difference noticeable between these consummate apparatuses and the old cork breastplates, jackets, and other contrivances in vogue during the eighteenth century.

Captain Nemo and one of his companions (a sort of Hercules, who must have possessed great strength), Conseil, and myself, were soon enveloped in the dresses. There remained nothing more to be done but to enclose our heads in the metal box. But before proceeding to this operation, I asked the Captain’s permission to examine the guns we were to carry.

One of the Nautilus men gave me a simple gun, the butt end of which, made of steel, hollow in the centre, was rather large. It served as a reservoir for compressed air, which a valve, worked by a spring, allowed to escape into a metal tube. A box of projectiles, in a groove in the thickness of the butt end, contained about twenty of these electric balls, which, by means of a spring, were forced into the barrel of the gun. As soon as one shot was fired, another was ready.

“Captain Nemo,” said I, “this arm is perfect, and easily handled: I only ask to be allowed to try it. But how shall we gain the bottom of the sea?”

“At this moment, Professor, the Nautilus is stranded in five fathoms, and we have nothing to do but to start.”

“But how shall we get off?”

“You shall see.”

Captain Nemo thrust his head into the helmet, Conseil and I did the same, not without hearing an ironical “Good sport!” from the Canadian. The upper part of our dress terminated in a copper collar upon which was screwed the metal helmet. Three holes, protected by thick glass, allowed us to see in all directions, by simply turning our head in the interior of the head-dress. As soon as it was in position, the Rouquayrol apparatus on our backs began to act; and, for my part, I could breathe with ease.

With the Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt, and the gun in my hand, I was ready to set out. But to speak the truth, imprisoned in these heavy garments, and glued to the deck by my leaden soles, it was impossible for me to take a step.

I was ready to set out

But this state of things was provided for. I felt myself being pushed into a little room contiguous to the wardrobe-room. My companions followed, towed along in the same way. I heard a water-tight door, furnished with stopper-plates, close upon us, and we were wrapped in profound darkness.

After some minutes, a loud hissing was heard. I felt the cold mount from my feet to my chest. Evidently from some part of the vessel they had, by means of a tap, given entrance to the water, which was invading us, and with which the room was soon filled. A second door cut in the side of the Nautilus then opened. We saw a faint light. In another instant our feet trod the bottom of the sea.

And now, how can I retrace the impression left upon me by that walk under the waters? Words are impotent to relate such wonders! Captain Nemo walked in front, his companion followed some steps behind. Conseil and I remained near each other, as if an exchange of words had been possible through our metallic cases. I no longer felt the weight of my clothing, or of my shoes, of my reservoir of air, or my thick helmet, in the midst of which my head rattled like an almond in its shell.

The light, which lit the soil thirty feet below the surface of the ocean, astonished me by its power. The solar rays shone through the watery mass easily, and dissipated all colour, and I clearly distinguished objects at a distance of a hundred and fifty yards. Beyond that the tints darkened into fine gradations of ultramarine, and faded into vague obscurity. Truly this water which surrounded me was but another air denser than the terrestrial atmosphere, but almost as transparent. Above me was the calm surface of the sea.

We were walking on fine, even sand, not wrinkled, as on a flat shore, which retains the impression of the billows. This dazzling carpet, really a reflector, repelled the rays of the sun with wonderful intensity, which accounted for the vibration which penetrated every atom of liquid. Shall I be believed when I say that, at the depth of thirty feet, I could see as if I was in broad daylight?

For a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand, sown with the impalpable dust of shells. The hull of the Nautilus, resembling a long shoal, disappeared by degrees; but its lantern, when darkness should overtake us in the waters, would help to guide us on board by its distinct rays.

Soon forms of objects outlined in the distance were discernible. I recognised magnificent rocks, hung with a tapestry of zoophytes of the most beautiful kind, and I was at first struck by the peculiar effect of this medium.

It was then ten in the morning; the rays of the sun struck the surface of the waves at rather an oblique angle, and at the touch of their light, decomposed by refraction as through a prism, flowers, rocks, plants, shells, and polypi were shaded at the edges by the seven solar colours. It was marvellous, a feast for the eyes, this complication of coloured tints, a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, and blue; in one word, the whole palette of an enthusiastic colourist! Why could I not communicate to Conseil the lively sensations which were mounting to my brain, and rival him in expressions of admiration? For aught I knew, Captain Nemo and his companion might be able to exchange thoughts by means of signs previously agreed upon. So, for want of better, I talked to myself; I declaimed in the copper box which covered my head, thereby expending more air in vain words than was perhaps expedient.

Various kinds of isis, clusters of pure tuft-coral, prickly fungi, and anemones formed a brilliant garden of flowers, enamelled with porphitæ, decked with their collarettes of blue tentacles, sea-stars studding the sandy bottom, together with asterophytons like fine lace embroidered by the hands of naïads, whose festoons were waved by the gentle undulations caused by our walk. It was a real grief to me to crush under my feet the brilliant specimens of molluscs which strewed the ground by thousands, of hammer-heads, donaciae (veritable bounding shells), of staircases, and red helmet-shells, angel-wings, and many others produced by this inexhaustible ocean. But we were bound to walk, so we went on, whilst above our heads waved shoals of physalides leaving their tentacles to float in their train, medusæ whose umbrellas of opal or rose-pink, escalloped with a band of blue, sheltered us from the rays of the sun and fiery pelagiæ, which, in the darkness, would have strewn our path with phosphorescent light.

All these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of a mile, scarcely stopping, and following Captain Nemo, who beckoned me on by signs. Soon the nature of the soil changed; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent of slimy mud, which the Americans call “ooze,” composed of equal parts of silicious and calcareous shells. We then travelled over a plain of sea-weed of wild and luxuriant vegetation. This sward was of close texture, and soft to the feet, and rivalled the softest carpet woven by the hand of man. But whilst verdure was spread at our feet, it did not abandon our heads. A light network of marine plants, of that inexhaustible family of sea-weeds of which more than two thousand kinds are known, grew on the surface of the water. I saw long ribbons of fucus floating, some globular, others tuberous; laurenciæ and cladostephi of most delicate foliage, and some rhodomeniæ palmatæ, resembling the fan of a cactus. I noticed that the green plants kept nearer the top of the sea, whilst the red were at a greater depth, leaving to the black or brown hydrophytes the care of forming gardens and parterres in the remote beds of the ocean.

We had quitted the Nautilus about an hour and a half. It was near noon; I knew by the perpendicularity of the sun’s rays, which were no longer refracted. The magical colours disappeared by degrees, and the shades of emerald and sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular step, which rang upon the ground with astonishing intensity; the slightest noise was transmitted with a quickness to which the ear is unaccustomed on the earth; indeed, water is a better conductor of sound than air, in the ratio of four to one. At this period the earth sloped downwards; the light took a uniform tint. We were at a depth of a hundred and five yards and twenty inches, undergoing a pressure of six atmospheres.

At this depth I could still see the rays of the sun, though feebly; to their intense brilliancy had succeeded a reddish twilight, the lowest state between day and night; but we could still see well enough; it was not necessary to resort to the Ruhmkorff apparatus as yet. At this moment Captain Nemo stopped; he waited till I joined him, and then pointed to an obscure mass, looming in the shadow, at a short distance.

“It is the forest of the Island of Crespo,” thought I;—and I was not mistaken.

[mcpackagings]

Rigid paper drawer box with compartments. Custom size compartments available, good for cookie box with compartments, gift boxes with 6-8 compartments, chocolate box with compartments, jewelry box with compartments.etc.

For this video, you can learn more paper gift box.

[thisbipuff-isaswiftie]

Pouring | Niall Horan

You and Niall are neighbours. This is how you meet the first time.

Warnings : Swearing. Mentions Shawnmilla. Cliche?

Containing : Just our Niall being very cute and neighborly.

Pairing : You and Niall.

"Fuck!"

You were new in town. Obviously. And you were very clumsy and absent-minded, a deadly situation to be in. You were here, to pursue your dream of becoming a fashion designer. You were always drawing and doodling on the corner of newspapers and tissues, It was a dream that you've had before your eyes since you went to your mom's friends wedding. You thought it was going to be boring, but when you got there, you and your mom rushed to the bride's room, because her dress had been ripped. But the bride being the beautiful artist she was, just needed a blue thread and she embroidered her dress in the last 15 minutes she had, and the gown had turned out to be more magical than before.

Everybody thought you becoming a fashion designer was a pipe dream, just a fantasy never to come true.

But you were going to change that.

And now you were here, serving coffee as a part-time job, an useless noisy box for a car, in the rain, infront of your new apartment trying to get your stuff out of your crappy car's crappy trunk.

Little did you know, your potential knight in shining armor was a few meters away from you, watching golf and eating a take-out from Nandos.

"Fucking. Piece. Of. Shit!!"

Niall didn't hear that. Nor the other profanities you were shouting in the loud pitter patter of the rain. But he had heard about the new neighbor. He knew that you were going to arrive today, but didn't know it was you. Niall wasn't at all interested in the new neighbor fiasco. He knew he'll meet them someday or the other. While you were out there on his porch, deciding whether to ring the doorbell or not. 'You can manage, right?' You thought, but as you looked back at your car sitting out in the rain with your boxes getting all soggy, you lost hope. You huffed in annoyance.

You carefully stepped on his porch, trying not to step on the small daisies that were starting to grow. You went up his stairs, trying not to sniff. You looked at yourself in his glass door. Oh, you were a mess.

Your peach colored, kind-of hoodie was all soaked, your hair was all over the place, and you groaned as you saw your white sneakers covered in mud. You placed your palm on your forehead, and looked back and to his door again. Fuck it, you thought. And you shut your eyes as you pressed the doorbell.

