#so its not like an 'ah fuck my streak ah' guilty thing its more

[jackals-ships]

ping ponging in my brain between prime / lotor / marazhai. they're all in there Fighting For The Braincell,

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: Stains and Apologies

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Without breaking eye contact with Fjord, Yasha reaches over her shoulder again and this time pulls Molly out from behind her with a hand fisted in the collar of his coat. His heeled boots leave the scuffed wooden floor as she shakes him, gentle and chastising - dangling from her grip, he looks like nothing more than a naughty kitten. “Molly, you shouldn’t mess with people’s things.”

Molly pouts. “Yash, come on, it was funny!”

“You know what happens when you do that.”

And, just like that, oh so satisfyingly, Molly’s entire demeanor shifts - his eyes spring wide, tail twitching agitatedly to match. “Oh. Oh - no, hey, that’s not-”

Wordcount: 2302

A/N: Shoutout to @ticklishnonsense who’s been absolutely killing me with their switch!Molly content lately, and @eldritchtickles who requested lee!Molly fully half a year ago, i’m so sorry for the delay 🤦‍♀️

Fjord’s not going to kill Molly.

He can appreciate that it looks like he’s going to kill him, the way he’s currently sprinting with one hand brandishing his sword and the other grasping for a purple tail just out of his reach, but he’s not. Really.

He’s just going to Blink onto him, tackle him to the floor, and rub his face into whatever muck’s been sloughed off the bootsoles of the inn’s latest patrons until he apologizes.

Molly ducks through the nearest doorway, coat and horn jewelry flaring in a jangling arc behind him as he pivots. Fjord slams a hand into the already-splintering beam of the frame and skids after him. If he can just get a bead on where his insane roommate is going to be in the next six seconds -

His attempt at foresight is instantly thwarted as he comes up short - literally, his head smacks off a leather bracer as he’s forcibly stopped by someone a good head taller than him. He stumbles back, pulling his sword to his chest in an unfortunately belated attempt not to stab anyone, and looks up.

Yasha looms before him with one arm raised protectively, looking blessedly un-gouged. Her expression as she reaches over her shoulder for the hilt of her own sword almost makes him wish that wasn’t the case. “Are you going to put that away?”

“Put away - oh.” His sword vanishes with a spray of salt. “That was. Ahem. For transportation.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” The lilting voice comes from further in the room, and it only takes a second past that to see the edges of Molly’s coat peeking out from his human shield.

Fjord attempts to scowl at him through Yasha’s chest. “Well, maybe now that we’re both in one place I can ask you what in Dwendal’s name you did that for.”

Molly becomes slightly more visible as Yasha turns to him. “Oh… Molly, what did you do?”

There’s a distinct lack of the guilty silence that Fjord thinks the situation deserves. “I,” Molly says, completely confident, “gave him him a gift-”

Fjord scoffs. “He stole the soap I keep in my pack and replaced it-”

“With better soap-”

Yasha’s gaze has been flicking between the two of them, and Fjord waits until it swings back his way before holding his hands out indignantly. “Is that what you’d call this?”

All three of them stare at his hands. He doesn’t mind the flowery scent - the sea breeze has scoured his nostrils enough that he’s beyond caring what he smells like most days.

The purple streaks staining his hands and forearms are a bit more offensive.

Yasha reaches out slowly to try and scrub some of it off with her thumb. Molly just snickers, waving his own fully purple hand out at Fjord. “To be fair, there’s no way I could have known that would happen.”

Without breaking eye contact with Fjord, Yasha reaches over her shoulder again and this time pulls Molly out from behind her with a hand fisted in the collar of his coat. His heeled boots leave the scuffed wooden floor as she shakes him, gentle and chastising - dangling from her grip, he looks like nothing more than a naughty kitten. “Molly, you shouldn’t mess with people’s things.”

Molly pouts. “Yash, come on, it was funny!”

“You know what happens when you do that.”

And, just like that, oh so satisfyingly, Molly’s entire demeanor shifts - his eyes spring wide, tail twitching agitatedly to match. “Oh. Oh - no, hey, that’s not-”

The tips of his boots press towards the floor in a transparent attempt to get some leverage, but Yasha just huffs and scoops the entirety of his lanky form into her arms. “Here,” she tells Fjord bluntly over his protests, turning to one of the beds, “I’ll show you how we used to punish him at the circus.”

Fjord feels the heat of his anger sour instantly at the prospect of someone being punished on his behalf; it leaves a chalky taste in his mouth not unlike the leftover dust when he’s done filing. He catches Yasha’s eye before she can look back at Molly, holds up his hands. “Hey, let’s just take a minute here - now I’m not thrilled about this, but maybe we’re all a little too tense. We can talk it out like adults - there’s no need for punishment, right, Molly?”

His attempt at placation hits dead silence as Yasha swivels to regard him fully, Molly twisting in her arms to do the same. They stare.

Fjord stupidly wonders if he’s going to get punished now, and then, belatedly, he connects the dots - head on, it’s much easier to see how loose her grip on him is, to intuit the rote familiarity of Molly’s bickering.

He’s still learning what that kind of easy, endlessly warm camaraderie looks like. Hard to do, when he’s never had it before.

He opens his mouth warily, praying that he can turn the bitter invective on his tongue into some kind of apology before it comes out. Luckily, Molly beats him to it with a fit of giddy laughter that has him slumped halfway over Yasha’s bicep.

“What a gentleman! See, Yasha, I can’t help myself - it’s impossible not to mess with him.”

Yasha winces. It’s that more than anything else that has Fjord chuckling along, lowering his hands and shaking his head. “All right, I take it back, do whatever you want with him.”

“Hey!”

Yasha’s forehead unfurrows, and in one smooth movement she drops Molly on the nearest mattress with his tail arcing behind. He starts to get back up, no doubt eager to keep talking, but Yasha just reaches between his horns to grab the back of his neck and gently but firmly shoves him face-first into cotton sheets. “He squirms a lot,” she says, almost apologetically.

“Uh… what?”

“Hold on.” She pulls away the bunched fabric of coat and shirt to expose a strip of purple skin that bares the shallow outline of ribs and the smooth dip of Molly’s back, gently fluttering her fingers over the edge of a tattooed flourish, and instantly her explanation starts to make sense.

“Mmphhh! Hm, heh-” Molly tries to roll onto his exposed side, but that just pushes Yasha’s hand further up his back to tickle along the side of his spine. “Okay, okahahay, I - oh, that’s enough - nahaha!”

“His back is a good spot,” Yasha instructs, and Fjord nods numbly along. Her fingers stray down to Molly’s side, squeezing lightly into the shivering softness just under his ribcage, and no matter how Molly struggles and whines between bursts of snickering there’s not a thing on earth he can do to stop her.

Fjord blinks. There’s this weird swooping sensation in his belly, watching how little ability Molly has to fight back - he can barely even lift his head, though he doesn’t seem to be struggling to breathe. “Are you just going to do that till he apologizes?”

“No. I do this until,” Yasha pauses, lips pulling flat as she considers, “until he gets… floppier. Less bratty,” she enunciates to Molly, and curls her fingers just below the small of his back until a muffled shriek works its way out of the bedsheets his face is buried in. “When that’s done he’ll apologize on his own.”

“Ah,” Fjord nods again. He’s confused as fuck-all, but it’s hard not to smile watching Yasha make mock-contemplative noises that have Molly’s tail twitching anxiously in response against her knees. Judging by the frantic laughter as she makes a claw of her hand and goes after his ribs, he’s right to be worried.

It’s crazy, but oddly charming. Par for the course with their weird little group.

“You can join in if you want,” Yasha tells him. She’s not smiling back at him, but something in her multicolored gaze looks a little softer upon registering his tacit approval. “It’s faster that way.”

Molly currently looks to be trying to burrow straight through the mattress, anchored only by Yasha’s nails hooking under the back of his jaw, and Fjord feels a little bad for him.

Then, glancing down, he catches sight of the purple streaks on his fingers again.

He clears his throat. “Yeah? Any suggestions?”

Yasha shifts slightly to let him closer to the bed. “Get one of his arms and tickle under it. Gently.”

Fjord sets his jaw and goes to tow one of Molly’s arms out from where he’s wrapped it tightly against his belly. Molly, naturally, is unsupportive of his endeavors.

“Nooo - ha! - give that bahahack!” He almost twists free, too, but Yasha tickles his back again and that renders him flailingly incoherent long enough for Fjord to properly pin his forearm to the mattress.

Molly manages to peek out at him, the singular red eye that’s visible glinting with half-shed tears. Yasha’s stopped tickling for the moment to let him catch his breath in frantic heaves of air, but Fjord can see a glimpse of fang in the blissed-out grin he’s still sporting, a happy flush high on cheeks half hidden by hair and curling horns.

“You done?” he asks, just in case.

Molly sniffles in another breath. “Your hands look lovely, dear.”

Fjord raises an eyebrow and pokes him in the armpit, settling in on the floor and resting his chin on the mattress to better meet his gaze. Molly squeaks, eye squeezing shut as his grin jolts wider. “Now that’s uncalled for, isn’t it?”

Molly’s tongue flickers out at him, mocking. “Do what you have to.”

Fjord just pokes him again, wiggling his finger a little this time, and feels Molly’s bicep tense in his hold as a flurry of giggles erupts. He waits patiently for the giggles to calm, for Molly’s arm to twitch again - this time, with impatience. “Oh? What are we doing again?”

His eye cracks open, looking Fjord over, and then springs wide in horror. “Yasha,” he whines, trying and failing to squirm away from Fjord’s amusement.

Yasha sounds pretty amused herself. “Yes, Molly?”

“This isn’t how it works!”

Yasha mulls this over. “I think this is the best it’s ever worked, actually.”

Realizing that he’s going to get no help from that quarter, Molly huffs and makes a heroic attempt to struggle upright under their hands. “Okay, fine, clearly we’re done here - hngh!”

He’s barely gotten his elbow to budge before Fjord is worrying at his armpit with a single fingertip, sending shivers through his entire body that bring him right back down with a frustrated yelp. “Are we?”

It’s terribly hard not to break his faux-clueless tone and laugh. He’s never seen Molly embarrassed before, especially at the threat of not being tickled to death. But here he is, flushed all the way to the back of his neck, the dark purple blush standing out against Yasha’s pale fingers. That alone feels like enough recompense for the whole incident, so he sighs indulgently and lifts his chin to look over at Yasha. “Yeah, alright, let’s get him.”

Yasha takes her hand off Molly’s neck, letting him bolt up the instant before she shoves both hands under his shirt and Fjord starts tickling his armpit in earnest.He faceplants back onto the bed, curling up as best he can. “AH - hahaHA! Nahaha, hah - notthehehere, fuck-” Fjord glances over to see Yasha’s knuckles bulging through the fabric over his shoulder blades and grins, tickling up along the tops of Molly’s deltoids to bump knuckles with her.

Molly laughs and laughs and laughs, occasionally jerking his head up to reveal a dizzingly bright grin, and as his hysterics eventually trail off into helpless wheezing he lies completely limp and more than a little sweaty in tangled sheets. Fjord, shaking out his hands before they can cramp up, contemplates fetching some soap to throw at him. He settles for rolling Molly over and flicking him gently in the forehead.

Molly springs up suddenly, forcing him to step back, and completely ignores him to scrabble for purchase on Yasha’s arms. Fjord watches the both of them tug and rearrange until Molly is curled up half in Yasha’s lap, her making an extremely halfhearted attempt to smooth his mussed hair.

That bitter feeling inches back in, just a little, and he starts to turn for the door on instinct.

Then, eyes still bleary with tears of laughter, Molly looks straight at him. “Well, that was interesting.”

Fjord meets his gaze. “We’ll call it even,” he says, “provided you don’t touch my stuff again. Didn’t we literally just do this with Nott?”

“Even…” Molly muses. “Sure.” His fangs make a sudden reappearance, the crown jewels of a mischievously evil grin. “Until I find out where you’re ticklish, at least.”

Fjord wills himself not to take a step back. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

Molly and Yasha look at him with two completely different expressions that somehow manage to contain the exact same level of smugness. “It’s kind of a cycle,” Yasha admits. “He used to hide behind the tents and jump out at me, and then I’d have to do it all over again.”