"Oh cmon!"

The ball went the other way. This game was not good, and the person he was hoping to win was not, clearly, winning. His mood did not get any good when he heard the doorbell. Who the hell was out on his porch in this rain?

He hoped it was not Shawn, I mean sure, he was his best friend, but how come have his and Camilla's fights became a normal night thing?

He got up and placed his bowl of popcorn down. He went towards the door, to open it. You groaned as the wind hit you again. What was taking so long? Maybe nobody's home?

You put your hand through your hair, making them come back to their mid-partition. You rang the doorbell again, hearing a 'coming, coming!' from the person on the other side. Niall ran towards the door. He opened it and didn't look at you. "Shawn..what the hell are you doing at this..."

But as Niall looked at you, his breath hitched.

Lets just say, you had the most beautiful eyes.

And the perfect strand of hair hanging infront of them.

You coughed and looked at him. Was there something on my face? You ran your long sleeve over your cheek, reluctantly. While Niall broke out of his trance. "So...Y-You're not Shawn..?"

You slightly smiled. "N-No, i'm guessing not..?"

You sniffled once before you both broke out laughing out loud. You noticed him, he had the most adorable smile ever, and the most sparkling eyes. He had a loving laugh. You loved it. Two more seconds were spent away as you both realized you were staring at each other.

"Uhmm..I'm the new neighbor. And I was wondering if you could help?"

You didn't mean to be straightforward or anything, but something told you that his furrowed eyebrows showed something else. You looked back at your car, and then back at him. Niall had a sudden look of realization. "Why don't you wait here? I'll go check it out."

"But-"

"Please I insist, you're soaked out here, and you really don't want to get cold fever. Come inside,"

You looked at him. Those words were kind, not suggestive. He was different. By this time, any guy with no kind of manners would've made a suggestive comments towards you. You smiled at him, as his breath hitched and he smiled lovingly back at you. You went in as you noticed you were dripping all over his floor. "Oh god, i'm dripping all over your floor, i'm so sorry.."

"Hey, hey its okay..um wait. Do you mind if i give you my hoodie..?"

"N-No, not at all. I'm kind of freezing, so.."

"I'll be back."

Niall went bring his hoodie, while you looked around his house. "I found this hoodie, I don't know if you would like it...." You turned around and saw Niall holding a black hoodie. You grinned and looked at him. "Ah, The Niall Horan Hoodie." You said and laughed seeing Niall blush and scratch his neck. "You know me?"

You laughed, "Who wouldn't know you? You have a very nice voice and um..I was a One Direction fan." Niall looked at you as you blushed. He kept smiling and staring at you. "What?" you whined. Niall just shook his head, "Can I tell you something?" "I know, I know. I look beautiful when I blush." But Niall started shaking his head again, making your face turn to confusion. "You blush very beautifully." You bit lip as you turned red and Niall grinned.

"So, can I get the keys to your apartment?"

"What!? We just met!"

"Yes and we've been having alot of moments, and flirting the ass off each other."

You glanced at him and rolled your eyes as you reached your back pocket and pulled your keys. "Promise you won't trash the place?"

"Sure, I'm going to go through your wet boxes and clothes and steal your panties and trash a place with no furniture."

You sighed and rolled your eyes again and handed him your keys. He laughed as he saw your keychain, a pink bubble with TPWK written it. "Shut up! And can you blame me?"

He just shakes his head, and goes out the door. "Stay here, I'll be back."

You nodded and slightly smiled. You didn't want to make his house wet, so you debated whether to move around or not. So, you just moved a bit towards the window, and craned your neck to look at Niall working on your car. Your car's hood was up, and Niall was clicking and checking some things in it. Niall's hair was wet as it started to drip water droplets which fell in front of his eyes, making his eyes sparkle. His shirt was wet, making his hot body look visible. You bit your lip again looking at him work. You didn't realize you were admiring him until he looked at you giving one of those faces between a smirk and a smile, which made your heart flutter. You smiled wide, when you heard the engine of your rusty car. You giggled as you looked at Niall giving you a thumbs up and wiggling his eyebrows while flexing his biceps, which by the way you found very hot.

He got inside your car and moved it and parked it in your garage.

He quickly came running towards you into his house.

"Thanks!! I mean, really thanks, seriously--"

"Hey, don't worry. I'm happy to help, love." He said and smiled at you, as you blushed at the new nickname. "So, do you need help moving your boxes..?"

"N-No, I can manage. By the way your golf game awaits."

Niall looked at you and started speaking something again, "What about dinner? Let me offer that at least," Niall offered. You started to protest until Niall just dragged you towards the kitchen, "Yo like Nandos?"

"I-I love Nandos, but-"

"Wow you're really soaking, no offence, you need other clothes to change." You looked at him and tilted your head, and glanced back at the rain. "Sure."

.....

Niall burped, making you laugh out loud. He grinned at you, and took a bite of your takeout, and ate one of his french fries. You played with your food with your fork, as you started humming. Niall looked up and tried to recognize the lyrics. He grinned as he did immediately.

He started to sing along.

You're insecure

Don't know what for

You're turning heads when you walk through the door

Don't need make-up.

To cover up,

Being the way that you are is enough.

Everyone else in the room can see it Everyone else but you

Baby you light up my world like nobody else The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell You don't know Oh, oh You don't know you're beautiful If only you saw what I can see You'd understand why I want you so desperately Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe You don't know Oh, oh You don't know you're beautiful Oh, oh That's what makes you beautiful

You giggled as you both sang along. "I love this song. I used to sing it all the time."

You both laughed together. You got up and put the dish in his sink. "I should get going."

You smiled at each other and Niall walked you to his door. You giggled at him, "What?"

"Its like we're on our first date." You said and smiled. He looked at you and grinned, "It can be, if we want it to be."

You smiled wide at him as you flushed maroon again. "Can I tell you something?"

"I know. I smile very beautifully, right?"

Niall shakes his head. "You look beautiful when you smile."

Niall stared into your eyes, as you drowned in his. Both of you staying in that moment, was all you wanted, but Niall's clock had to be a bitch.

You both coughed as his clock started to ring again.

"So, looks like we'll be seeing each other alot, Neighbor."

"Looks like we are."

You thanked him again, and headed back to your apartment, feeling all warm and fuzzy all over.

.....

Niall's doorbell rung again. He groaned, it was literally 3 am in the morning. He sweared to God if it was Shawn again--

"Y/n?"

"So...I realized I don't have any mattress..."

"Come on in."

.....

[expectingtofly]

finally free, they drive

2k

day 1 of @thiscastielhasflown and i's follower celebration

prompt: diners/roadtrip

Twenty-four years ago in Mankato, Minnesota, Dean killed a wendigo with a bottle of Jack and a lighter. He told Cas this, how the flames lit the inside of the cave and his dad had to drag him out because he suddenly couldn’t move, how he stayed silent for a week even though his dad begged him to speak.

Seventeen years ago, in Monte Vista, Colorado, Dean burned the bones of a malevolent spirit that sliced a gash through his chest before he could swing an iron crowbar through her foggy figure. As he and Cas passed by the cemetery where he and his dad had dug up her remains, he could almost picture himself standing between the tombstones, his dad tossing him the lighter. Do the honors.

In Evanston, Wyoming, he and Cas stopped to eat at a diner that looked vaguely familiar. As they sat down at a booth in the back, waitress handing them their menus, it hit him.

“Pretty sure Sam and I went through here before.” He couldn’t remember what they'd been hunting. “Years ago. After dad. You know. Passed.”

And Cas was silent a moment before replying, "I wish I’d known you then."

Then he declared he wanted the French onion soup from the specials of the day, like he hadn’t just spoken Dean's thoughts aloud in his uncanny way of knowing exactly what Dean wished for before Dean knew it himself.

Sometimes, while passing semi-trailer trucks on the freeway, when the setting sun glinted off the metal partition between west and east-headed traffic, he wondered what life would’ve been like if he knew Cas when he was twenty-six. When he was so lonely, his chest felt like a vise at night, and he slipped out of mildewed motel rooms to gasp in chilly night air. When he sought out crowded bars because accidental nudges and jostles were substitutes for caresses.

What might’ve changed if he'd known Cas when he was twenty-two, when Sam left for college and Dad left with a cutting, Don't look for me. If, confronted with an angel then, he would’ve been able to believe in good things, if he would've kissed him to not feel so alone.

The radio played Dolly Parton at a diner in Des Moines, a young couple sat at the counter, Cas stacked small containers of strawberry jelly and orange marmalade into a tower, and Dean imagined sitting across from him when he was nineteen. But then Cas looked up at him triumphantly over perfectly balanced preserves, and the what-if's dissolved in a growing warmth in his chest. Cas had been right after all. Good things did happen.

They drove without a destination now that they didn’t need one, changing course frequently, turning off exits to follow signs for roadside attractions, homestyle meals, and scenic overlooks.

Prairie and forest, coast and desert. He'd traveled these roads before, but he was paying attention now. Everything looked different with Cas sitting by his side, when every glance to his right revealed Cas already looking at him.

Re-heated diner leftovers and slices of pie for breakfast, crumbs on the bed, brown bags in the backseat, lunch breaks at rest stops, sitting on the hood to unwrap grease-stained burger wrappers, kept warm from the sun coming through the car’s windows.

Baby had been his home for years. He'd learned her nooks, her curves, how best to settle on the benchseat and tuck his jacket against the door to wake without a crick in his neck.

Moving into the bunker, he'd claimed a room, made a space for every item he owned: a hook for every weapon, a box for every photo, a hanger for every jacket. The concrete walls and sterile bathrooms meant order, control.

He used to be afraid that if he let one item fall out of place, he'd lose his grip on the delicate thread which held him together.