The swooping sensation is back in full force, and the only thought that helps him force down a nervous smile is knowing it will expose the nubs of his tusks. “I…” He nods as calmly as he can at Molly. “I’ll be keeping an eye out, then.”

Molly says nothing, just keeps grinning implacably, but the edge of Yasha’s mouth quirks up in a soft smile. “Good.”

Fjord gestures hastily to indicate some kind of goodbye and takes his leave before Molly can start doing any investigating. Crazy, totally weird, but that feeling-

He’s halfway back to his room before he realizes that he never got an apology.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

With Zero Power

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 3382

For @spiderman-homecomeme, with the following prompts:

winter power outage

holiday smut

“I can think of one way to warm you up.”

Summary: Peter and MJ return from skating to find their apartment not quite how they left it. Between the warm fuzzies of the evening they've spent together and the holidays right around the corner, it isn't hard to find a little romance in the situation.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t beautiful,” MJ insists, “but think how much lighting a tree that size costs. With the number of homeless slowly starving in this city? With the number of children below the poverty line who are going to school in this weather—” The arm she waves is instantly layered in thick, wet snowflakes that glisten as they pass beneath a streetlight. “—without winter coats and boots?”

“With the number of college students trying to make rent with only their girlfriend to live with because their three previous roommates staged a mutiny and forced the couple out because the volume of their nighttime activities was, quote, ‘obnoxiously loud and unprecedentedly lengthy’?”

She sighs in exasperation.

“I’m making a point.”

“I agree with your point,” Peter says. “Completely. I already told May I’m volunteering with her all next weekend, and I’ll call Pepper tomorrow to see where she’s committed Stark Industries’ holiday donations.”

“And ask her to triple the amount.”

“I can suggest it,” he laughs, “but I’m not her financial advisor.”

“Mmm you should be though,” MJ says, shifting from holding his gloved hand to pulling his arm around her. “You’re so sexy when you’re redistributing the amassed wealth of a late billionaire.”

There are icy crystals glimmering in her eyelashes. She’s beautiful. He could walk the borough with her all night, live in a loop where they’ve always just disembarked from a late bus, disoriented to step from its stark light into the soft glow of the snow on sidewalks that aren’t cleared with the same diligence as they are in Manhattan, around Rockefeller Center, where they’ve spent the evening skating. That would be a nice life—tonight, with her, forever.

Peter halts them for a moment and wraps his other arm around her too, pulling his girlfriend in to kiss her. He sways them as he does it, smiling against her mouth, her cold nose pressed into his cheek.

“Did you have a good time though?” he asks. MJ nods and her face rubs against his.

“My rental skates were a little tight, but I did wear two pairs of socks, so it’s kinda my fault.”

He has a new pair of skates for her, exactly the right size, but they’re wrapped in red paper featuring dogs with candy cane antlers, waiting to be snuck beneath her tiny artificial tree on Christmas morning. A totally outrageous gift—figure skates in immaculate white leather, like she wears in the pictures he’s seen of her at childhood skating lessons—but he hates it when all his money goes to rent. This might finally be the gift to make her cry. He’s cracked the bottle that stores his girlfriend’s tenderest feelings before, making her eyes shine the winter he knit her a terrible, uneven scarf (she’s wearing it now), and he’s certain the skates will be the thing she really loves. She’ll cry with joy, she’ll say they’re too much, he’ll carry her from the little tree to bed and keep her there until she’s begging for more instead of less. The thought makes Peter grin now.

“Take a bath when we get home. Your feet will feel better.”

“They’d feel better if you carried me,” MJ suggests slyly.

But she screeches when he jerks her against him and, in the relative darkness of their street, looses a web, swinging them both into the air. They pretend it’s still a secret how much she’s grown to love the sensation of sailing through the night with him. What Peter is far from secretive about is how much he loves the way she clings to him, trying not to feel too guilty when he remembers he should attribute some portion of her grip to the time he dropped her. Ah well, it’s in the past. His girlfriend’s laughing shakily as he lands them on the roof of their building and crawls deftly down the wall to the fire escape.

“Cute,” she says, shivering with the aftereffects of cold winter air whipping around her face. The tone is both complimentary and accusatory. “But we have to climb down now, unless…”

MJ’s eyes narrow.

“I… might’ve left the window unlocked?” he asks, because asking implies someone else has the answer, that there is a buck to be passed, as much as he would simultaneously like to hang on to any spare bucks during this expensive season.

“Peter, you can’t do that. You know break-ins are more frequent during the holidays.”

“Yeah,” he allows, edging the window open, “but who’s gonna climb up to the twenty-second floor to try to get through our window?”

He dives inside, then helps her through. The proof that she had a good time tonight is that she lets the window thing drop. Peter shuts and locks the window as loudly as possible behind them.

“Didn’t we leave a light on?” she asks.

“I’m not—”

“When I say that,” MJ cuts him off, dropping her voice to a hiss, “I mean I know I left a light on.”

Instantly, he’s stepping around her, keeping his arm out to hold her behind him. She has a bad habit of going rogue in dangerous situations. More likely than not, she’d grab a kitchen knife and end up stabbing him by accident as they checked every room for intruders. Safer for him to lead.

But it’s not a break-in.

“It’s cold in here,” he realizes.

As they moved through the small number of rooms that make up their hideously overpriced apartment, they left the lights off. Now, MJ smacks at the closest wall switch. Nothing happens.

“Aw, come on,” Peter begs the overhead light. He tries a lamp. Click-click, click-click. Nothin’. “Man!”

“Fucking Rockefeller Christmas tree,” his girlfriend accuses, though it’s not possible that even an energy-suck of that size could drain their building, way out in Queens. “I’m not having a bath now. I’ll be freezing when I get out.”

“Ok. Let’s get some candles first.” Peter starts to walk away from her, down the hall. “MJ, where are the candles?”

With his enhanced vision, he can see her well enough to catch the eyeroll. Fair.

By the time they have a dozen candles lit, it smells like every holiday scent at once. Vanilla smudges cloyingly across the sharper sweetness of candied orange peel, the heaviness of pine battles the richness of milk chocolate, and the cinnamon that seems to have been included in every candle is giving Peter a headache until they agree to space their light sources out. The room is darker with the candles far apart, but the smell is bearable. He also doesn’t mind how the flames catch in MJ’s eyes when she blinks, how a streak of gold will dart across her throat when she turns her head to watch him watching her.

Peter’s mouth is dry when he stammers out, “Y-you look incredible,” like they’re sixteen again and he’s got his gaze fixed on her legs because it’s 90° and she very reasonably wore shorts to school.

“How I feel is cold,” she admits with a small smile. She stirs under the blanket that’s draped across both of them. He strokes her shoulder over her wool cardigan. “I really was looking forward to that bath.”

And because the way she says it sounds nothing like how a person might casually look forward to anything, Peter swells a little in his jeans and shifts his legs closer to hers.

“Were you?” he asks.

MJ’s gaze goes from his mouth to his eyes as she smirks subtly. She knows she’s got him. When does she not have him? The complaints of their former roommates were undeniably valid. It’s a miracle he and MJ accomplished enough in undergrad to even get accepted into grad school. If she hadn’t been the responsible one, he would’ve been pretty damn content to spend those four years in bed with her.

Innocently, she rests her head on his shoulder. He swallows thickly.

“Mhmm. I was looking forward to getting out of my cold clothes. I was looking forward to grabbing a big, thick—” She grips his thigh suddenly. “—towel from the closet to wrap myself in when I was done. I was looking forward to using my cranberry bodywash in the tub. That one smells really good, right?”

Peter nods because forming a sentence in this moment is beyond him.

“And it foams up really well,” MJ continues, tilting her face, passing her lips lightly across his earlobe. He’s hard. He’s so fucking hard so quickly. “So, I was looking forward to popping those bubbles when I ran my hands all over my body to work it in.”

“Fuck,” Peter groans. He digs his fingers into her waist, through the sweater, blood pulsing in his groin.

She shrugs, abruptly nonchalant.

“Mostly, I was just looking forward to being warm.”

“I can think of one way to warm you up,” he pledges.

Trust me, he mentally urges. Right now. Trust me like you trusted me to keep you on your feet on the rink when your legs wouldn’t remember how to skate right away.

“Good, because I need you.”

“Say it again?” Peter requests, hand on the back of her head as she raises it from his shoulder.

“I need you, Peter.”

MJ’s hand jumps from his thigh straight into his lap and squeezes him through his jeans. He crushes their mouths together, the two of them breathing in hot pants like they can warm each other that way. Making to move over her, he’s pushed back instead, winded from more than the shove as his girlfriend straddles him with the practiced efficiency of a quickie before Spidey patrol or as an incentive between study breaks. When she rolls her hips against his… shit, she might observe Christmas on the 25th, but the friction of her grinding on his dick is the only Christmas he’ll ever need to celebrate. He plunges both hands deep into her hair to seal their mouths together and slumps into the couch, offering maximum opportunity for her to rock that beloved place between her legs along his erection. He’s already feeling warmer.

“No,” she yelps when he tries to push her sweater off. She snatches it back on and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. “I’m still cold.”

“Ok. Let’s work on that.”

Peter tilts his chin up in invitation and repositions his hands on MJ’s ass. When she kisses him in a slow brush, he begins forcing her back and forth over his lap. He groans into her mouth to feel her angle her hips just right and shiver. Not letting her back down, he grips her and drags her across his erection repeatedly, until she can’t kiss him anymore, until her forehead’s pressed hard to his and she’s hissing his name. The oscillation of her hips in his hands is hypnotic, even with his eyes closed. He’s groaning and trying to hold back, having a hard time concentrating on an idea of what to do next to get his girlfriend off before he reaches that point himself. He wants her warm skin against his when he sinks inside her, not a sudden gush in his jeans.

Still grinding, MJ sits up straighter. She doesn’t take her sweater off, but she pulls down the front of the camisole she wears under it and tucks the material below her bared breasts. Peter’s happy to enjoy the visual while he rubs her over his dick, but she grips the back of his neck and compels his head forward.

“What do you want exactly?” he teases. “I’m a little confused.”

Eye narrowed down at him as she pants, MJ plucks one of his hands from her ass and guides it up to her face. It fucks him up pretty good when she folds down all but two of his fingers, sliding those into her mouth; she sucks with that almost-angry gaze locked on him before bringing his wet fingers down to circle her nipple.

“Ok, ok,” Peter says desperately.

“Just helping.”

A laugh pops out of his mouth, but then he touches his lips to her breast, kissing lightly as she sways. Her hand twitches on the back of his neck. Ok, he thinks again, pulling her nipple between his teeth. MJ moans blissfully and heat floods both Peter’s face and his groin. He jerks roughly against her and clutches her body close when she comes, cradling his face to her chest. There’s still something of the briskness of their walk home to her smell as he inhales against her skin, but also wool and the smoke that’s clung to her after lighting the candles. Her scent is rich. He feels rich, with his arms wrapped around her.

She shimmies her shoulders and the blanket drops. When she slips out of her sweater, Peter rushes to tear his hoodie (and the t-shirt caught up with it) off. MJ halts him in the act of flinging them away; right, candles. Gotta aim for a spot where he won’t start a fire. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans as quickly as he can, gasping in relief at the sudden extra room for the erection bulging beneath his boxers. His plan, as he hooks his thumbs into his waistband, is to yank his clothes down only as far as necessary, then guide MJ back on top of him as soon as she’s out of her sweatpants and pick up where they left off with her first orgasm. But, bottomless, his girlfriend settles on his lap before he’s ready. She shuffles forward, rubbing herself against him, making his boxers damp. Peter closes his eyes as they roll back. His hands skim blindly up her arms to fiddle with the slipping straps of the camisole she still wears—if the way it’s clinging to her from only below her breasts to her navel can be called ‘wearing’.

She kisses his cheek.

“Peter.”

He opens his eyes and watches her tilt her head to speak quietly near his ear. Candlelight seeps over and through her hair. He kisses where it pools on her naked shoulder and her soft breaths form words.

“I want you to bend me over.”

Peter turns his head and groans into MJ’s neck.

Running her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Is that a yes?”

“’Chelle, you say, ‘jump,’ I ask, ‘how high?’” he promises.

He whips a condom out of his pocket. She draws back and smirks at him, eyebrows raised.

“And how did that get in there?”

“I might’ve grabbed it while I was looking for the matches.” When his girlfriend continues to stare at him, he adds, “It’s dark! You were lighting candles! I dunno, MJ, it seemed kinda romantic. Why are you still looking at me like that?”

“You’re cute when you babble.”

“Stop talking,” Peter interprets with a sheepish smile. “Got it.”

She climbs off of him and stuffs the blanket into the corner of the couch while he stands and whisks his jeans and boxers down his legs. He almost trips peeling his socks off because MJ waggles her bare ass at him very unfairly.

“Come on, I’m getting cold.”

“I’m—” he starts, struggling with the condom. “I am… I’m going as fast as… there!”

Peter bounds onto the couch and catches MJ’s face in his hand, kissing her lovingly. Then desperately. Then sloppily pulling away to sneak a hand under the back of her top and press her down until her elbows rest on the arm of the couch. Taking a deep breath, he strokes his other hand from the back of her neck all the way to her ass. This is kinda hot with her shirt still on. He’s glad that, for as much as they discuss and debate things like the misuse of municipal funds on holiday decorations, they’re still in their hasty days. Still young, still eager. He grips himself and flexes his fingers as he traces the head of his dick through MJ’s arousal.

“Getting cold,” she repeats.

“Spider-Man is here to help, ma’am,” he jokes, pushing inside her.

Fuck. Peter works his hips gently forward and back, building up to plunging deeper the same way he tiptoes out into the water when they visit the beach too early in the year. But this isn’t like the chilly springtime ocean because she’s warm as she takes him—so, so warm.

“Uh, MJ? Baby? Sweetheart? I thought you said you were cold,” he grits out.

She presses back against him as he finally thrusts all the way in.

“I always keep the home fires burning for you.”

“Well, that was raunchy. You’ve been living with me too long.”

“How could I ever move out with perks like a December power outage?”

Grinning, Peter begins a loose swing of his hips, gazing down MJ’s back at the shadows and light sliding over the rounded edges of her neck, her shoulder blade, her ear as she tips her head to let her hair hang to the side. When her low moans start, he repositions his knees on the couch cushions and digs in with his toes. The wet smack of driving into her is loud in their little sanctuary. He takes her by the hips as she bows her head to her crossed forearms, moving faster, gliding in and out with more grace than he has when navigating an ice rink with skate blades on his feet. MJ spreads her legs wider and drops her head even lower. She is graceful, with the steep slope of her back that Peter can’t resist pressing a hand to. At his touch, she bends even further and he chokes on an already raspy inhalation.

“Faster, Peter,” she requests.

Not loud, not demanding. She knows he can hear her because he’s always listening for her voice. It coaxes him onward from beneath the urgent slap of his thrusts.

He hunches over her, wrapping one arm around her waist as they buck together, his other hand diving between her legs. She’s soaked and her hips are jumping in time with his, so it’s hard to keep his fingers on her swollen clit. Suddenly, MJ has her hand over his, directing his fingers. Reality grows hazy as pleasure creeps into his thighs and trickles invisibly down his stomach, like the phantom touch of his girlfriend beneath him. Peter squints against the light of their candles and so much feeling, flicking his fingers over the sensitive nub that has MJ’s legs quivering. He kisses her spine and scrapes the edge of her camisole with his teeth. She’s shaking too hard to thrust back. Groaning, Peter bucks in a quick burst, holding her body up as she threatens to slump flat.

“You warm yet?” he huffs. “Show me you’re warm.”

“Peter… almost.”

Abruptly, he sits back on his heels, hauling MJ with him. Sweating now, Peter bounces her on his lap. His hands squeeze the smooth skin of her hips. She gasps before moaning deeply and reaching up to wrap an arm behind his neck, arching against him.

“God,” he mutters, looking down over her shoulder to watch the jiggle of her breasts and the tension of her stomach, “I already want you again.”

Because of his words, or his hands, or his cock slamming up into her, she climaxes, clenching around him and stuttering over his name. Peter buries his nose in her hair to avoid the overpowering scent of the candles as his senses sharpen to the finest point; he’s learned this only happens when he’s lost in either the pain of a grave injury or the satisfaction of releasing into MJ. He pulses, hips snapping, hugging her against his chest, flushed with warmth from the top of his ears to where his toes grip the couch.

“Bath?” Peter pants in her ear, dick still twitching inside her. “I swear I won’t let you get cold.”

Just like that, the overhead light and the lamp on the end table blink on. Huh. Power’s back.

“Or maybe you don’t need me to,” he says.

MJ turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll grab the candles. You hit the lights.”

[itstittycitybaby]

From the Ashes We are Born (Part 4)

A/N: here we go with yet another part of this series! Tomorrow I will be posting another fic with a certain loveable character, but V will still be given the love and appreciation he so deserves. 

TW: Sexual assault Attempt:

“You want me to do what?” It was barely 8:30 am; the sun had grazed you with its warm embrace. “Ah, you’re up early,” V had remarked once he heard you shuffle into the kitchen. His trademark apron was tied snugly around his waist. You grumbled in reply and begrudgingly sat down in a kitchen chair. A mug of coffee had slid your way. It was delicious. V shifted foot to foot as he stood there in the kitchen. You didn’t think V could ever be sheepish, let alone nervous. “It’ll be fine, my dear. All you have to do is follow my lead.” You drummed your fingers on the table as you stared up at the smiling mask looking down at you. Even though you couldn’t see V’s face you knew he was hopeful. “Alright V, just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” V’s hands clasped together, enthused. “Aha! Thank you mademoiselle, I appreciate it!You can trust me;danger will not whisk you away from my grasp.” You hated how chirpy he sounded as he prattled on about his plans. V’s voice sounded muddled as he chatted excitedly. You rubbed your temples with the tips of your fingers. “It’s not even ten,” you muttered.

The face that stared back at you was unrecognizable. The mirror mocked you as you sat there, gazing at the new face in front of you. V had twirled the chair around in front of the mirror, the counter filled with makeup and brushes. You were surprised that he had makeup, considering he wore the guy fawkes mask 24/7. “Do you not like it, my dear?” You snapped from your thoughts as you turned to your masked friend. “It’s not that I hate it, just not my style.” You gestured to the  pink blush and bright pink lipstick V had painted onto your face. “I’m used to a more natural look, or with the winged eyeliner I usually wear.” V chuckled, “You dislike looking like a little girl.” “Can you blame me,” you huffed. “You are very good with makeup though, I’ll give you that V.” He thanked you while he pinned the pink bows in your pig tails. You suppressed a shiver as his gloved fingers brushed over your neck lightly. Stop it! Focus on the task at hand! You definitely did not blush when his chest rested against your back as he pinned the last bow to your head. “Funny how this guy is a priest and a pedophile. Two birds with one stone,” you joked, trying to calm yourself down. “The world won’t surely miss him when he’s gone,” V replied as he stepped back. His fingers hovered over your shoulder, almost as if he wanted to gently brush them across your skin. Through the mirror you could tell V was staring at you. It was silent for a few moments as the two of you held each other’s gaze. “D-do you know what I’m gonna wear,” you stammered, breaking the silence. You hoped to god V didn’t notice that you were blushing, if he did he didn’t he say anything. “Ah yes,” he said, “You’re going to love the costume, too.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’m dying to find out.”

You fiddled with the hem of the dress as you waited for the priest to enter. V wasn’t kidding about the dress. The skirt was wide and very pink. The only thing you liked about it was the white blouse and the short lace socks you wore with the pink maryjanes. Nerves jumped inside of your stomach. What if this all went wrong? You felt sick as you waited for the damn guy to get in here. You shuddered at what the assistant or chapel dude had said (like you would know what he did.) “You’re much older than expected. It should be fine, you look young enough.” You almost gagged when those words came out of his mouth. But you gave him the sweetest smile you could muster and a gritted “thanks.” His eyes swept over you one more time before leading you to a room with a four poster bed. Regret washed over you;you regretted agreeing to help V with this...particular task. “All will be fine mademoiselle. I promise.” His words rang in your head along with the instructions he had gone over with you. Yes, you felt guilty for having to live off of him for so long and disrupting his peace, but death didn’t seem terrible as you stood there in the priest’s room. “It’s the least we can do,” you reassured yourself. “For V.” The white walls of the room were bare; not a single decoration of some kind hanging on the walls. It was incredibly boring. Your eyes followed the dried paint on the walls. The strokes of the brush made little swirls and intricate, abstract designs. Has it been 5? 10? 20 minutes? Do I sit on the bed? Do I just stand here like an idiot? No matter how much you hated standing there,  you knew if V asked you anything you would do it in a heartbeat. ‘Darling, would you mind handing me the rag?’ ‘Would you mind holding this fabric up for me?’ ‘Mademoiselle, could you risk your life for me and die by my hand?’ You snorted at the last one. Even if V were to ask that, you would. It’s because we have a crush. “No, no we don’t, shut up shut up shut-” The door swung open and you immediately tensed up. Relax, get in tune, V will protect us. An older balding man stood in front of you. His robes reached to the floor and he had beady eyes that looked black. God was he ugly. You felt disgusted as his eyes raked over your body. The gleam in his eyes made you feel sick.

Good thing father taught me to be an A class liar. “Hello, sir.” You gave him a smile;your eyes looked all innocent and doelike. Your lips parted as you spoke. Don’t over do it, be innocent and childlike. It makes me feel gross for thinking that. You averted your gaze, trying to pass it off as looking shy. “You’re beautiful,” he said, “I can’t believe I doubted your beauty for a second.” Forcing a smile you whispered, “Thank you, sir.” The priest’s eyes seemed to gleam at that. “So polite.” He slowly strolled over to you like he would to a scared child (the thought of that made you feel sick). His slimy hand grabbed your arm; his grip was tight as he looked into your eyes. “Go on, get on the bed.” You gulped as he let go of your arm. “Yes sir.” You felt terrified at the sound of the door closing and the click of a lock. You sat at the end of the bed, your legs pressed together. An ugly smile graced his lips as he saw you. You noticed the tent in his pants and wanted to puke. 

Everything happened so fast. One minute he was at the door and the next he pounced on you. You let out a shriek as your back hit the bed. The priest’s body was pressed up against yours. His hands traveled down your waist, to your legs. They ghosted up your smooth thighs and up to your panties. “N-no,” you yelped, squirming under his body. Where the hell was V? Everything felt hazy and unreal. It was almost dreamlike as  you laid there at this creep’s mercy. This can’t be happening, this isn’t real. Where the fuck is V? Squirming, you tried to throw the priest off of you but to no avail you were stuck. “You’re going to take what I give you and you will like it,” the priest snarled, “stop moving bitch.” His grip was like iron; his hands had wrapped around your throat, squeezing in tightly. Your lungs burned as they begged for air. Hands creeping up to his, you tried tugging at them to let them go. It was no use. Circles and staticky designs danced around the air. The vision in your eyes was starting to darken and the priest’s fingers had started to ghost over the waistband of your underwear. You were pinned underneath him,helpless. There was a wolfish grin on his lips. You were the wolf’s prey; a rabbit trying to wiggle underneath the wolf’s weight. He said he’d be here what the fuck happened? I’m gonna get taken advantage of, I’m going to die. He said he’d protect me, he said-

Bang! Bang! CRASH! The door smashed, pieces of its wood crashing onto the door. “What the-,” the priest shouted. There, V stood in the broken door way. His posture was tense and he searched for you as he stood there. V’s fist clenched and his blood boiled as he saw you under the priest. The look on your face had sheer terror written all over it. “It’s the terrorist!” The priest jumped off of you and ran towards a bible sitting on his dresser. Air filled your lungs and you hacked loudly. The burning in your chest and throat made you cough.Tears made your eyes blurry as they fell from your cheeks. Getting composed, you remembered where you were. Stop sitting there and move! Run!  Your body was shaking with adrenaline and everything felt numb. You could hear grunts of pain from the direction where V and the priest was but you didn’t care. Tumbling off the bed you covered your face so you wouldn’t smack it against the floor. You sucked in a breath as your legs smacked onto the hard tile. Everything was burning. The ghost of the priest’s fingers burned your skin and you felt disgusted. You scurried onto your legs and watched as V flung a knife in the priest’s stomach, causing him to tumble over. A groan escaped the priest’s lips as he hunched over, holding his side. You admired V’s dance of knives as you watched him twirl another dagger with his fingers and slit the priest’s throat. His hands immediately flew up to his throat and his face paled. Blood gurgled out of his mouth until there was nothing but silence. The priest’s corpse fell with a thud and that is when V turned to you. “I apologize darling, I had some trouble along the way. He didn’t touch you did he?” Tears fell from your eyes;you looked like a mess. Your hair was tousled and your mascara left streaks on your cheeks. You just shook your head no, not trusting yourself to speak. “I-I wasn’t…” you trailed off after swallowing the tears and the huge lump in your throat. More tears fell from your eyes as you thought of the prospect of what if. What if V hadn’t shown up in time. What if he hadn’t even shown up at all. What if we were actually- A whimper escaped your lips as you tried your damned hardest not to sob. 