Crackling radio in Omaha, searching for a station. Cassette-tapes pulled out of a box that he hadn’t rifled through since a time when angels were still a myth, god didn’t exist, and death was always close, but not someone they knew by name. Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica. Then, out of Cas' pocket, his own “Top 13 Zepp Traxxs,” which he was surprised to learn Cas still kept, the words on the label faded.

“It was a gift,” Cas said, tucking the cassette into the deck and turning up the volume.

Busy diners where their food took ages to come to their table and Dean doodled on napkins to pass the time. Stuffed them into his pocket and forgot until he pulled them out while looking for change to pay for gas. A tiny Impala, a sun with dashes for rays, sigils, tiny flowers which Cas had added to the corners.

An argument on I-70 and sixty-two miles of tense silence. "If you don't speak to me, I can't understand," Cas said, voice quiet under the whir of tires on the road.

Dean changed lanes, watched a tarp flap over the bed of a pick-up truck. "I don't know how," he admitted.

Cas let out a breath that sounded like relief. "We'll learn."

He learned Cas liked brightly colored shirts labeled with the names of locations they visited, oversized because tight sleeves made him itch. He learned that the strangely named items on diner menus had backstories that owners behind counters were all too eager to share when Cas prompted them. He learned Cas hovered in doorways as if he was waiting to be invited inside, learned Cas knew every upbeat song playing over the radio in gas stations, had nightmares too, could stay silent for seventy miles then speak a thought aloud that left Dean stunned for seventy more.

He taught Cas how to pass the time on roads that stretched to the horizon. Name a movie for every letter of the alphabet. Name three items you'd take to a deserted island. Name everyone we've lost along the way—he didn't mean to begin talking about them, but they seemed closer than ever before on the open road, under a vast, cloudless sky. The wind whisked their names from their mouths, and Dean liked the idea of them still existing, here, around them.

A map open on his lap, Cas circled every town they stopped at, traced their route with a red pen. Folded and unfolded the page until the creases made the snaking lines nearly illegible. "I want to remember," he told Dean, and Dean traced the creases to feel their route under his finger. The steering wheel was warm under his palms, the diner floors sticky under his boots, the motel sheets stiff when he pulled them back from the headboard, and he told Cas, "Pinch me," in the dark of an eighty-dollar-a-night room. Cas touched his face and kissed him instead.

The rocky coast off of Oregon delighted Cas. He rolled up his pant legs, clutched Dean's hand as they walked unsteadily over the slippery rocks to step into the Pacific Ocean. The wind whipped his hair over his face and he pushed back the strands, grinning back at Dean. Sometimes at night, when Cas slept curled into him, Dean looked at the photo he'd taken of him and wished he had a place of their own to frame it.

Long phone calls to family and friends who told them to take their time, do not disturb signs hung on motel doorknobs, winding backroads and detours. He grew out his hair and told Cas he needed a cut. Cas twisted his fingers through the strands, and mused, "I like it." Dean kept it and noticed the strands curled at the ends.

A sign on the highway in Ohio read, "Hell is Real." He still had nightmares. As cornfields passed, Cas recounted seeing his soul for the first time, and sometimes Dean imagined he remembered the safety of Cas' wings as he pulled him out of the depths of Hades.

Cas got sick in Idaho, complained, voice echoing in the toilet bowl, "I told you that diner was not sanitary." Dean rubbed his back and told him he'd write a scathing review. In West Virginia, over a pile of spilled salt and stale fries that were probably nuked behind the counter, Cas told him he loved him. It wasn't for the first time, but his breath still caught in his throat.

They ate fried okra in Oklahoma City, beignets in New Orleans, and Dean requested Earth Angel on a jukebox in a vinyl and chrome diner in Wisconsin. Slid into the booth to press against Cas' side and watch him fill out postcards. Did you know dinosaurs once roamed where the Rockies now stand? Don't know when we'll be back. We bought new cassettes to add to the collection and I convinced Dean to let me choose the music. Still so much we haven't seen.

The magic fingers bed at the King's Court Motel cost four quarters for fifteen minutes—three more than when he was younger, he griped to Cas. The vibrating massage didn't seem quite as relaxing as he remembered, but maybe he was just used to more magical fingers—this he accompanied with an exaggerated wink which made Cas roll his eyes.

The Impala broke down on Route 66, and the asphalt radiated heat as he ducked under the hood. Cas hovered at his side and he realized he didn't have the tools to fix her.

They ate lunch at a mom-and-pop’s restaurant as they waited for the mechanic to finish, and Cas gave him the pickle from his sandwich. "I'm sorry I never asked you to stay," Dean told him and wished he'd said it earlier. "I never wanted you to leave."

Cas gave him a sad smile. "It's in the past." He tapped his foot against Dean's under the table, and Dean hooked his ankle with his foot.

Cas parted the curtains in every motel they slept in, tilted his face to the sun beaming through the windshield, urged Dean to stop for a cardboard sign reading Fresh Strawberries $2. Reruns of The Three Stooges made Dean laugh until he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, had to catch his breath. This happiness didn't seem so fragile, this time. When they turned on the TV tomorrow night three hundred miles away, The Three Stooges would play into the morning, and when he told Cas he loved him, Cas would say it back.

Crossing over rippling water or curving through wooded land, he and Cas spoke a cabin in the woods, a house on the coast, a home. Dean's head filled with the future instead of the past. Every mile that passed under their tires brought them closer to this dream—or so he thought, until he stopped at a red light, and Cas took his hand, and he realized home sat beside him now.

In a diner in Arkansas, Cas read from a menu, plastic corners curling, and commented, "No matter where we go, every place serves an iceberg wedge salad."

Dean replied, "I think I'm ready to stop driving."

He didn't know where they'd park the Impala for good, but he pictured somewhere with windows, patches of sunlight on the floor. The details didn't matter so much, though, not so long as he had Cas.

"For you to me are the only one," he sang over Robert Plant, glancing at Cas as he turned up the radio, wind whistling through the open windows, road humming under their feet. Happiness, no more be sad, happiness, I'm glad.

[20k-leagues-speedrun]

CHAPTER XV A WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA

This cell was, to speak correctly, the arsenal and wardrobe of the Nautilus. A dozen diving apparatuses hung from the partition, waiting our use.

Ned Land, on seeing them, showed evident repugnance to dress himself in one.

“But, my worthy Ned, the forests of the Island of Crespo are nothing but submarine forests.”

“Good!” said the disappointed harpooner, who saw his dreams of fresh meat fade away. “And you, M. Aronnax, are you going to dress yourself in those clothes?”

“There is no alternative, Master Ned.”

“As you please, sir,” replied the harpooner, shrugging his shoulders; “but as for me, unless I am forced, I will never get into one.”

“No one will force you, Master Ned,” said Captain Nemo.

“Is Conseil going to risk it?” asked Ned.

“I follow my master wherever he goes,” replied Conseil.

At the Captain’s call two of the ship’s crew came to help us to dress in these heavy and impervious clothes, made of india-rubber without seam, and constructed expressly to resist considerable pressure. One would have thought it a suit of armour, both supple and resisting. This suit formed trousers and waistcoat. The trousers were finished off with thick boots, weighted with heavy leaden soles. The texture of the waistcoat was held together by bands of copper, which crossed the chest, protecting it from the great pressure of the water, and leaving the lungs free to act; the sleeves ended in gloves, which in no way restrained the movement of the hands. There was a vast difference noticeable between these consummate apparatuses and the old cork breastplates, jackets, and other contrivances in vogue during the eighteenth century.

Captain Nemo and one of his companions (a sort of Hercules, who must have possessed great strength), Conseil, and myself, were soon enveloped in the dresses. There remained nothing more to be done but to enclose our heads in the metal box. But before proceeding to this operation, I asked the Captain’s permission to examine the guns we were to carry.

One of the Nautilus men gave me a simple gun, the butt end of which, made of steel, hollow in the centre, was rather large. It served as a reservoir for compressed air, which a valve, worked by a spring, allowed to escape into a metal tube. A box of projectiles, in a groove in the thickness of the butt end, contained about twenty of these electric balls, which, by means of a spring, were forced into the barrel of the gun. As soon as one shot was fired, another was ready.

“Captain Nemo,” said I, “this arm is perfect, and easily handled: I only ask to be allowed to try it. But how shall we gain the bottom of the sea?”

“At this moment, Professor, the Nautilus is stranded in five fathoms, and we have nothing to do but to start.”

“But how shall we get off?”

“You shall see.”

Captain Nemo thrust his head into the helmet, Conseil and I did the same, not without hearing an ironical “Good sport!” from the Canadian. The upper part of our dress terminated in a copper collar upon which was screwed the metal helmet. Three holes, protected by thick glass, allowed us to see in all directions, by simply turning our head in the interior of the head-dress. As soon as it was in position, the Rouquayrol apparatus on our backs began to act; and, for my part, I could breathe with ease.

With the Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt, and the gun in my hand, I was ready to set out. But to speak the truth, imprisoned in these heavy garments, and glued to the deck by my leaden soles, it was impossible for me to take a step.

But this state of things was provided for. I felt myself being pushed into a little room contiguous to the wardrobe-room. My companions followed, towed along in the same way. I heard a water-tight door, furnished with stopper-plates, close upon us, and we were wrapped in profound darkness.

After some minutes, a loud hissing was heard. I felt the cold mount from my feet to my chest. Evidently from some part of the vessel they had, by means of a tap, given entrance to the water, which was invading us, and with which the room was soon filled. A second door cut in the side of the Nautilus then opened. We saw a faint light. In another instant our feet trod the bottom of the sea.