V let out a sigh and enveloped you in his arms. He felt incredibly guilty he was a tad bit too late. Any later and well… V’s black tunic was damp from your tears. His hands hung low above your waist and your head nuzzling into his chest. His wig tickled you a bit but you didn’t mind. He was warm and comforting. V’s arms felt safe as he held you tightly. Giving you one last squeeze, he pulled away. Your red eyes stared back into the guy fawkes mask. How badly you wanted to kiss his lips. Or well, the mask’s at the very least. “Are you ready, mademoiselle,” V’s usually chipper voice sounding dark. Nodding, you wiped your eyes. “Let’s go home,” you whispered. V smiled underneath his mask. His gloved hand gently placed itself on your back as he led the way. How badly you wanted to melt into his touch. “To home, then.” Our home.

[willcwthewisp]

monkee see, monkee do | luce & willow

TIMING: before mother’s day. PARTIES:  @divineluce and @willcwthewisp. SUMMARY: two artists meet a new challenger. OH YEAH!

Washing her hands in the sink, Luce looked around at her cabin with a wistful sigh. She’d had a handful of tourists book it over the last few weeks, which was helpful. But, she missed living here. She missed quiet nights with Iggy, a fire in the grate, working on a new design or practicing some of her more precise manipulations of the flame. She missed the comfortable solitude of it all, back when she was… herself. Letting out a sigh, Luce locked up the cabin. But, instead of getting back into her Jeep, she went into the woods, following the familiar trails. She missed being able to just throw herself into the woods. But the forest wasn’t the same for her, not anymore. She’d destroyed it, burned it, had some angry spirit of the forest confront her with that fact. Maybe she’d go back to the grove she’d burnt down today. Check how it was.

As Luce moved deeper into the forest, the earth beneath her feet began to shift, becoming soft and loamy. Frowning, she glanced around and was startled to see-- “What the fuck..?” She said as a strangely animated looking river began to flow through the trees. Animated as in like, it looked as though a fucking 90’s Disney artist had drawn this shit. But the water soaking through her boots was very real. As was the scream that rang through the air.

One moment, Willow had been taking a solitary walk along the edge of White Crest’s Outskirts and the next she’d found herself careening down a watery pathway. The river had appeared out of seemingly nowhere, and the only warning she’d had of anything mysterious being afoot had been the sudden appearance of a cute, monkey looking creature. It had even been holding its tail between it’s little paws as if it were nervous or something of that like. She’d blinked, and next thing she’d known her clothes were wet, and she was sputtering amongst the throes of a gushing river. “Help!” she yelled out frantically. There was no reason for her to think that someone might hear her cries, but what else was there for her to do but seek assistance? The river wound its way downhill, and a nearly inhumane scream wrenched itself from her lips. “Help! I can’t- the river- it just-” For the brief moment her head was above water, she managed to make out a human shape along the banks of the water, and made her best effort to swim towards it. “The monkey! Where’s the monkey?!” Why she cared about a strange little monkey at a time like this, she couldn’t say.

As Luce watched the strangely textured water flow through the trees, she saw that there was a monkey creature, tapping its chin thoughtfully as it bobbed up and down on a flamingo inner tube that had the same dark lines as the water. “Fucking, of course. Saetimps.” She rolled her eyes before turning her attention to the woman who was yelling and trying to swim-- badly, it looked-- to the edge of the river. Gritting her teeth, Luce waded out into the water and held out her hand as far as she could reach, “C’mon, get over here! Before that thing whips out a shark or something.” She yelled. As she said that, she could practically feel the Saetimp’s eyes turn onto her and she watched to her dismay, as it drew a very Little Mermaid-esque looking shark that flopped into the water and began to swim towards them. “Shit, shit, shit, let’s go, dry land, right now!” She yelled, dragging the woman behind her as she pushed her way through the river back to the dry forest floor.

Willow grabbed for the other woman’s arm in desperation, clutching onto it as if it were her only lifeline in the world. For all she knew, it was. As she was yoinked from the river, her chest heaved with the effort of her panicked breaths, eyes almost impossibly wide as she watched the newly drawn shark circling beneath her and the other woman. “What’s wrong with it?” she nearly screeched, referring to the strangest monkey she’d encountered in her entire life. “Sharks aren’t even native to rivers!” she yelled, as if the Saetimp cared anything about that. “Or well- there’s a species of river shark but- that does not look like one of them!” Apparently the hell monkey took insult to this, and soon enough an accurate river shark had joined the other in the waters. But it didn’t matter anymore. Willow and the other girl had made it to dry land. “At least they can’t get us here,” the medium breathed, trying to catch her breath. “It’s not like they could grow legs or something.” Yet again, the Saetimp took this as a personal challenge, and in a blink of her eyes the sharks were suddenly crawling up the side of the bank, strange, arm-like legs protruding from their bodies as they crab-walked closer. “No!” Willow denied, as if she could forcefully put them back. “No! That’s not right! Go back!”

Holding on tight, Luce hauled the woman out of the animated rapids, shaking water from her face in an effort to get a clear look at just what was going on. The fucking Saetimp was watching them with that same stupid look on its face, tapping its paintbrush against the side of its inner tube. And when the woman spoke up, Luce’s eyes widened as the sharks began to sprout legs with hands attached to them. “You just had to fucking say something!” She said, glancing around them. The woods were thick with tree roots that made running nearly impossible. And the water, it was rising and rising. But, the Saetimp was still scratching its head as though it still didn’t like the scene it’d created. She’d seen that expression before-- not on a magic monkey before, but she’d seen it often enough. “Oh no! What would we do if there were attack hamsters!” She said, shouting the first thing that came to mind. Apparently, she’d spent too much time with Hamtarot, because that’s what came out. The Saetimp seemed just as confused as her, but suddenly the water was full of fuzzy creatures in mechanized hamster balls. The arm-legged sharks began to snap at the brightly colored hamster balls, distracted for a moment. “You got any other ideas?” She asked the woman.

“What?!” Willow exclaimed as the other woman spoke of hamsters, briefly looking towards her as if the unknowing savior had lost her mind. “Ideas? Why would I want to give it more ideas?” But as she watched she realized the hamsters had served a purpose, and the purpose was actually working out quite well for her and the brunette. “They...like the hamsters?” she asked with a nonplussed look on her face, beginning to connect the dots when it came to more things being drawn as a means of buying them time. “Oh...oh!” she began excitedly, trying to name the first thing that came to mind. “And if there were books with teeth? Ones that could chomp and crack hamster balls? That’d be really bad!” Sure enough the Saetimp began to draw just that, the books gnashing their way through the hamsters that were trying to make their way through the sharks. “Oh that’s...I mean they were a little cute, weren’t they?” she asked the woman standing next to her, suddenly feeling a little guilty for the little fuzzy creatures. 

Watching with dismay and irritation as half a dozen toothy books fell into the river, Luce watched as the animated little hamster balls began to sink in the waves. “No, don’t give it more weapons, Jesus.” But, it seemed as though it was working. The hamster balls were being crushed and the sharks were snarling, distracted by the fuzzy little creatures swimming around. Were they carrying tiny knives? Luce watched as one of the hamsters let out a tiny Rambo yell and launched itself at a leggy shark, stabbing twin bowie knives into the shark’s fin. “They’ve got tiny knives too. Wow. I mean, they’re cute if you like getting shanked?” Luce said, squinting at the very confusing fray. Meanwhile, the Saetimp had noticed that the chaos it had created had missed the mark-- it hadn’t killed either of them. Seeing the frustrated look on its face, Luce grasped at straws, “Oh boy, I’m so afraid of… the fucking… Kool-aid man! Yep! Super afraid of him. Boy, it’d be shitty if he popped up!” The Saetimp glared at her and for a moment, Luce was afraid that it’d just draw a pit with spikes in the bottom and she’d get turned into a kebab. But then, exploding out of the water with a loud “OH YEAH” was… the fucking Kool-aid Man. Looking over at the woman, Luce shrugged helplessly, “Listen, I didn’t hear any other better ideas. We can take the Kool-Aid man, right?”

Willow screamed as the Kool-Aid man himself popped out of the water, and her rampant telekinesis was quick to respond to the jump-scare of the century, even though she wasn’t realistically all that afraid of the oversized punch pitcher. One of the sharks was suddenly launched into the glass side of the Kool-Aid Man teeth first, leaving a shark-sized hole in its wake as red punch began to spill into the river. Sure— there’d been a couple of nightmares she’d had about him bursting through her wall as a kid and getting stuck in his big head of punch, but she was thirty-two now! She shouldn’t be afraid of the Kool-Aid Man. But he was just so big. Not to mention unpredictable. Nevertheless this felt like a victory for her four-year-old self. “Ah- if that’s what you meant by taking the Kool-Aid Man, sure!” Nevermind that it hadn’t exactly been intentional. What next? What else could they make this thing draw? Or maybe...what was the thing artists hated most? Ignorant critique, wasn’t it? Unfortunately Willow’s mean streak was about a centimeter wide, but that didn’t stop her from doing her best to frustrate the Saetimp. “You call- you call that a Kool-Aid Man?” she tried to goad despite her stammering. “My grandma could draw a better one!” She could have sworn the monkey turned a shade that was almost as red as the pitcher it had drawn, and in an instant it was trying to pop out another, better one.

Flinching at the loud shriek, Luce glanced over at the woman for a moment before a loud shattering sound filled the air. What the fuck? Had that shark just been yeeted through the Kool-Aid Man? What the fuck? Luce stared back at the woman-- was she some kind of psychic? Or, fuck, hadn’t Peanut done something like that before? A medium? Whatever, it didn’t really matter. As the woman yelled at the Saetimp, Luce rolled her eyes. At least the creature wasn’t bright, because it took the bait hook line and sinker. “Yeah, look at those lines! They’re so thick and wobbly, I wouldn’t even want that hanging up on my fridge!” She said, gesturing to the shattered Kool-Aid Man that was thrashing in the water, now being devoured by sharks. The river was still flowing through and the Saetimp was steadily being taken down stream, but she wanted this thing gone. “I bet you couldn’t draw anything with real detail. Like-- Like a yacht! You wouldn’t even know where the sails go!” Did yachts have sails? Who fucking knew, but Luce had a feeling the Saetimp sure didn’t.  

Willow laughed despite herself, the mental image of the mess of drawings on a fridge tipping her over the edge when it came to finding humor is as ridiculous a situation as this. And Luce had been right about the Saetimp’s lack of nautical knowledge. Even now it was drawing some sails attached to the smokestacks of a very strange looking yacht. “That’s not where the sails go!” Willow called out, trying to figure out how they might tangle this Saetimp in its own drawings. Would it just...get tired after a while or something? “Plus it needs bigger sails! Sails as tall as the trees!” Willow’s arms raised above her head as if she could personally model how tall a tree was. After all, it was a part of her namesake. “A big willow tree with lots of branches and birds, and- and monkeys!” Maybe a self-portrait would send the creature into a downwards shame spiral. 

It seemed like the Saetimp was at its last wits, creative juices sputtering out as it muddled its way through adding an absolutely atrocious willow tree, with lumpy, ugly monkeys with their hands fused to its branches. “Jesus fucking christ, that’s horrifying.” Luce muttered as she watched the potato shaped monkeys screamed angrily at them from the deck of the yacht/steamboat/pirate ship that was sailing down the river. Just as she was about to wrack her brains for more ideas to feed the Saetimp, she watched as the creature threw its paintbrush down in disgust and stamped its foot on the deck of the yacht. As it did so, the yacht continued to sail down the river, lumpy looking monkeys screeching as the boat disappeared from view. Luce sank to the ground and let out a long sigh. “Good fucking christ.” She said, wringing out her water logged clothes. “You good?”

Willow looked at the abomination of a creation in slight wonder, head tilted in interest as she tried to make sense of what the monkey had drawn. As she watched the monkeys with their hands stuck to the tree she felt a small stab of guilt in her gut. They weren’t...real monkeys in the way a normal one would be right? They wouldn’t actually suffer while being trapped against the tree? But at least the head monkey was gone, and the two girls could finally have peace. Except… “Isn’t the monkey and everything just going to run into someone else down the river?” Nevertheless, she settled herself onto the ground as well, suddenly tired after swimming in the currents of the river. “Um- I’m fine. Are you?” Now that the monkey was gone, she could recover decently well, instead of letting her panic overtake her. “Thank you though- for helping me. I’d probably still be going down the river if it wasn’t for you.” Willow’s doe-eyed gaze filled with gratitude as she finally took in the other girl, trying to figure out why she looked somewhat familiar.

“It might. But, I have a feeling that guy’s gonna be tired out enough after making all of that. He’ll probably pass out in a hammock somewhere.” Luce said as she squeezed water from the ends of her hair. She was really only guessing; she’d never really interacted with Saetimps before. Most of what she knew about them came from her general interest in the strange Fae when she was younger. But, she’d never really looked for them around town. “Just peachy.” Luce replied as she stood up, her clothes damp and uncomfortable against her warm skin. “No problem.” Luce said slowly, a bit caught off guard by the way that the other woman was staring at her. What, did the Saetimp draw something on her face? “I’m Luce, by the way.” She said with a nod.

“I hope so…” Willow trailed off, trying not to think too hard about the future harm the strange monkey could bring to people. It wasn’t as if she could do anything about it, anyway. She was no hunter, and she wasn’t sure she had the stomach to sign something’s death warrant anyway. Willow made her own efforts to get the water off her clothes, still disappointedly wet and dripping by the time she was finished. Shaking her hands with a sigh, she tried to look at the bright side of the situation. At least they were...in one piece? The girl's name finally struck the bell that had been faintly ringing in Willow’s head, and recognition lit her eyes. “Bea’s your sister, right?” She chose the phrasing carefully, knowing how annoying it was when people asked if she was Forest’s sister and not the other way around. “I was friends with her for a while until…” Forest had made a mess of things. “Well- it doesn’t matter, I just knew her. But really- thank you for helping me,” she repeated, already thinking about the pile of blankets she wanted to tunnel under one she got home.

At the mention of her sister, Luce’s eyes narrowed slightly-- not as harshly as they might have a year ago, but she was confused all the same. “Yeah. She is.” Luce said with a slow nod, now eying the woman with earnest. Blonde, honestly pretty basic looking, about Bea’s age. Which made sense if she said that they were friends for a bit. A girl on the cheer team? No, that couldn’t be it. Luce would have known her-- she’d “reluctantly” waited on the sidelines during Bea’s many cheer practices. She recognized most of the girls who’d been on the team back then, the result of stealing glances up over her sketchbook. But, this girl definitely wasn’t one of them. Hm-- “Hang on. You’re Willow, right? Fo--” Forest’s sister, she almost said, but caught herself quickly, “Finch. Willow Finch. You had that art studio in town.” She said, remembering how envious she’d been when the place had first opened.

Curiosity tempered slightly by how reluctant Willow seemed, Luce nodded again, “No problem.” She repeated. “I’ve dealt with worse out here.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I have a cabin up here. Do you… want to borrow a towel or something?” She asked belatedly, realizing she probably should have offered sooner. 

Willow shifted uncertainly under Luce’s gaze, not entirely certain what it was the other woman was looking for until she finally came up with the medium’s name. “Oh- yes! I’m Willow,” she realized sheepishly that she’d forgotten to give her name in return when Luce had offered her own. “Sorry- I guess I just got caught up in recognizing you.” For a moment Willow brightened at the mention of her studio, but an instant later the gleam had dulled into disappointment and regret as she nodded confirmation. “Yes- the one that closed a few months ago. It was the one with the gallery in the front, and then I had my studio in the back.” But that was long gone, a dream broken just like she’d broken that man’s arm. She was curious about Luce’s reasoning for asking after the gallery, but decided that was a conversation that could wait for when they were both nicely dry. 

A vigorous shake of Willow’s head served as her initial answer to Luce’s invitation, already feeling rather squirrly the longer she stood here with Luce, accurately aware of all the things that could go wrong if her telekinesis decided to flex its muscles. “Oh no- no, thank you. I mean thank you, but I really should go home.”

“Yeah. I just said that.” Luce nodded, a bit of her old sense of humor trickling back into her tone as she regarded the woman. “And don’t worry. Not a lot of people from high school recognize me.” She said with a shrug. She’d always been quiet in school and, outside of a few people she was friendly with in her art classes, no one remembered her as anything other than “Bea Vural’s younger sister.” A lot of people didn’t put together the fact that the moody girl who doodled in the back of class was now a heavily tattooed artist at Ink Inc. “It’s a bummer it closed down. I wanted to take a look at the gallery but,” Life went off the rails for the past year, “I never got the chance. Sucks, though.” She said offhandedly.

The amount of nervous energy coming off Willow was really something else-- Luce was distinctly reminded of the shivery looking Chihuahua on the old Taco Bell commercials. Raising an eyebrow, Luce raised her hands in surrender. “Suit yourself. Stay safe out there.” She said before heading back in the direction of her cabin, boots squishing noisily as she walked. It just had to draw up a river, didn’t it? Fucking Saetimps. 

Willow was trying to make sense of whether or not Luce was joking with a tired mind, deciding to play it safe and simply shoot the other girl a tentative smile. “I don’t think we actually went to highschool together. Just missed each other or something like that. And um- well it’s been a while, right?” She didn’t want the other girl thinking she’d been unmemorable or something as depressing as that, and she vaguely remembered Bea saying something about how Luce would be entering her freshman year once Willow graduated all those years ago. “Or...Bea is Luce’s older sister?” Willow tried to offer kindly with a gentle hint of a joke, knowing how frustrating it could be to only be known by a sibling’s name at times. A sigh of relief escaped Willow when Luce didn’t push the subject of the cabin, and she too began her trek home. “Thanks- you too!” At least the only things she’s thrown today were badly drawn sharks.

[likesomekindofcheese]

Will You Accept This Rose? Chapter One (Queen and Beatles Crossover/Bachlorette AU!)

Word Count: 2K

A/N: Hello! She’s up! I know this idea has been done with BohRap so I thought it would be fun to try my hand! The Bachlor/ette is my ultimate guilty pleasure show!! I got a lot of inspiration from @freddiesaysalright​;s Bachlorette AU and the @bohrapbachelorette​ blog, so check them out and their beautiful writing too! Enjoy!

Warnings: swearing and some drinking.

 Heels clicking, you took a deep breath and walked downstairs. Right outside the doors, Chris Harrison stood in his tan suit with a big smile that wrinkled at the ends of his tan skin. His large eyes sparkling as he saw you in your blue evening gown that slinked to the floor.

“Well, Y/N, are you ready for tonight?” he asked, rubbing his hands.

“I…I’m so nervous!” you confessed with a laugh. “Actually…I’m shaking I’m so nervous!”

You took out your hands to show the tremor. He took them in his and he smiled.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. The guys are all wonderful. It’s a smaller group…I’m sorry. The last Bachelorette made her decision and she is now happily engaged. Thank you so much for popping in last minute…This is a lot, but it will be fun. Do you feel ready for this?”

Taking in a deep sigh, you admitted, you did not feel ready. But honestly, when would you ever be? There was a cold breeze, and you felt a shiver despite the balmy California air.

“I…I am…” you made yourself say.

“Have you ever been in love?” Chris asked, he shepered you to walk around the rose bushes to get out the nervous evergy you had left.

“I…I honestly don’t know! Maybe a couple times, but never…never passionately. Deeply.”

“Well. Y/N. I’m about to help change all of that. In fact, your husband might be here in less than an hour. Are you ready to meet him?”

“As I’ll ever be!”

 ----------------------------------

Meanwhile in Garden Lodge, Freddie let out a yelp as the credits rolled. Jim hurried in with his bowl of popcorn to see what the matter was.

“It’s on! Already! Oh-it…it’s time!” he muttered, gathering his things.

“Oh! Darling-look at her-she’s glowing!” he commented.

They got the blanket ready and sat on their places on the couch, well-reserved for Tuesday nights and The Bachlorette.

“I was so excited they announced her! Pass the popcorn, Fred…” Jim said. He made sure the wine bottles were pre-opened and ready to be poured at the right moment.

“She’s so beautiful I got chills seeing her walk out-here you go…” Freddie said, smiling proudly as Y/N beamed on the screen with a happy, hopeful smile.

“Thanks love” Jim stuffed kernels in his mouth as Miko hopped beside him, purring loudly.

 --------------------------------

The first limo pulled out slowly. You stood still, hands propped before you. Trying to slow your breathing, you made yourself look then try to flee from nerved.

The door opened. You could feel your heart pounding a mile a minute and your breathing shallowed.

You were ready to see a man, not a little boy. But at least he was cute.

Then out stepped a little boy with auburn hair and a pale, smiling face with round cheeks. He wore a small tux and held one red rose in his hand.

Behind him walked a taller man, slender, with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a gentle smile.

“OH, hello there?” you asked, squatting down to be at the boys height.

“Will you accept this wose?” he asked, showing you the rose in his chubby, grubby hands.

“Of course! Thank you!”

 --------------------

“Awwwwwww,” Fred and Jim said in unision. Delilah meowed as if in agreement.

-------

“What do you say, Rob?”

“You’e welcome!”

“This..is this your son?”

“Yes, this is Robert Deacon!”

“Hello Robert!”

“Hello Y/N! Are you gonna marry my daddy?”

The man turned the color of the rose and pushed him to the side.

“Ah…a little esoon for that, I think…

Luahing yourself, you reached out to hug him.

“I’m Y/N”

“And I’m John Deacon. It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N.”

He gently handed him away to a young assistant from the camera who guided the little boy back to the limo to go home.

“I’ll see you soon, Rob!” the man waved. He gave him a kiss on the forehead before sending him off.

Hmm, he’s already a good father… you noted.

The next limousine pulled up and you heard the strumming of a guitar. A voice with a slight twang, but light and playful sang along to it.

“Love me tender, love me sweet

Never let me go

You have made my life complete

And I love you so”

A handsome young man with long dark hair, stark eyebrows, and high cheekbones walked out, singing along to the Elvis ballad. When he smiled, you could make out slight fangs. But nonetheless, he gave you a grin you could not resist.

Cheering, you applauded and he took a playful bow before walking up to you.

“That was wonderful!”

He placed the guitar over his head, putting it away. He pulled you in for the softest hug you had ever received so far in your life.

“Nice to meet you, I’m George, George Harrison. Like the song?” he asked, gesturing to his guitar.

“I’m Y/N and I love it! You play guitar!?”

“I have for years!”

“That’s amazing!”

“Not half as amazing as the sight in front of me” he said with a wicked grin again. 

 ---------------------------------

“Alright, time for the wine…” Jim announced, pouring it into the glasses.

“You know what they say about a man with a big guitar, eh?” Fred laughed before his first sip. “Y/N might be a lucky woman if she takes him to the fantasy suite, darling.”

 ------------------------

You smiled and glanced at your folded hands, feeling yourself get hot.

“That was lovely! Please play for me some more during the party!”

“Well, if Y/N asks me, who am I to say no?” he replied with a wink. “I will If you’ll give me a snog on the cheek…”

Obliging, you pecked his soft cheek.

He then walked out, strumming a chord here or there.

The next limo that pulled up had an odd noise. You turned to the side to a camera person.

“Is…is that a bark?”

You were right. Out popped a large English Sheepdog walked over, wiggling in a happy dance as it wagged its tail in front of your gown.

“No! No Martha! Don’t get dog hair all over that gown!”

You laughed, reaching a hand down to scratch her head “She’s fine! It’s just a dress! I don’t mind a bit of hair!”

“Oh, well…that’s good.”