And now, how can I retrace the impression left upon me by that walk under the waters? Words are impotent to relate such wonders! Captain Nemo walked in front, his companion followed some steps behind. Conseil and I remained near each other, as if an exchange of words had been possible through our metallic cases. I no longer felt the weight of my clothing, or of my shoes, of my reservoir of air, or my thick helmet, in the midst of which my head rattled like an almond in its shell.

The light, which lit the soil thirty feet below the surface of the ocean, astonished me by its power. The solar rays shone through the watery mass easily, and dissipated all colour, and I clearly distinguished objects at a distance of a hundred and fifty yards. Beyond that the tints darkened into fine gradations of ultramarine, and faded into vague obscurity. Truly this water which surrounded me was but another air denser than the terrestrial atmosphere, but almost as transparent. Above me was the calm surface of the sea.

We were walking on fine, even sand, not wrinkled, as on a flat shore, which retains the impression of the billows. This dazzling carpet, really a reflector, repelled the rays of the sun with wonderful intensity, which accounted for the vibration which penetrated every atom of liquid. Shall I be believed when I say that, at the depth of thirty feet, I could see as if I was in broad daylight?

For a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand, sown with the impalpable dust of shells. The hull of the Nautilus, resembling a long shoal, disappeared by degrees; but its lantern, when darkness should overtake us in the waters, would help to guide us on board by its distinct rays.

Soon forms of objects outlined in the distance were discernible. I recognised magnificent rocks, hung with a tapestry of zoophytes of the most beautiful kind, and I was at first struck by the peculiar effect of this medium.

It was then ten in the morning; the rays of the sun struck the surface of the waves at rather an oblique angle, and at the touch of their light, decomposed by refraction as through a prism, flowers, rocks, plants, shells, and polypi were shaded at the edges by the seven solar colours. It was marvellous, a feast for the eyes, this complication of coloured tints, a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, and blue; in one word, the whole palette of an enthusiastic colourist! Why could I not communicate to Conseil the lively sensations which were mounting to my brain, and rival him in expressions of admiration? For aught I knew, Captain Nemo and his companion might be able to exchange thoughts by means of signs previously agreed upon. So, for want of better, I talked to myself; I declaimed in the copper box which covered my head, thereby expending more air in vain words than was perhaps expedient.

Various kinds of isis, clusters of pure tuft-coral, prickly fungi, and anemones formed a brilliant garden of flowers, enamelled with porphitæ, decked with their collarettes of blue tentacles, sea-stars studding the sandy bottom, together with asterophytons like fine lace embroidered by the hands of naïads, whose festoons were waved by the gentle undulations caused by our walk. It was a real grief to me to crush under my feet the brilliant specimens of molluscs which strewed the ground by thousands, of hammer-heads, donaciae (veritable bounding shells), of staircases, and red helmet-shells, angel-wings, and many others produced by this inexhaustible ocean. But we were bound to walk, so we went on, whilst above our heads waved shoals of physalides leaving their tentacles to float in their train, medusæ whose umbrellas of opal or rose-pink, escalloped with a band of blue, sheltered us from the rays of the sun and fiery pelagiæ, which, in the darkness, would have strewn our path with phosphorescent light.

All these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of a mile, scarcely stopping, and following Captain Nemo, who beckoned me on by signs. Soon the nature of the soil changed; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent of slimy mud, which the Americans call “ooze,” composed of equal parts of silicious and calcareous shells. We then travelled over a plain of sea-weed of wild and luxuriant vegetation. This sward was of close texture, and soft to the feet, and rivalled the softest carpet woven by the hand of man. But whilst verdure was spread at our feet, it did not abandon our heads. A light network of marine plants, of that inexhaustible family of sea-weeds of which more than two thousand kinds are known, grew on the surface of the water. I saw long ribbons of fucus floating, some globular, others tuberous; laurenciæ and cladostephi of most delicate foliage, and some rhodomeniæ palmatæ, resembling the fan of a cactus. I noticed that the green plants kept nearer the top of the sea, whilst the red were at a greater depth, leaving to the black or brown hydrophytes the care of forming gardens and parterres in the remote beds of the ocean.

We had quitted the Nautilus about an hour and a half. It was near noon; I knew by the perpendicularity of the sun’s rays, which were no longer refracted. The magical colours disappeared by degrees, and the shades of emerald and sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular step, which rang upon the ground with astonishing intensity; the slightest noise was transmitted with a quickness to which the ear is unaccustomed on the earth; indeed, water is a better conductor of sound than air, in the ratio of four to one. At this period the earth sloped downwards; the light took a uniform tint. We were at a depth of a hundred and five yards and twenty inches, undergoing a pressure of six atmospheres.

At this depth I could still see the rays of the sun, though feebly; to their intense brilliancy had succeeded a reddish twilight, the lowest state between day and night; but we could still see well enough; it was not necessary to resort to the Ruhmkorff apparatus as yet. At this moment Captain Nemo stopped; he waited till I joined him, and then pointed to an obscure mass, looming in the shadow, at a short distance.

“It is the forest of the Island of Crespo,” thought I;—and I was not mistaken.

[scuttling]

While I'm writing Dad!Bod Hotch with babies... 🥺

...Here's a very baby excerpt from one of my other works (modified a little so it can be read as reader.) It's pretty cute if I do say so myself! Tags: 18+, NSFW, Blow job + Pregnant sex The next child abduction case they get happens a year later, and it takes them to Seattle; rain beats down on the Sullivan house while she and JJ sit with the family and try to keep them informed of what’s going on in terms of the investigation. The mother stares out the window at the rain, and she brings over the cup of tea she’d offered to make, sets it down on the table beside her, takes her trembling hands.

“I promise you, Mrs. Sullivan, our team is doing absolutely everything they can to locate your son safely. They are the best in the world at what we do; we just need to let them do their jobs.”

Mrs. Sullivan frowns, takes a sobbing breath, and then wraps her arms around her; she’s a little startled by it, but rubs her back, trying to provide comfort.

After a couple minutes, Mrs. Sullivan pulls back, and she offers her a tissue.

“Do you have any children?” she asks, wiping her eyes.

“Yes. He’s seven years old, and his name is Jack.”

They find the boy five hours later. Alive.

She and Aaron have celebration sex on every available surface.

“Hey. So, I got three or four calls from my doctor’s office a couple weeks ago, but I was preoccupied with the Sullivan case and I kept forgetting to call her back,” she says later from Aaron’s lap. He sits up, holding her hips while he shifts his weight.

“Okay. Is everything alright? Why was she calling so often?”

“Apparently, my IUD expired a month ago. I have to get it taken out.” He looks cautiously over her face, like he’s not sure what reaction she wants from him. She’s fairly certain she knows what his first instinct is. “Well, Jack and I were at the grocery store when I spoke to her—and you know I’ve been feeling a little off…” She wets her lips, reaches over the arm of the couch and pulls a little cardboard box off the console table. She can see his breath hitch.

“Have you taken it?” She nods quickly, presses her lips together.

“Just waiting now.” Carefully, he reaches for the box, takes it out of her hand, and sets it back down on the table. He pulls her close for a tight hug.

“Whatever happens, I love you so much,” he murmurs in her ear, and they just hold each other until the timer on her phone goes off. She brushes her hand through his hair, and his eyes are wet; she knows hers are too.

She climbs out of his lap, and he follows her down the hall, clinging to her back like he can’t physically let her go. When they make it to the bathroom, she picks up the test, squeezes her eyes briefly shut, and holds it up so he can read the word on the screen.

The word.

She spins in his arms, wraps hers around him, and jumps up and down, the grin splitting her face nothing compared to the gorgeous smile that lights up his.

“I’m going to see if Dr. Rose can fit me in tomorrow,” she says, leaning up to smooch him several times in a row. “Just to be sure.”

“Let me know, I’ll come.” She nods, kisses him a few more times, takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I love you so much.” He holds her, repeats it, kisses her forehead, her eyes. Then he starts kissing her for real, reverent and steamy, and they walk gracelessly toward the bedroom, tugging articles of clothing off as they go.

She is kneeling over him on the bed, giving him a very good, messy, ‘Congrats, you’re probably going to be a daddy again!’ blow job when she pulls back suddenly, an overwhelming thought crossing her mind; she looks up at him with wide eyes.

“You know my brother has two sets of twins, right?” “A package came from your brother today,” Aaron says a couple months later as he’s leafing through the mail; he holds it out to her, and she opens it up, excited, then covers her mouth, can’t help but aww. “What is it?” he asks, not looking up from the stack of envelopes, and she puts her hand on his arm to get his attention.

“‘For the Hotchner siblings’—that’s what the card says,” she explains when he looks up, and then she holds up the largest t-shirt: it’s brown, with a cartoon bear cub, white letters spelling out Brother Bear. She holds up a smaller shirt: Sister Bear #1. Then another small shirt: Sister Bear #2. He smiles.

“Okay, that’s cute. We have to FaceTime him and thank him.”

“Definitely. He’s not going to believe how big this belly is,” she says, reaching up on her toes for a kiss; he comes at her from the side, because it’s easier to reach her lips that way. “Uh, Hotch, we need you down in the bullpen. She's crying and we can’t get her to stop,” Spencer says into the phone, looking a little freaked. Aaron must agree to come down, because he hangs up the receiver wordlessly; JJ rubs her shoulders, trying to comfort her.

“It’s okay, I completely understand. It’s normal to feel like that at this stage of the pregnancy,” she explains, and it’s all sounding very rational, but she just covers her eyes and keeps crying.

When Aaron crouches down beside her, he takes her hands carefully off of her face, wipes her tears with his sleeve, peers up at her with soft eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I want…” She gulps, sniffles, and Prentiss hands her a tissue over the desk partition. “Thank you. I want these babies out of me,” she sobs, and she knows she’s making a huge scene, but she doesn’t even care. “I want your babies out of me, Aaron!” He sighs; she knows he’s heard it all before.

“I know, honey, but you have to be patient. It will happen when it’s meant to.” She sobs, then hiccups, and that’s just great.

“But I’m—I’m drinking the stupid tea, I’m eating the dates. I got the, the acupuncture—do you know how weird it is to see those needles sticking out of your body? It’s unsettling!”

Morgan returns from Garcia’s office, takes one look at them, and abruptly pivots on his heel to head back.

“Oh sure,” she calls, and then hiccups, “everyone sees a crying pregnant woman and they just run away!”

“Noo, he just texted me!” Spencer lies, waving his phone that he never even looked at. “He said he forgot something and he’ll be right back.”

“Spencer, tell me what else can induce labor, please,” is all she says, doesn’t call him out because it’s sweet that he even tried. He counts off with his fingers as he recites the list.

“Raspberry leaf tea, dates, castor oil—” she grimaces, because that shit’s the worst “—acupressure, acupuncture, exercise.” He hesitates, looks a little uncomfortable, and she hiccups, gets pissed, takes a deep breath.

“Sweetie, honey,” she says, reaching out a hand for him, and he takes it, pats it awkwardly. Bless his heart. “You’re my partner, and I love you, but please spit it out.”

“Okay, uh. Nipple stimulation, and uh. Well. Sex.” Oh, yeah, the nipple thing they tried, but it felt like a restless cat trying to get comfortable on her chest, wasn’t sexy at all, so they didn’t try the rest. She snaps her fingers at Aaron like a douchebag asking for the waitress, wipes her face, hiccups again.

“Okay, we’re doing it, we’re doing that one. Sex me up.” Prentiss barks a laugh, and Spencer looks deeply disturbed. “Please can we go home now?”

“Uh, yes, we can,” Aaron begins, “but I’m not sure we should—” Nope, she’s not gonna listen to that bullshit. He hasn’t been pregnant for 42 fucking weeks.

“I love you, but shut up. Your dick put these things inside me, and your dick’s gonna get them out.” She moves to stand, and so does he, arms out like he’ll catch her if she starts to wobble. “I know I’m not sexy anymore with this gigantic stomach, but please please please just fuck me.” He closes his eyes, sighs like he regrets so much in life, and then gives her a hard kiss on the mouth. It makes her, like, instantly horny; she’d initiate sex right here if she thought she could get her pants off.

“You are as sexy as you’ve ever been,” he murmurs, hovering over her lips, “and I’m going to fuck you.” Sex this big sucks. Missionary is hilarious, doggy is uncomfortable, side by side seems okay but is actually kind of impractical. She feels betrayed.

Aaron helps her get on top of him—his dick is so hard it makes her feel really, really good about herself—and she’s more than okay with bouncing on him, but her belly bounces too, and it feels weird.

“Can you hold it?” she pants, and she takes the hair tie off her wrist and sweeps her hair into a ponytail because she’s sweating from all the position-shifting. “Just like, hold it.” She takes his hands and rests them on her enormous beach ball belly, sighs because it feels nice. “Good, yeah, thank you, let me try again.”

She braces herself against his thighs, rides him quickly, bucking hard—after about 15 years of wishing she had bigger breasts, she now despises hers, and therefore avoids them at costs, but she does manage to reach her clit, and she rubs it furiously as she moves atop him.

Aaron—who is so great, and sweet, who she loves so much—is all but useless, just holds her belly still and groans like he’s getting the best pussy of his lifetime, which she guesses maybe he is, because she wants these babies out and she’s well and truly desperate. “Oh, fuck, baby,” he grinds out, and his hands move to her thighs, squeezing hard, and she whines.

“No, no, do not come, don’t come.”

He comes.

An hour later, they try again, with her propped up on a pillow, her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. The internet said this would work, and if it doesn’t, she’s prepared to let BoyMom282 fucking have it.

“Oh my god, yes, yes,” she moans, clutching at the sheets above her head, and Aaron’s hands feel so good on what remains of her waist as he pounds into her. “Fuck, yes, fuck me until your babies are ready, Aaron. Such a fucking man, knocking me up with two babies at once—you can help me get them out, can’t you, daddy?”

He groans long and loud, and she puts a hand on his, squeezes hard.

“Don’t. Come. I swear to god if you come inside me right now, it will be the last time you ever do it.”

He comes, but luckily for him, she comes first. “So, tell us which is which,” Garcia leads, visibly excited, and she leans back against Aaron’s body, looks at the sweet baby girl in his arms.

“This one is Camila,” she says, touching her teeny tiny little foot, “and Spencer’s holding Mia. Mia Clarita Hotchner Cortes—Clarita after my mother—and Camila Marie Hotchner Cortes.”

“Marie after my mother,” Aaron explains, and he puts an arm around her, which she snuggles happily against. “We’re just waiting for Jack—he should be here any minute.” Spencer hands Mia back to her, and she kisses her forehead.

“This is the best day of your mama’s life,” she coos, touching her soft, dark, fuzzy baby hair. Her heart swells. “I was going to become daddy’s next unsub if you little cuties didn’t vacate my uterus in a timely fashion.”

She can hear the squeak of Jack's shoes coming through the door, and she looks up at Aaron with a grin. When Jack comes around the bed and sees the girls, his eyes get big. “Whoa, are these my sisters?” Haley pops in behind him, and she smiles at them.

“Yeah, buddy, come here,” she says, gesturing for him with her free arm. “This is Mia, and this is Camila.”

“Gentle like we practiced,” Aaron reminds him when he reaches out to touch Camila’s face, and she and Haley both roll their eyes, then laugh.

“He knows, sweetie.” She watches their interaction with so much love, then brushes her fingers over Jack’s hair. “You’re going to be the best brother bear ever, aren’t you?” He looks up at her, grins; he’s missing a tooth just to the left of the front ones, and she’s obsessed with that little gap.

“Yep, I’m going to read them stories and share my toys and play with them at the park.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” Aaron says, leaning down to look into his eyes. “And so are we, buddy.” “And do you, Aaron Hotchner—”

“Da-ah-addy!” someone sobs—Mia, she mouths to Aaron across from her—and she sees JJ step out from behind her, trying to soothe her so they can proceed, but she’s not having any luck. Mia is a daddy’s girl, and the fact that she can see him, but she’s not in his arms, is like a mortal sin to her.

She gets it, she really does. She felt that way every day for two years.

When it’s obvious she’s not calming down, the officiant clears her throat and tries again, but Mia’s wailing just gets louder. Aaron smiles, shrugs.

“Sorry. It’s okay—here, Mia, daddy’s right here,” he assures, reaching out to take her from JJ, and he wipes her eyes, her red nose, and bounces her on his hip for a moment until she settles. She shoots them what she’s sure is a sickeningly sweet glance and then turns around and asks for Camila; Emily hands her off with a big smile.

Aaron grins when she puts her on her hip, and he reaches behind him for his best man, Jack, encourages him to come forward so he’s standing between them. She smiles at him, touches his face, and nods at the officiant, who takes a deep breath and proceeds.

“Do you, Aaron Hotchner, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” They opted not to write their own vows, because their vows are living, breathing things between them, three perfect little heartbeats. Anything more felt unnecessary.

“By the power vested in me by the state of Virginia, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.” He does, so well she thinks she might get pregnant again, and then they each kiss their three babies, and she silently marvels over the fact that all it took was being clobbered over the head with a fire extinguisher for her life to end up this perfect. “Did you know that your chance of having a second set of fraternal twins jumps to 12% after you’ve had the first?” Spencer asks as they’re gathered in the briefing room one morning. She and Aaron are standing up front, pressed close together, nodding patiently. “And considering they run in your family, and that your brother has two sets of fraternal twins, I’d say that statistically the odds are more likely doubled.”

She looks over at Aaron, whose eyes are filled with love and awe and also some pretty sexy other things, and then pulls the ultrasound image out from the little envelope, holds it out for the team to see.

In unison, they answer, “We know.”

They get a package in the mail later that week: One Jack-sized t-shirt—Brother Bear #1—and two tiny t-shirts—Sister Bear #3 and Brother Bear #2. She and Aaron stop by the hospital to visit a friend after surgery and she can't resist walking past the maternity ward. Something about seeing all of those brand new, healthy, happy babies rejuvenates her after a tough case, and the one they'd finished up earlier in the week had been one of the toughest.

A woman comes to stand beside her as she looks at the babies, wearing sweatpants and a hospital gown—she's maybe 30, so just a few years younger—and she smiles brightly at the woman. "New mom?"

"Yeah, she's the one right there," the woman says with a grin, pointing to a sweetly sleeping little girl. "Isn't she perfect?"

"They're all perfect," she sighs, "but she is very beautiful. Congratulations." The woman's smile turns warmer, softer.

"Thank you. Do you have any children?" She's so wrapped up in the dreamy haze of little babies wiggling their toes that she almost doesn't hear the question.

"Hmm? Oh yeah, five of them: Adrian, Isabella, Mia, Camila, and Jack." The woman's eyes go extremely wide, and she laughs, because she's so very used to that. Aaron steps up on her other side, wraps an arm around her waist.

"Thought I might find you here," he says, and he smiles politely at the woman, who's looking like she may never open her legs again. "Can't resist looking at the babies."

"I just love babies," she says sweetly, and she stretches up for a kiss. "Do you ever think we should have another, just to even it out?"

"Hmm. Yes, but knowing us, they'll be twins again, so it's probably best we stick with five." He bends for another kiss, and she pulls him close; when she remembers where they are, she pulls back, to shoot the new mom a sheepish smile, but she's already gone. She sighs.