Looking up, you saw the prettiest pair of green eyes you had ever seen. His hair was brown and soft and his lashes were so thick, long, and dark you wondered if he used a mascara and where you could get it.

He reached down and kissed your hand gallantly, “I’m Paul, Paul McCartney. And I see you met me dog already!”

“She’s lovely!”

“She is-“

“And I’m Y/N Y//N!”

“Well, it’s pleasant to meet you. And I hope to see you in there soon…”

“Martha’s a sweetheart!”

She sat in front of you as you scratched her head.

“Martha can tell a good heart when she senses one, but I think mine has room for another lady in me life” he said with a wink.

The next man walked out. Another young man with brown hair and a square jaw and bright eyes that sparked with intelligence. His pants looked a little tight around his thighs and he smiled as soon as he saw you.

“Hello there, Y/N. I’m John, John Lennon.”

“And I’m Y/N.”

He took your hand into his and lifted it up to his lips. He then cupped yours with his other hand and kissed it so tenderly it made you melt on the inside.

“Are you enjoying your evening so far?” he asked.

“I…I am a lot more now,” you answered back.

“Well good, and Y/N….you look really beautiful tonight. Right from even when I peeked at you from inside the car, you were glowing like the sun…”

“Oh, that’s…that’s beautiful! Thank you!”

“Mind if I ‘ug you?”

“Sure?”

He wrapped his arms around you, then lifted you up and twirled you around, you burst into laughter.

He hugged you one more time and then headed over to the party.

The next limo arrived and out walked another man. He had dark hair with a slight white streak but bright blue eyes and soft, puffy lips that burst into a charming smile when he saw you.

“Hello there!”

“Hello! And you’re…”

“I’m…I’m really Richard. But you can cuse me stage name, Ringo…”

“Oh, sure! Hello Ringo-I’m Y/N”

You naturally hugged him.

“Y/N, I hope you don’t mind but…I bought you some gum. Thought you might like it after all that drinking-alright?”

He pulled out a packet of your favorite gum. You gasped as you accepted it.

“Why…yes! Yes I do!”

 ---------------------------

“Not exactly roses, darling”

“Well, it is a little early, Fred. And she’s the one giving roses.”

“But the song isn’t fucking ‘Chewing Gum is a Girl’s Best Friend’ for a reason!” Fred huffed, downing half of his glass.

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

Next appeared another car and out stepped another guitar with one of the prettiest boys you had ever seen. His blonde hair glowed like sunbeams and his eyes were the color of the summer sky. He strummed his guitar and sang in a rasp that thrilled you:

“I…just wanna testify!

Whaaaat Y/N does to meeeee!”

Changing up the rhythm enough to sing your name. He then added a bunch of “doo wops” with an impressive falsetto “yeeeeeeah!”

“That’s amazing! You play and sing!”

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

Jim kept his face down in his hands for a solid minute.

“Doesn’t take much! You’ve already seen another guitarist!” he complained.

 ----------------------------------

“Yeah-write too. I’m Roger-Roger Taylor.”

He gave a half-lidded look that made your stomach churn.

“And I’m…I’m Y/N! I mean- you know I- I am Y/N!” you began giggling out of nervousness and hugged him.

Then in drove a car…or it sounded like one. But there was a Rocketship constructed over the car like a parade float. And the door read “YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND.”

Laughing, out stepped a space suit with a different flower: a tulip. He handed it to you and you laughed.

He removed his helmet and revealed a mane of curly, dark hair. His cheekbones were high and his eyes hazel and soft. Despite the largeness of his hair and height there was a gentle demeaner on him.

“Hello there!” you said with a laugh “are you my future husband?”

“I…I mean, I hope I might be” he said with a little blush in his cheeks. You hugged each other, he was warm and soft and smelled of fresh deodorant.

“That was amazing! Who are you?”

“I’m Brian, Brian May…”

“Wonderful, I’m Y/N…”

You walked over to the main living room of the mansion, happy and a little overwhelmed. Already they were all wonderful. Though George and Roger stared at each other with fire in their eyes at the two acoustic guitars. Roger gently put his down and shoved his hands in his pockets. George took a deep breath and held onto his carefully.

You walked in, each with your own glass of wine to begin with.

“Gentlemen, to finding love!”

“To finding love!” they raised their glasses and clinked them.

“Ey Y/N, let me steal you for a minute…” Roger offered, he slinked forward, eyes bright and confident.

“Oh, sure!”

You found out that Roger had written songs before. They were all lovely. His lyrics bright and honest. Your favorite was one about being in a small town, of laziness, frustration, and ambition and hope. It made you teary eyed.

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

“A guitar competition…would be interesting this season….no, Lily! That’s not cat food!” Fred said, shooing her away from the bowl.

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

John showed you a card his kids worked on. He was a single dad, widowed. His heart had been broken by the sad passing of his dear wife, but he was ready to move on and was sure he found new love.

George strummed you a few songs he found out were your favorite. You tapped your feet and sang along. George himself smiled.

“Thanks Y/N, it’s wonderful to play for you!”

John walked over. They both began playfully “fighting” over you. Dancing each other around, doing a couple silly “fight” moves.

“Well, y/n can decide, can’t she?” John said, turning over.

“I, uh, of course!”

John then took you away as you caught your breath.

“There boys are like me brothers! What you saw was natural, was all but…Y/N, you like to read, don’t you?”

You gave your honest answer. You both wound up chatting about books and television. He was well-read, could give opinions on plot holes and the best actors, and even told you about the poetry he wrote. You both walked back inside the mansion holding hands naturally.

Brian noticed a record player in the corner and walked to it.

“Hmph, feels a little quiet…”

He placed the needle on the record and soon some jazz was crooning around the room. In a flash, Ringo was on your side.

“C’mon Y/N, let’s dance!”

He took his hand in yours and you moved away to the music, forgetting everything. He spun you around, you shook and kicked your legs and laughed so hard. You hardly cared how silly you look.

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

“Look at all the other blokes, they’re ready to punch him in the gut any minute!” Jim chuckled.

Fred nodded, hypnotized. He poured another glass of wine as Delilah settled on his lap for cuddles.

 --------------------------------

Brian took your hand and walked you out.

“See there, the stars are out tonight…” he said, pointing up.

“Oooo, beautiful!” you sighed. “There’s Orion!”

“Orion?”

“Yes! He’s the easiest one! I still see him!”

“Yes! Well, he’s like my old friend: always there.”

“That’s cool Brian, that you have a friend who’s always there in the stars.”

 ----------------------------------

“Pretentious, darling.”

 ------------------------------

“That way, when you look up, imagine I’m there. Even if you send me home or whatever, I’ll be there, your friend, looking after you, protecting you.”

 --------------------------------

“Bloody stalker!” Jim hissed.

 -------------------------------

It was indeed a beautiful night. He led you back as you sat on the couch with the other gentlemen.

“Oh, what did you do?” Lennon asked, sipping his wine carefully.

“It’s a starry night! You should see it-it’s beautiful!” you said.

Martha stood on the corner, panting happily as Deaky and Roger petted on her. Though you noticed Paul was looking at you. Your eyes went over to him and he paused, batting his eyelashes in false innocence, and tilting his head.

“Wha-what is it, Paul? You’re quiet?”

“Nothing, it’s just you’re looking beautiful tonight, that’s all. Can you blame me for wanting to have a look at you?”

Giggling more, you leaned your head down and smiled. The others stared daggers in Paul.

Chris Harrison walked in.

“Hello lady and gentlemen, enjoying your evening?”

You noticed he had a plate, and you froze.

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

The couple screamed at their television.

“Oh, now the shit starts!” Freddie declared with a wicked laugh.

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

“Yes, yes we are!” Paul said with a pleasant smile. “You know, drinks, a fine night, a dog, a pretty lady-what could be better?!”

He then saw the plate and his charming smile dropped.

“Well, it’s now the part of the evening where Y/N must make her first decision…”

He set a short, red rose on a silver plate before you. Looking around, you saw them swallow nervously or smile despite the anxiety in his eyes.

There was clever John, adorable Ringo, sweet Paul, dashing John, romantic Brian, hot Roger, or soft Deaky to consider.

But only one could get the first impression rose.

Reaching down, you placed it between your thumb and forefinger, other hand cupping the petals gracefully, and thought about your options before settling on the right one.

    Who should get the first impression rose? Vote in the Google Docs Poll below!!

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScQHKdQiABhf7ukQvwu6xjMsff-ggtnlNV0rr7_PKy6aSEUUQ/viewform?usp=sf_link

Taglist:  @queenlover05​ @youcanbemyhoneychile​ @seraphicmercury​ @ewannmcgregor​  @gwiilymslee @cherry--coke @queen-paladin @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @isitstraightvodka @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @rhapsodyrecs

[glockmonkey]

Right-Hand Cat

A jmart fic! Cross-posted to ao3 here.

Jon finds a cat behind the safehouse: or, rather, a cat finds him.

Spoilers for everything up to ep.192!

Content warnings:

Cats, worry over nutrition/weight (of a cat), apocalypse (plus general eyepocalypse stuff), mild body horror, brief depiction of paranoia/being triggered (not sure what it counts as), following/stalking (by cats), brief worry over parasites (staged), swearing, food, worry over disease (unresolved)

----

Jon was trying to make use of the wild blackberries behind the safehouse, but this damned cat wasn’t letting him. 

He’d nearly dropped the pail several times at this point, but the cat wouldn’t stop nagging him. Twisting in and out of his ankles, laying on the ground where he should have been kneeling. On one occasion, it had tried to get into his pail.

Jon had shooed him away hurriedly. He wasn’t sure if cats could eat blackberries.

It had been over an hour, and still the cat stayed. Jon nudged it gently with his foot so he could reach an obscured clump. 

“Made a new friend?” Martin called from the back door. Jon blinked at the light from the open door.

“Ha, ha,” said Jon sarcastically. 

“You should probably come inside. It’s getting pretty dark.” 

“You’re probably right,” said Jon, standing up. The cat stood with him. “Copycat,” Jon muttered, and dusted himself off. 

The bucket was heavier than he’d thought: he hoped the plastic didn’t crack under the weight of its contents.

Martin hummed upon seeing this. “Maybe we have too many.”

“Eh. Could always make a pie, or something.”

“Settling into that cottage lifestyle, are you?” said Martin. “Your friend seems to be, too.”

“What?” asked Jon, and then spared a look at his feet, where the cat had reappeared, squeezing its way into the door. “Oh, no you don’t.” He slid the door shut.

“Why not? It’s just a cat.” Martin looked at the cat, its sullen face pressed against the glass between them.

Jon shut the blinds, blocking the cat’s gaze completely. “Could have rabies, or something.”

“Yeah,” said Martin, his face falling. “I guess.”

----

The cat came back the next day. And the day after that.

Every time Jon stepped outside, there it was. In all its tuxedo glory.

Jon shut the door every time, but he couldn’t help but notice how scrawny it looked.

He couldn’t stop himself. He put two cans of fish into their trolley at the store one night. Then he put in some more.

“Tuna?” asked Martin, browsing the store’s limited amount of soups.

“Why not? We have crackers.”

Martin smirked, and Jon pretended that he hadn’t.

The walk back to the safehouse from the store was peaceful enough, as it were. The cool October air was still, for once, but the air was thick with humidity. Jon began to wish he had brought an umbrella.

Suddenly, he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He jumped, swiveling in his place, swinging his bag of groceries in defense.

Behind him was not some eldritch monster. It was a woman: middle-aged, crouched on the ground in front of a large black-and-white cat. He felt Martin’s hand on his arm, steadying him. He sighed in relief.

“Oh!” said the woman, as if realizing the panic she’d caused. “I’m sorry, I just-” she gestured towards the cat aimlessly. “I haven’t seen this kitty in a few weeks. She was following you, and I figured-” she stood up suddenly. “I’m Lindsey.”

Martin shook her proffered hand politely. “Martin. This is Jon.”

Jon tried for a friendly smile. The shock hadn’t quite worn off, so he figured it looked more like a grimace.

If Lindsey was offended, she didn’t show it. “Nice to meet you, Jon. Do you know this cat?”

“Oh, um.” Jon looked down at the cat, who was circling around his legs again. “Sort of? Is she yours?”

“No, not really,” Linsey said. “She used to belong to one of the teachers here, but after he passed, she’s just been wandering. We’ve tried to rehome her, but she never really seemed to take to anywhere.”