"Fair enough. But do you want to go home and practice anyway?"

[blacknailpolishonguitarstrings]

I can't lose anyone else

TW: mention of death/loss + panic attack

A tall elderly woman in a long brown wool coat walked down London’s gray streets, wrinkled cheeks pink in the fresh morning air. Heads turned as she passed, eyes staring after her. While she was certainly a beautiful woman, there was nothing incredibly special about her or her clothes, but she radiated a regal aura, almost...magical. Her face was impassive though unreadable, and she seemed oblivious to the awe she induced in others. Minerva was simply too grief-struck and numb to notice. She walked rapidly, hands hid deeply in her pockets, strides long and unwavering, turning around corners, swerving left and right between the throng of Londoners going to work, still unaware of the hiss of tires on the wet asphalt as people turned around to look back at her.

Somewhere between the thousands of irregular footsteps hammering the pavements, the last drops of rain dripping from the roofs and sliding off the tiles, the honks of cars, and the hushed mix of words and languages and conversations rising from the crowd, the haunting notes of a musical partition escaped a lone violin. It came from a young man, with long dark brown almost black hair, clad in black leather, a red scarf wrapped around his neck, and sparkling, youthful blue eyes full of hope. He stood under a porch, the wooden instrument resting on his shoulder under his chin. Minerva locked eyes with the musician and smiled. It was a soft, gentle smile, full of magic and kindness. It was probably the warmest smile the young man had ever seen. Despite that, he had no idea, no way of knowing, that when she turned away and disappeared amongst the sea of unknown faces, her eyes were full of tears and her heart clenched a little tighter in pain. A single thought flashed in her mind through the haze of desolation:

“He looks so much like Sirius.”

***

The building wasn’t particularly remarkable, it looked rather shabby in fact. The dull blue-gray paint was crackled and dirty in some spots, white-framed glass windows detaching themselves on it. The only splash of colours were the bright multi-coloured curtains weaving in the light breeze through the windows on the fourth floor. Minerva took a small piece of parchment out of her pocket, unfolding it.

“13, Athlone Street, London”, it read.

It was the right address. Sucking in a nervous breath, she looked left and right before taking her wand out of her sleeve.

“Alohomora,” she whispered, pointing her wand at the door.

A faint trickle of magic leaked out of its tip, slipping into the lock, gliding between the whirring cogs of the intricate mechanism, unlocking it with a small click. She smiled, satisfied. It was a very simple spell, one she could have easily executed without a wand, but the familiar weight of it in her hand was reassuring, and knowing all of her spell-work was flawless, from the basics to the most complicated skills, still filled her with childish pride and delight.

Minerva pushed the door open and found herself in front of an old, wooden staircase that appeared quite fragile and rickety. Some parts of the wood were chipped away at, splinters sticking out here and there, and others had begun to rot, filling the air with an unpleasant musty smell. Carefully, she went up the stairs, passing locked door after locked door. Finally, on the fourth floor, a single door offered itself to her eyes. It was painted bright red and a rainbow doormat lay in front of it. She knocked. It creaked open, and a tall, slim, young man dressed in a large knitted cardigan appeared. Remus Lupin. The last Marauder.

She observed him carefully: he looked exhausted, dark rings circling his honey-brown eyes speckled with green. He was very pale, and his hair had lost its golden shine, grown longer, ends1 split. He had also lost weight, his shoulders appeared bonier than ever, protruding in sharp angles under the wool, and his cheekbones stuck out harshly, giving his usually soft face a hard, cold air.

“Professor McGonagall! I can’t say I was expecting any visit, especially not at such an early hour. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He greeted her, smiling weakly.

“Merlin, Remus, how many times do I have to ask you to quit calling me “Professor” and just use Minerva?” She replied, rolling her eyes, falsely lighthearted.

“At least a hundred more, Professor,” chuckled Remus.

“Once a Marauder, always a Marauder, constantly doing it your own way,” she observed, sounding almost amused. “Anyhow, there are some…matters I wish to discuss with you. May I come in?”

“Of course, sorry,” he answered bashfully, stepping aside and letting her in, leading her through to the living room. “Would you like some tea?”

“That is a very kind offer I will gladly accept.”

She sat down on the couch, folding her hands in her lap, back straight, waiting, apprehensive, while Remus disappeared in the kitchen. In front of her, one of those new, fancy muggle boxes which showed moving pictures and emitted sounds rested on a low table.

“Televisions,” she remembered they were called.

Next to it, a record player stood proudly, surrounded by boxes upon boxes full of vinyl discs protected by their colourful thin cardboard covers. Books lay strewn everywhere, some askew in shelves, others stacked on one another on the floor. Patchwork quilts were neatly folded over an armchair, and a couple of sketchpads peeked out between the books here and there. A vase full of half-dead red tulips, Sirius’ favourite flowers, of course, ruled over the coffee table on which stood an empty coffee mug. But what captured Minerva’s attention above everything else were the framed pictures which hung by the dozens on the walls, occupying every available centimetre. There were traditional muggle photographs, still and unmoving, but there were also wizard-moving pictures. Most of the time, they showed Sirius, Remus, James, and Peter, occasionally joined by Lily, Mary, Marlene, Dorcas, Molly, Arthur, Frank, and other friends from Hogwarts. There were photos of them in the Gryffindor Common Room, others in Hogwarts’ hallways, others on the Quidditch Pitch, others near the Black Lake, some in their dorm room, and a couple from Hogsmeade. There were a few photos of Remus with his family at home and by the sea, and one of Sirius and Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. And, there was also a series of neatly ordered photographs, seven in total, hung up one above the other, displaying the Marauders in the Transfiguration classroom. She knew them all too well. She had taken those, every year, at the end of the last term, exactly an hour before the Hogwarts Express would depart. Minerva had watched these boys grow, year after year, become adults, and now…two of them were dead along with one of her favourite students, one of them was in prison, and only one remained.

“I apologize for the mess, I only arrived a couple of hours ago and Sirius seems unable to maintain any order in our apartment without me,” said Remus, interrupting her thoughts, handing her a steaming mug of tea.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, taking a sip.

“I found a box of biscuits, feel free to help yourself,” he added, gesturing to the metal tin he had brought with him in which lay golden-yellow butter biscuits. “So, what did you need to speak of so urgently?”

“I…,” she hesitated. “Have you read the news from the Wizarding World recently, Remus?”

“No, I had none available where I was and today’s newspaper hasn’t arrived yet. Why? Did something happen?”

“Merlin, I am so, so sorry, my dear boy, but—“

A sudden sob broke through her words.

“Professor,” gasped Remus worriedly. “Are you all right? Should I get you a tissue or something?”

“N-no,” she cried, “stay.”

She sighed deeply, dejected, before attempting to deliver the dreadful news again.

“I—“

“Minerva,” interrupted Remus, “while I am dreading whatever you must tell me, I need to hear it. It’s fine, I have been through a lot, I can handle it, I’ll be all right.”

“James, Lily, and Peter are dead, Sirius is in Azkaban,” she blurted out, burning tears sliding down her cheeks.

“What?”

Looking at him compassionately, Minerva took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice, and began recounting the events from the start. Remus listened wordlessly, staring at her in dumbfounded shock.

“No,” he whispered, as soon as she finished. “No, this isn’t possible, Sirius would never murder James and Lily. No, I refuse to believe this…”

He shook his head violently as she sat quietly, waiting for the outburst.

“No,” repeated Remus with more conviction. “Tell me the truth, Professor, what actually happened?”

“That is the truth, I am so sorry,” she replied softly.

“TELL ME THE BLOODY TRUTH!” He roared, standing up.

His teacup fell out of his hand, shattering on the floor. Fragments of china flew everywhere, peppering the floor and sofa. A small piece grazed Minerva’s hand, scratching her pale skin. A few droplets of scarlet blood oozed out of the thin wound. Remus looked around as if suddenly realising what he had done, and sat back down abruptly, burying his face in his hands.

“This can’t have happened, I know Sirius, I’ve known him for almost 10 years now, the man I love would never murder his best friends in cold blood, he simply isn’t capable of that. Please, tell me the truth,” he begged desperately.

At that moment, he appeared so fragile, so weak. It was almost as if he would break into a million pieces if anything so much as a light breeze would blow over him. He shook and shivered, every limb trembling brutally, as his breath quickened drastically. Sensing the impending panic attack, Minerva put her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to face her, gripping him tightly.

“Remus, look at me,” she whispered soothingly.

He did not react, staring blankly past her before shutting his eyes tightly as he began to suffocate, panting heavily.

“Remus look at me, I’m here,” she repeated, harsher this time. “REMUS LOOK AT ME!”

It was as if something inside him had switched off as if his consciousness wasn’t there any longer. At loss, she took out her wand, pressing it against his temple, and said:

“Spiritus remedium!”

A warm wight light briefly illuminated the room. Remus opened his eyes, his frantic breathing slowly regaining its normal pace.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Of course, my dear. Do you…want to talk about it?” She asked, looking at him concernedly/

“No…thank you but no. I just need some time for myself right now, be alone for a while, understand, and come to terms with whatever this is,” he replied, turning away.

“Remus,” she began hesitatingly, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. “I know we haven’t exactly been very close lately or spent a lot of time together, after all, you did know me as your teacher for most of your life. Nevertheless, it is precisely because of that that I’m concerned about you. I’ve watched you grow into the wonderful young man you are now, and…I just can’t lose anyone else, not you.”

He met her gaze glistening with tears, and a look of understanding passed between them. They both knew what was at stake here, and they both knew they probably wouldn’t survive any more loss. In some ways, they only had each other left now. Student and mentor. Friends. To some extent, mother and son. No, they definitely could not lose anyone else, especially not each other.

“Take care, Remus,” said Minerva finally standing up, wrapping herself in her coat.

“You too, Minerva.”

She left the colourful apartment and all its pictures and former happiness behind, disappearing in London’s grey streets, just another nameless human being. This time, heads did not turn as she passed, or maybe they did but she never even fathomed it, as all she thought of was the funeral.

[plus-size-reader]

Trust

Sofia Falcone x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1512 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Sofia Falcone is back in Gotham, but she isn’t alone.

——————————————————————————————————

When Sofia told you that you’d be making an impromptu trip to Gotham City, you weren’t entirely sure what she had planned, and you didn’t think that far ahead.

...At least, not at first.

Really, you were just thrilled at the idea of getting to go somewhere other than Miami. It was a beautiful place, one that you loved, but change was always welcome in your life.

Especially if you got to take Sofia along for the ride.

It wasn’t until you actually set foot in the city you’d heard so much about that you realized what you could actually be there for.

“I’m just going to run in here really quick, I have some business to attend to” she hummed, stepping out of the sleek black car without another word, leaving you there with the driver.

You had no idea what business she could have at the GCPD but upon thinking about it,  you were sure that it had something to do with her father.

It occurred to you as soon as she left that you had never heard the Don himself give permission for the two of you to leave Miami, and that was a big problem.

“Sofia, did you ask your father about all of this? Coming back and all that” you asked, as soon as she slid into the backseat beside you, that determined Falcone glare on her beautiful face.

She didn’t answer you at first, only addressing her words to the driver through the partition. You should have known that Sofia wouldn’t be upfront with you about her true plans in this place, but you always hoped she would anyway.

After all, you were her partner in all things, including life and you expected her respect. You had always given her that same courtesy, and it didn’t seem too much to ask to receive the same.

“Come on darling, you aren’t really cross with me, are you?” she teased, leaning back against the leather seat once she was sure that you were on the right route.

Of course she hadn’t told you.

If she would have mentioned her plot to reclaim Gotham for the Falcone family earlier, you or her father would have tried to stop it. Sofia knew what she was doing, she just needed to be able to prove it.

“You know how dangerous this is. Why wouldn’t you have consulted me first?” you continued, ignoring her obvious attempt to soothe you with her smile.

This was bigger than the both of you.

You understood that Sofia felt like Gotham was her birthright, especially after losing Mario, but it had to be gone about in the right way. She could get you both killed if you weren’t careful.

“I knew you’d try to stop me” she shrugged, reaching down to take your hand in her own, running her thumb over your knuckles slowly, another subtle attempt to calm your nerves.

“I have this all under control darling, you just have to trust me”

It was foolish, stupid even but you sighed, knowing that no matter what you said, Sofia was bound to do whatever she wanted. It wasn’t like you were going to leave her side either way.

“Fine, but please don’t get hurt” you urged, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her face before relaxing beside her. Who knows, maybe Sofia really did know what she was doing.

She did have Falcone Blood running through her veins, after all.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but don’t worry about that. We have quite the adventure ahead of us” she grinned, the car coming to a stop at the perfect time, just in time to see the Falcone Mansion.

You had heard about it a lot in the time since you and Sofia had been together but never could you have imagined the splendor it truly indulged in.

The entire building was a marvel in architecture, but that wasn’t all. As soon as you crossed the threshold of the mansion, Sofia stopped you, holding her hands over your eyes.

“What are you doing-” you started, stopped immediately by the dark haired woman, tutting in your ear.

“I told you to trust me. I have a surprise for you” she urged, her voice in a soft whisper as she led you further into the home, still keeping you blind.

You had no idea what she could have had up her sleeve, but knowing Sofia, it could be anything. Frankly, you wouldn’t have been surprised to see a caged lion in the living room.

Thankfully though, when she finally did let you see, it was much more mundane than that, though not altogether unexciting.

“What is all this?” you asked, eyeing the various boxes, stacked on top of each other all around the room. You had never seen so much at one time, at least, not in a while.

The room was quiet for just a moment as Sofia let you look upon what she’d done for you.

See, when Jim Gordon came to Falcone Manor to speak to her  father, Sofia knew what she had to do. What she wasn’t willing to do though was leave you in Miami while she did it.

You were the love of her life, her partner in all things and leaving you just wouldn’t do.

Still, both of your wardrobes were severely lacking in the Gotham friendly department, so she took it upon herself to go on a little shopping spree.

It was just a small token of her gratitude toward you for leaving everything behind to follow her in her venture, and not nearly as much as she wanted to give you.

...But it was a start.

Once she had it under her control, she would give you all of Gotham if you asked.

“It’s cold down here, so I bought you a few things” she shrugged, plucking one of the gift bags from the floor and holding it out to you. Though, you were too shocked to take it at first.

“A few things? Sofia-this is a whole department store” you laughed, looking around at all the things, knowing she must have spent a fortune on all of this.

Not that it seemed to phase her in the least.

“Nowhere near what you deserve, my love” she grinned, turning around toward the fireplace.

“Let’s go get cleaned up and then you can go through all this” she suggested, knowing that after your long journey, the two of you could benefit from a warm shower and a nice glass of wine.

She had been planning this for quite some time, and she wanted it to be perfect.

~

You plopped down next to Sofia on the couch, both wearing brand new silk pajamas as you relaxed. Her hair was still wet from the shower you’d shared, and you both smelled of lilac and vanilla.

By all accounts, it was the perfect way to top off an evening.

Though, the woman you loved seemed to have something on her mind.

You had been through all those bags together, those gifts she'd ordered and wrapped just for you and found that everything was perfect.

Sofia was perfectly aware of how difficult it was for you to find clothes that fit you, and in a place like Gotham, they weren't exactly the most aware of size inclusivity.

Thankfully, anything was possible with enough money and time.

For that reason alone, along with her demand for perfection and attention to detail, every single beautiful garment fit like a glove. It was like they were made for your body, and you assumed that was because they were.

You had known Sofia to spoil you in the past, frequently taking you out to nice dinners and parties on the veranda, but nothing like this. This had taken her a very long time to pull off and you just wanted to know why.

There was no special occasion that you were aware of, and you’d never missed an anniversary.

It had to be something else.

“I have to ask, what brought all this on?” you asked finally, nursing your wine glass as you did. You had been racking your brain since you got home, and you just didn’t know.

There was something going on though, you knew that for certain.

Sofia smiled, leaning her head back as she studied you. Your face was so beautiful, and you truly did make her so happy. Though, she had to admit that you knew her better than even she knew.

In her mind, this just seemed like something she did for you frequently, albeit a little extravagant. Of course, however, you were right.

Sofia’d had something in her mind as of late, and she assumed that waiting any longer wouldn’t do either of you any good.

It was time to just come out with it.

“Y/N, will you run the underworld with me?” she hummed, catching you off guard once again with the tone in her voice. Of course though, you didn’t even have to think before answering.

[fangirlingincamouflage]

Blind Hope: Chapter 7

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1,232 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Chapter Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals, I make no money from this fanfiction. Dedication: @14readwritedraw96 and @thezucchini​ (For being so wonderfully enthusiastic) TW/CW Descriptions of pain, long term hospital stay

Previous chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 <~ You are Here

You are standing in the middle of the pasta isle at the grocery store when your cell phone goes off. It's that distinctive ping of an unknown number texting you. You sigh, roll your eyes, and wonder what is the easiest possible thing that you can make for dinner that night. In the past six days your workload has tripled. June and Em are on a much needed vacation and Nick is still unconscious at the hospital.

You know that because you called right before you left to go grocery shopping. You also called first thing this morning, and last night, and the morning before, and the night before that. You have called the hospital at least twice a day for the past thirty-seven days. You got the exact same information.

“Officer Jakoby is still in an induced coma, and he is not ready to be seen by friends or family.”

It was maddening.

Your phone goes off again and you set a jar of premade sauce back on the shelf. Your stomach isn't feeling red sauce. It isn't feeling pasta. Or oranges. Or any one of a thousand other things you were totally down for eating. You hadn't been hungry since the night part of LA went up in magical flames. Since Nick had been hospitalized.

With a sigh you eased into the snack isle. Is a bag of chips an acceptable replacement for dinner? Probably not, but you've had take out for the past two weeks and absolutely none of it has filled the steady, continuing ache in your heart.

Your phone goes off again.

“What?” you snarl loud enough to make the old lady with a basket full of frozen dinners blink with bewilderment. “Sorry. Not you.”

You pull your phone out and waive it at her. She doesn't look convinced, and doubles her speed to get into the next isle.

With a few swipes you bring up your new messages.

“This is Jessica, the Head Nurse at the Intensive Care Unit at the UCLA Medical Center.” The first message reads.

Your heard pounds so hard in your chest that your vision goes a little hazy. You grip your phone tightly enough to make the screen rainbow with protest.

“Nick Jakoby has achieved a state of continuing consciousness. One of my nurses made the mistake of telling him that you had stopped by.”

That hazy feeling turns to ash. You had wanted to see him yourself, to let him know what had gone on, and why you hadn't talked to him in six, not seven, months.  He must be angry, furious.

The third message is brief, and comes across as a little mad. “In order to keep him in bed, I promised him you would come see him tonight. Do not make me a liar.”

You desert your cart, and take the shortest possible trip to the hospital that you have ever taken. Which is impressive, considering all the times you driven up there in the past month, just in case something had happened between your morning and evening check-ins.

You don't stop at the front desk, you know where you are going. The elevator doors close as you turn the corner, and the wait for the next ones seems like an eternity. The moment the doors whoosh open, you surge inside hitting the buttons for the ICU floor. You don't even wait. You ht the close-door button and watch your reflection stare back at you as the lift starts to rise.