“Poor thing,” whispered Martin.

“She’s friendly, if you want to pet her,” said Linsey.

Martin kneeled on the ground. In an instant, the cat was there, purring and rubbing her face on his hand. Martin cooed.

“Traitor,” muttered Jon, and Linsey laughed. Jon couldn’t help but be reminded of Rosie, all the way back in London, and then he banished the thought.

“Does she have a name?” asked Martin.

“Depends who you ask,” said Lindsey. “I always call her ‘Sasha,’ though. That was her original name, anyhow.”

“Sasha,” murmured Jon, and sat down beside Martin on the sidewalk.

“Oh, dear,” said Lindsey suddenly. “I just felt a drop.”

A second bead of water fell on Cat-Sasha’s head, and she dove under Martin’s legs. He swiftly picked her up and zipped her into his jacket.

“Fleas,” muttered Jon halfheartedly.

“You two need a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” said Jon.

Cat-Sasha meowed in agreement.

“Alright, nice meeting you!” said Lindsey, and then she was gone.

“So, we’re keeping her, right?” asked Martin.

“I guess,” said Jon, a little too quickly. Martin smiled.

----

Since Jon had given in to Sasha, another cat had graced their presence. A tabby, this time, wandering their small garden.

Jon refused to do anything but leave food out for her, but Sasha mewed pitifully in her direction anytime the tabby appeared. Jon took to shutting the blinds at most hours, making the safehouse rather dreary.

“We can’t take in every stray cat we find,” he muttered, more to himself than to Martin.

“But they’re friends,” said Martin mournfully.

“They can still do cat things outside,” said Jon. “No reason we have to adopt her. She’s probably lived outside for a while.”

He still felt guilty when it rained, though.

----

Jon and Martin had taken to walking, in the past month. In the afternoons, mostly, when the sun was still out and Jon didn’t have to wear much more than a jumper. He still wore gloves, though, partly because he seemed to be permanently cold, and partly because Martin had made them.

It was nice, really. The hills rolling in the distance. His hand in Martin’s. The highland cows.

Plus, it meant they weren’t seeing the same safehouse and garden all the time.

Ahead of them, a man waved. Jon waved back, hesitantly.

“Have you met many of the neighbours yet?” asked Martin.

“Not really,” said Jon. “Except Lindsey. Have you?”

“No,” Martin sighed. “Haven’t had much inclination since, you know.” The Lonely, he didn’t say.

“Ah,” said Jon. He squeezed Martin’s hand tighter. It had been weeks since Martin had last Faded, but there was always a chance. Martin squeezed back.

“The streak in your hair still hasn’t faded,” Martin whispered sadly. Jon knew he still felt badly about what happened in the Lonely. He wished he didn’t. He wished he could - well. Know the guilt away, somehow.

“Neither has yours,” Jon said instead. “We match.”

“We match,” said Martin, smiling slightly.

“Not like it makes much difference on me, though,” said Jon, adjusting a pin in his grey-streaked hair.

“I suppose not.”

Jon caught sight of something in the distance. Something brown, and bulky. “Cows,” he said to Martin.

“Cats.”

“What?”

“Cats,” repeated Martin, smirking. “Behind you.”

“I’m not looking,” he said.

“You should.”

“If I don’t look, they’re not there.”

A furry, tabby form butted his ankle with its head.

Jon groaned, and looked.

Behind him stretched a small army of cats, gathered behind them both.

“Like a fucking Ghibli character, I am,” he whispered incredulously.

Martin gaped.

“A goddamn line. Like ducklings,” Jon went on.

“And a General to lead them,” said Martin, scratching Cat-Sasha’s tabby friend behind the ears.

“You did not just name the kitty stalker.”

“She’s made her point. I think this is a cat resume.”

“To be adopted?”

Martin grinned. The General meowed expectantly.

Jon scooped the cat into his arms reluctantly, where she promptly scampered to perch on his shoulder. “No more cats after this.”

“Yes, sir.”

----

Jon hadn’t seen many of the garden’s cats since the Change. Those that remained were wrong, and Jon was glad when they finally disappeared.

----

“Are you sure this is it?” Martin asked nervously.

“Yes, Martin,” said Georgie. “I think I know where to find cat hell. It’s not hard to miss.”

“Just checking. This place feels, I dunno.” Martin pulled his jacket tighter around himself. “Human hell-ish. Lots of screaming.”

“Lots of people are scared of cats,” said Melanie. “They’re very murderous.”

“That sure gives me hope for our field trip,” said Martin glumly. “Lead the way, Mrs. Frizzle.”

“I’ve got the earrings for it, so I’ll consider that a compliment,” said Georgie. “Be warned, though. The cats aren’t… quite right.”

“We know,” said Jon. “The safehouse had a few, before everything really got into place.”

“I’m sorry,” said Georgie.

“It’s okay.”

Jon heard a shriek from up ahead.

Melanie winced. “Doesn’t get much easier, does it?” she whispered to Georgie.

“No,” said Georgie. “It doesn’t.”

“Are they all that tall?” asked Martin, peering over the ridge they were cresting.

“What, you’re afraid of dinosaur cats?” asked Melanie playfully.

“I’ll have you know that dinosaur cats are bloody terrifying and oh my god why didn’t you warn us-”

“I did!” protested Georgie.

“The safehouse cats were like bad putty creations, not forty feet tall!”

Jon squinted into the distance. He could see, faintly, a tabby and a tuxedo cat - likely torturing some poor human.

“General?” he called. “Sasha?”

A booming mrrp? sounded across the clearing.

“Admiral?” yelled Melanie, and a furry form came bounding towards them, quickly followed by two others.

“Jesus,” Martin breathed.

“Cats!” exclaimed Georgie delightedly, amidst the chaos.

The cats came to a skidding halt in front of the ridge. Melanie put her hand out expectantly, and The Admiral butted it with his gargantuan head. Georgie followed suit, scratching behind his behemoth ears.

Before Jon and Martin, their two cats sat expectantly. Martin reached out tentatively with his hand to pat Cat-Sasha’s head. Jon worried her purring would cause an avalanche of some sort, but he wasn’t sure those happened anymore, without reason.

He had only just ruffled The General’s fur when he felt a familiar sensation. The Eye.

“I’m sorry, I…” he started, gesturing vaguely.

“It’s okay, Jon,” said Martin. “Go make your statement.”

Jon nodded, and walked away.

[etlunainmorte]

🏝 I See My Future Before Me 🏝

***

"Ahem!" Patty cleared her throat, making the two of you look at her. "Get a room, whatever?"

V chuckled as he let you go for a while. With a sheepish smile, he, then helped you sit and wrapped his arms around you once more. He was really glad with how things turned out. He couldn't explain it, himself, but, who cares about it now?! What's important was that -

All of a sudden, you heard some strange noises just outside the door.

V let you go and nodded at Patty as he stood up, his eyes darting cautiously on the door. He slowly walked towards it, grabbed the brass door knob, and flung open the door - !

"WHAT THE F - ?!"

You heard a voice as V drew back, wide - eyed, from the door.

And lo and behold, Nico, and a strange - looking boy with sharp features came scrambling on the floor at the poet's feet!

"Who are you, people?!" Patty demanded, unable to believe that some strangers managed to infiltrate the villa, yet again. Well, V was one thing but, these people?

"I can explain,... everything!" Nico retorted as she stood up, rubbing her hip. "Oh, and I was definitely not listening,..." She, then, looked at the mystery boy, who was still on the floor, and practically smacked him on the head with much force. "Hey! About time you get up!"

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?!" The boy screamed as he scrambled to his feet and hid behind V, completely frightened of the crazy Artisan. "I can't believe this woman, V! She dragged me and the housecat out of the house all of a sudden! She even blackmailed that pimple kid Nero and the others to come with her here!"

"Nero,... and the others?" The poet asked, and even before he, or the strange boy, could say or do anything else, all of you heard an impatient tapping on the glass door. All of you turned and saw none other than Nero, himself, wearing nothing but his navy - blue swimming trunks. He was carrying a surf board, and gesturing something really weird at you. Other than that, he looked really annoyed, or pissed, that you almost felt relieved that you couldn't hear him or understand what he's saying through that thick glass door.

"Where is the bathroom here, anyway? This place is humongous!" You heard a distinct and familiar voice from the doorway, and, surely enough, when you turned back, you saw the Legendary Devil Hunter wandering about the hallway like he was lost. And what's more, he was carrying a huge hiking bag on his back and at least two bulky luggage on each hand, like he was going on a vacation or something.

"DANTE?!" Patty practically screamed at the top of her lungs as she angrily strode towards him. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE AFTER GHOSTING ON ME FOR THREE MONTHS?! I INVITED YOU FOR MY BIRTHDAY PARTY BUT, YOU DIDN'T COME! AND NOW, YOU HAVE THE GUTS TO SHOW UP HERE?! WHAT THE HELL, DANTE?!"

"WHOA! WHOA! WHOA! Wait a second here, señorita!" Dante drew back in terror upon witnessing the girl's pure and utter rage. "I can explain! A lot of things happened, and - "

"SHUT UP! YOU'RE IN MY HOUSE! YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO SPEAK UNTIL I SAY SO! AARRGGHH!"

You were trying to suppress your laughter at Patty's outrage ( no one could blame her, after all, he did ditch her on her birthday party ) when something suddenly threw itself at you and hugged you tightly. You looked down and to your surprise, you saw a pale, little girl with long, black hair that seemed sentient. She was even giving you a weird look with her pair of huge, red eyes, like a lost child who just found her mother.

"Oh, ah,... hello!" You awkwardly greeted but, she didn't say anything. She just went on staring at you with those huge eyes of hers, and that weird, and yet funny, expression that made her look like she has committed some kind of unspeakable crime.

You looked up at V and noticed his features clearly contorting with stress due to the sudden visitors around him. And who could blame him? You totally had no idea how much he wanted to be by your side. He wanted to be alone with you for a change! And if he's being honest with himself, he wanted to do more than just talk with you!

But, now, it seemed that his plans, and his patience, were really getting pushed to their utmost limit,...

You gulped nervously as you saw the poet knitting his eyebrows in suppressed anger, bowing down low and reaching for his nose bridge to pinch it.

***

♡♡♡

***

" ... it was like I was dreaming. Like, I was drowning, and suddenly, someone took my hand and pulled me out of the water!"

" ... uhu,..."

"And when I was back on the surface, I heard his voice. He said, my love."

" ... yeah, and,... ?"

"You see, I thought Dracula was playing on the background, so I answered, and my life, always! And when I opened my eyes, I saw him! And he's looking down at me!"

" ... okay."

"And when we kissed and embraced, I felt this kind of energy surging throughout my body! It's like,... AARRGGHH! It's really hard to explain! Like, I was this,... are you even listening to me?!"

"GOD, SWEET PEA! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYIN' TO COOK THIS THING?!" Griffon howled as he pointed at the raw chicken on the grill before him. "I'VE BEEN STARIN' AT THIS CHICKEN FOR THIRTY FUCKIN' MINUTES, AND NOTHIN'S HAPPENIN', AT ALL!"

"Stupid!" Nico, who was already wearing a yellow two - piece bikini, mocked as she placed her hands on her hips. "Ye're supposed to set the charcoal on fire! And fan the flames! God!"

And with a shrug of her shoulders and a shake of her head, the Artisan walked away from them and joined the others for a game of beach volleyball.

You stared at the familiar, whose bald head began sweating hard, if it's even possible.

"Err, is that right? Y - ya set the charcoal on fire?" He stuttered as he stared at the weird cooking device.

"Well, yeah." You answered as the side of your lips went up in a visible smirk. "You know, you might be bipedal right now, but - "

"DON'T ya dare say I'm still a fuckin' BIRD BRAIN!" The familiar yelled at your face as he accidentally burned and almost reduced the raw chicken to ashes with the power of electricity that came out of his fingers. Startled and shocked upon realizing and seeing what he's done to the whole crew's lunch, he quickly took the grill grates, threw the burnt chicken, and buried it beneath the sand underneath his feet. He slowly and nervously looked at you with huge eyes and raised eyebrows. Then, he gulped. "Umm,... you didn't see anythin', 'kay?"

You covered your mouth to suppress the laughter.