What are you going to say? Should you have gotten balloons? Flowers? A stuffed animal? Would he even be allowed those things? Did he want them from you? Did he want to see you to make up or to have a final talk? In the twenty-eight seconds that it takes to get to your floor, your mind plays out you greatest hopes and worst fears in a strange, overlapping loop that leaves you feeling a little lightheaded.

Though maybe that has something to do with the fact that you haven't eaten well in a month.

Your clothes don't fit right, you think as you tug at the fabric. You should have gone home to change. You were wearing your comfy clothes to go shopping. The fabric weird. Then you realize its not the fabric, its your own skin. You are so nervous that your skin feels like an electric current is running through it. With a huff you roll your shoulders, trying to settle your nerves. It doesn't help.

The doors slide open and as fast as you got into the elevator, you hesitate to get out. This could go wrong. What if his mother is there? His partner? What about Johnassen, the jerk who broke his phone so long ago?

It doesn't matter you tell yourself as you take that first step off the elevator. All that matters is he's awake. You'll be able to see him with your own eyes.

A stern looking woman with stark gray curls looks up from a desk as you approach. She tilts her head and inspects you.

“For Jakoby?” she asks like she already knows the answer. “Follow me.”

Your heart is in your ears as you follow in the steps of her worn out shoes. She swipes her badge, taking you through a set of secure double doors. The sounds of the hospital change. The ICU is bereft of human noises, but it isn't quiet. You can hear televisions on a half a dozen channels turned down low, doing what they could to preoccupy patients who were in layers of pain. The sound of breathing machines hiss and whirl. A man in green scrubs wheels supplies down the hall. There's no happy, warm chatter. Just a strange sense of desolation and pain.

You do not like it here, and you can't imagine Nick here. Nick, with his warm laugh and kindness. Nick who kisses you like the universe exists in your lips. You want to scoop him up and take him away.

The nurse stops outside of a door at the end of the hall.

“They are quarantined behind a see through partition,” she tells you in the kind of no-nonsense voice that must come from years in her work. “Do not attempt to breech this partition.”

She holds out a long medical gown. Confused, you shoved your arms into the sleeves. She spins you, and starts to tie it up, and then she puts another one on your back, spinning you again so she can tie it in the front. She hands you a cap, and a mask, and you put them both on as she helps your feet into medical grade booties.

“How dangerous is it?” You ask as she holds up a pair of gloves to slip on your hands.

“Unknown,” she tucks the end of the gloves over the wristband of the double set of gowns. “But you saw the news, you know where they were. Better safe than sorry.”

She types a number into the key pad. “You get ten minutes. No more, no less. I'm not being mean, but we need to minimize any chance of exposure.”

You nod your understanding. Ten minutes isn't much time, but you'll make the most of it.

“There are armed men in there,” she finally says. “Don't do anything to make them think you are a threat.”

It's the last bit of advice she gives you before the pad turns green and the door is opened.

The room is long, white, and empty save for what looks like a box made out of hanging plastic. Only a few of the lights are on, casting half the room in evening darkness. There are several beds, but only one of them is occupied. The long, lean body of a black male is visible beneath the harsh lighting. Three other people stand guard, dressed from head to toe, AR-15 clutched in their hands. The door closes behind you.

For a moment you stand there, frozen and unsure. A little, ugly thought makes you wonder if this is some weird trick. Then you hear your name.

Your eyes are drown to the shape of a man sitting in a chair. You hadn't noticed him at first because the dark lines of his body blend a little too easily with the pseudo darkness on that side of the room. But now that you've seen him, you can't pull your gaze away.

Nick. You'd know the shape of him anywhere. The broad, strong line of his shoulders stands guardian against the pitch black behind him. There's a blanket across his legs, and an IV in his arm.

“It's you,” he says softly, disbelieving.

“Nick.” You take one step, and then another, and before you know it your legs are carrying you across the room. You almost forget the plastic. When you foot hits it, you're startled. The guards watch you with cold glares. “Sorry.”

And once you start saying it, you can't stop. Over and over again you apologize. You don't realize you are crying until you taste the hot salt of your own tears. You are sorry you didn't call him. You are sorry you left. You are sorry you didn't answer him back. You are sorry for everything you ever did in the last six months because none of those things was going to him. You sink to your knees at the edge of the partition, the tears making it impossible to speak.

He says your name again, so soft you wonder if you dreamed it. You look up, and he's shaking his head.

“Please, don't cry.”

Slowly, unsteadily, he gets up. He doesn't look at you as he pulls the chair from one side of the plastic sheet box to the other. Right in front of you, he plops the chair down, and then lowers himself into it. His staccato motions belie how hurt he must still be.

The pair of you are silent as you look one another over. You see the bruises beneath his woad blue spots; purple and yellow and, in some places, black. You see the stitches in his arm, the thick swelling of his hands. The skin around his cheeks is slack with the lack of food he's gotten in the past month. But his eyes, those gorgeous eyes that are yellow and red and orange all at once, they are filled with pain that has nothing to do with being thrown half a football field by a magical explosion.

“You're here,” he says, his voice soft. “I thought-” He stop short, shrugging, and then wincing.

“I know,” you tell him. While you aren't sure of the exact words he must have thought, you know that it couldn't have been good.

“Why?” he asks.

You open your mouth to tell him, but the words wont come. You remember Elizabeth, his mother, and the way she had looked at you. You could tell him everything, but what good would that do? He might get angry at his mother, it might cause some kind of rift between them and how many people did Nick really have who cared that much for his safety? Not nearly enough, you think as you take in injuries you hadn't noticed before.

Instead you shrug. You can't bring yourself to lie, but you can't bring yourself to tell him the truth either, no matter how much it's burned inside of you. You turn the words that she said over in your mind, pulling an answer from them without revealing their source.

“You got hurt because you were with me.” Your voice cracks as you say it.

His eyes close and his shoulders sag. His body leans forward. You think he's about to slide out of the chair. The pair of you kneel on the floor, staring at one another. Emotions that you don't think have ever been named whirl through you. You want to touch him, you want to hold him, you want to vanish together into the night.

“No,” he said shaking his head. “No. You were just the excuse. When they saw me-” he cuts off, coughs, and shakes. “They'd already decided what they were going to do.”

He looks away. You can tell that there's more to say, that he's struggling. Rather than push you give him a moment. He deserves that at the very least.

“It wont happen again,” he says.

“Why not?”

He opens his palm, I can't see anything there, but he must because he's staring down at it like it's something special.

“I can't talk about a lot that happened that night,” he says. “I want to, I want to tell you everything but...I can't.”

You shake your head. “I just need to know you are safe.”

“I think I am. I mean-I gotta tell you, it was not a normal night. I was...I was blooded.”

Your eyes go wide. You can't help but stare at his lips. He smirks.

“It'll take a while for the tusks to grow. But I don't need to file them anymore.”

You sit back on your heels. “Are you okay with that?”

He shrugs. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath and looks at you. It's a long look, a scared and hopeful one. It's like he's weighing a thousand dreams as he watches you and all you can do is wait.

“I thought I was getting over you,” he finally says. “It'd been months. Long months. Really, really long months. My mom even set me up on a couple dates with some unblooded girls from other states.”

Your stomach twists.

“Yeah?” you say, hoping that he's not about to tell you that he has moved on and this whole thing was about him saying goodbye.

“They were nice, but they...they didn't understand me. They didn't like what I do. They didn't like my jokes and they all thought Alaska is stupid.” The two of you laugh and it feels so good. He shifts his position until the two of you are nearly the same height. “I wasn't falling for someone else but I was pretending really hard like I was getting over you.”

You nod, you know what he means. You'd been going through all the motions, acting like you were moving forward when all you were doing was playing the role and hoping.

“I was going to come see you,” he said. “As soon as my shift was over that night. I was going to go right to your apartment. Everyone said I shouldn't because I'd just get hurt, but I thought that it would be worth it. I just..”

Slowly he reached into the blanket still twisted around his legs. His thick, injured fingers shook with pain as he pushed the fabric around.

“Where-hold on-it's here, I swear.”

Your heart, which has already gone through far too much, pounds all over again. Your mouth goes dry.

“Nick...”

“I almost died you know,” he says as he lifts a corner, continues to look. There's a little wetness on his brow, and you wonder if it's fear, nerves, or pain that's put it there. “And not just once. I almost died like four times.”

One of the guards cleared their throats.

“I know,” Nick said, holding up his free hand. “I know. I can't tell her anything. But you only have to look at me to see that it happened.” He went still, and bowed his head. “I did die.”

It's not even a whisper, there's no sound. It's a breath of words that you are sure the guards couldn't hear. You pounding heart turns to ice in your chest.

“What?”

But he doesn't say it again. Instead he looks up at you and his eyes are bright with a hundred emotions. “And all I could think about, was you.”

He holds out his hand. Nested there is a black velvet box. Carefully, he opens it, revealing a ring. It's made of two metals, platinum and rose gold, twisted around one another to form a very simple braid, and right there at the center is a stone in the exact same shade of blue as his spots.

“All  I thought about every day has been you,” he is saying when your ears start to work again. “And I don't want to ever have to worry again.”

You swallow twice before you can speak. “Are you proposing?”

You aren't sure if he's blushing, but his ears twitch. “Only if you're saying yes.”

“You have to ask,” you say. “You have to...ask.”

“Is it a spell? A human thing?” he says.

You shrug, because it kind of is, but mostly you just need to time to stop your thoughts from making such a commotion in your head. There are a hundred ways this could go wrong, a thousand even, but even so-

He says your name and you find that he's shifted yet again, down on one knee in front of you. “Will you marry me?”