Ever since waking up in V's arms three days ago, you've been thrown to such unexpected experiences that you honestly never imagined yourself being a part of. For one, you were so surprised upon seeing Griffon's new and cleansed form ( according to him ) after his supposed demise at Shadow's hands. You even had to admit to yourself that you're still having a hard time adjusting to him looking as normal as any human can be. You also found out that, during those three days of adjustment, his wings occasionally sprout from his back from time to time, and his striking golden eyes looked clearly sharper than ever before when he was still a demonic bird, not to mention those pointed ears that caught your attention the moment he finally re - introduced himself to you. But, what caught your attention the most was the fact that you were, somehow, no longer contracted to him in any way, shape, or form. It must be because you no longer hold the authority to command the Sisters of Fate, thus, making you a simple and ordinary human being without the power to command a demonic familiar.

You could say the same thing for Shadow. Well, who could blame you, anyway? Not now when she looked like someone's adorable little sister. That very obvious fact aside, those familiar streaks of red light still manifested on her skin when she's startled. That long, dark hair of hers took on a life of its own when someone angered her. She even hissed at anyone who made the huge mistake of taking away her toys ( the Elmo plushie in particular ). Other than that, she still hasn't outgrown her habit of purring and rubbing against you occasionally. You found this very endearing, actually, despite the fact that this female familiar gave you a lot of problems three months ago. She was, in fact, very guilty and apologetic and sweet that you forgave her quite easily. Well, she did nothing wrong in the first place. She only did those horrible things because she was only commanded to do so. She has nothing to apologize for in the first place. And now, Shadow refused to leave your side, she even has this habit of climbing on the bed with you in the middle of the night for some snuggles.

Those two familiars aside, you were very surprised upon hearing the good news from Nero, himself. Who would've guessed that he and his lady love, Kyrie, were eagerly awaiting their own bundle of joy? Nico was the same as ever. If anything, she bullied Griffon even more now that the familiar has turned into a human. She dotes on Shadow a lot, she even provided the familiar a closet - full of clothes for her to wear. She was also spoiling her rotten with treats. And Dante? Seriously, the poor guy, you decided, was a real masochist, letting himself be completely bossed around by both Lady and Trish, who made him carry their things around the beach. You were not sure whether this was the result of him being deeply indebted to these two ladies but, the sight of him going after them like a scruffy - looking butler in red leather really put a smile on your face.

All of these changes and familiar faces you embraced so well. However, there was one particular face that changed a lot within those three months of your absence.

Jet black hair now as white as snow, dark, swirling demonic contract tattoos now barely visible on pale skin, and soft, emerald eyes gentler than ever before, you never expected V to look so,... changed,... after those past three months that you didn't see him. It was like,... he went through a lot, suffering, trials, growth,...

But, whatever happened to him during those days, it surely changed him a lot as a person. He has,... somehow become even more thoughtful, and careful,... he has become even more caring and protective towards you if that's even possible. The way he moved changed a lot, as well. Before, nothing could make him move even a single finger unless he has deduced it was safe to do so. Now, he seemed more,... careless,... towards you and only you. Open, even. Like, he was totally letting his guard down for you to let you in on his thoughts, and his heart.

And not only that. He seemed,... closer,... towards you. Like, not even a few feet away. He was really close. You sit, he will sit. You stand, he will stand. You walk, he will most definitely walk, too. There were even times when you accidentally bumped into him when you turned too quickly. When you wake up in the morning, you would find yourself completely surprised to see not only Shadow sleeping next to you but, the poet, as well. Heck, you even have a hard time shooing the guy off whenever you need to go to the bathroom! He always seemed to follow you wherever you go. And him being so attached to you like that? Of course, you honestly felt both shy, confused, and really bashful at the same time!

And that,... was only two days ago.

Because now, V seemed,... different. Well, not the scary or the off type of different, no. It seemed like there was a sense of,... urgency,... with the way he moved. The way he looked at you, the way he reached for your hand, the way he touched you, the way he whispered to your ear, not to mention that spine - tingling effect his low and deep voice has on you,...

You knew he was up to something! You knew,... you felt it. And honestly? You felt a mixture of both fright and excitement with the way he's acting towards you lately. You were fully aware of where you stand with regards to things such as intimacy in a relationship. And you being, well,... you? You couldn't help but be both scared and giddy. A lot of things were going through your mind: how would it feel like? Would it hurt? Would there be a lot of blood, like what they said? Would you get sick the next day? But most important of all, would he really be gentle towards you?

These thoughts were still on your mind when you walked out of the villa to join the others on the beach, and when he saw you, he almost immediately dropped whatever he's doing to rush over to your side, only to be stopped by both Dante and Nero.

"Hey, man, we need another one for the team." Dante told him, grabbing the poor poet by the shoulder.

"Come on, V. They're gonna destroy us!" Nero pleaded as he pointed at the three women, Nico, Lady, and Trish, all in their swim suits, waiting for the men to join them for another round of beach volleyball.

You smiled and nodded at V, who glanced helplessly at you as the men dragged him. You were about to watch the spectacle when someone tapped you on the shoulder. You turned around and noticed it was Patty, together with Kyrie, who chose to stay out of the beach due to her delicate state. And both women were smiling mischievously at you.

V and the others were still playing ( albeit it with much difficulty on the poet's part ) a few moments later when you, Patty, and Kyrie came out of the house. And when V saw you, he -

"V, WATCH OUT!" The warning from Nero and Dante came too late as the ball that was hit by Lady came speeding towards him and hit him in the face.

"Youch! That must really hurt!" Griffon, who was still roasting another batch of almost burnt chicken for lunch, flinched as he watched you run towards V, now with a bleeding nose.

Everything went peaceful for a while after that: Shadow, who was really not fond of swimming or getting wet entirely, minding her own business as she built her own sand castle, Kyrie and Nero playing with the orphans on the shore, Nico appraising Griffon's grilled chicken with a keen eye, Griffon hiding several burnt chicken on the sand beneath his feet with a nervous smile, Trish, Lady, and now Patty, bullying Dante to buy ice cream for them,...

... and you taking care of V as you two sat on a towel he borrowed from Patty a while ago.

"You should have been more careful." You told him as you gently wiped the blood off his face.

"I'm fine." He answered quietly as he let himself be pampered by you. "Don't think too much about it."

"Are you sure nothing's broken?"

"I' am perfectly sure."

V glanced at you with such gentle and thoughtful eyes.

For three days since being back together again, V has tried multiple ways of getting close to you, with each attempt ending in miserable failure due to the interference of the people around him. And it has led to him feeling both annoyed and frustrated. While you were absolutely correct that he, indeed, wanted to be intimate with you, he also had another, more vital, reason behind his actions for the last few days. He has found out the reason you were brought back ( or, one might even argue that you really didn't die back then ), and that was partly due to you finally accepting that you need him, and mostly because V practically, and unknowingly, shared his energy, or life force, with you. He couldn't really explain how this happened ( or maybe Cassandra or Andromeda knew, he just didn't bother to ask any of them ), but when he touched, embraced, and kissed you ( albeit briefly due to those interfering people ), he knew that some form of power left his body, surging through every fiber, every nerve, and every vein in his body, and made its way towards you, giving you strength, health, vitality,...

... giving you life.

He was fully aware of what he has done to you in the past - of robbing you of your only life source - that has led to him regaining what he almost lost - life. And him giving back to you that power of life and vitality in some other form or way by being as close to you as he can,...

... it was the ultimate equivalent exchange.

He wanted to share every last bit, every last drop, and every last ounce of this unknown and unexplored power with you by being close, by always being there for you, and by always being with you in every sense of the word.

And he's more than willing to do this for the rest of his life.

And now, as his gaze landed once more on the scars on your stomach and on your thighs, he couldn't help but feel guilty and hurt all over again. You noticed how this made him uneasy and immediately zipped the pink hoodie ( that was given to you by Sister Christina for your birthday ) close so that he would not be able to see the scars, even by accident.

"Patty and Kyrie thought I would look, ah, you know, hot, by wearing this two - piece bikini they lent me but," You lamely made an excuse as you laughed nervously, hoping to get the poet's attention away from your ugly scars. " ... I look dreadful in it, after all. I mean! My feet aren't the only things that are ugly in me. Now, I look like an overused pin cushion, or some - "

"Don't!" V cut you off as both of his hands flew to your face to gently cup your cheeks. And right then and there, he immediately felt that same power leaving his fingers and making its way towards your skin, giving you a noticeable glow that made his heart do multiple flips. "Say such things, my love. You are beautiful, and perfect."

You smiled nervously as you felt your skin getting warmer and warmer by the second under his loving gaze. It really did feel both scary and exciting being with him in this kind of situation.

And then, you felt it: your breathing getting heavier and heavier with his caress, your heartbeat frantically rising with the way he looked at you, and your thighs instinctively rubbing against each other as you felt the warmth of his skin.

For a few seconds, you remained like this, looking into each other's eyes as if nothing else in the world mattered. And when his face inched closer to yours, feeling his hot breath fan your already radiant and sensitive skin, you -

"Hey, want some?"

You were sure you heard V let out a curse in utter frustration as he slowly looked at Dante, who was offering the two of you some strawberry - flavored popsicles. Your eyes widened in fear as you noticed the poet clearly giving Dante a glare that sent shivers down your spine.

"Oh! Thanks, Dante, but - " you stuttered as you tried to break through the tense atmosphere but, you were interrupted as Patty, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, practically jumped at the tall Devil Hunter, hugging him from behind and startling him, effectively breaking the already heavy situation between the two men.

"Dante!" Patty literally screamed at him, looking very excited.

"Damn, woman!" Dante turned, still unable to believe that the once little girl, who used to pester him only a few years ago, has now fully grown into a very matured and attractive lady. "What is it now? I have bought you your ice cream already, didn't I?"

"Hey! We're still celebrating my birthday!"

"Am I still not forgiven?"

"Of course, not! Unless,..."

"Unless what?"

Patty let go of Dante as she gave him a truly mischievous smirk, one that made you smile inwardly. She truly is making her move,...

"Unless you go on an overnight cruise with me."

"Are you joking?! Only the two of us?!" Dante panicked, clearly picking up on what he thought Patty was planning. And he was definitely not ready and not up for that. "Are you out of - ?!"

"Are you silly?! Of course, the others are invited!" Patty laughed as she turned and waved at Nero, Kyrie, and the orphans, who were excitedly boarding the yacht she rented for the special overnight cruise.

"Come on, Dante! We'll have so much fun!" Patty lured the Devil Hunter once more.

"Y - you don't understand! You and I - "

"Are what?" Trish, who also seemingly came out of nowhere, cut him off as she grabbed his arm and began leading him towards the yacht. "Are you thinking something dirty in there, Dante?"

"How inappropriate!" Lady butted in as she also took the man's arm. "How naughty could you really get, hmm?"

You stifled your laughter as you watched the three women drag the unwilling Dante towards the yacht like a human sacrifice of some sort. Then, you noticed Lady as she turned towards you for the last time before leaving, mouthing something like, good luck, cherry pie with a wink and a wide smile. Patty also turned, but she didn't look at you. She deliberately looked at V and gave him a wink and a thumbs up for a reason you still don’t know.

"How annoyingly human is that?" Griffon, who somehow made his way towards you without being seen or heard, spoke upon watching the said humans get on the yacht. "Hey, V, why don't we - ?”

"Didn't ya hear what the girls said?!" Nico, who was pulling along Shadow, who clearly looked annoyed for being disturbed, interrupted. She, then, took Griffon's arm and started dragging him towards the yacht. "Move yer ass!"

V couldn't help but smirk as he watched Griffon being helplessly dragged by the woman, leaving only the two of you alone on the beach.

Leaving you two alone until the next morning,...

Did Patty read his mind? After all, it was she who made a move to basically get rid of the others for him,...

If so, then,...

"They're just leaving us here?" V heard you next to him.

"Seems like it." He answered, listening to Griffon and Dante's screams in the distance until he could no longer hear them.

"Where are they going?"

"I,... don’t know."

"Oh."

"Hmm."

You two looked at each other, both realizing what the others' absence meant for the two of you.

"Want to go for a dive?" V politely and graciously offered.

"Not really,..." you hesitated, feeling hot, excited and nervous all at the same time at the prospect of spending time alone with your lover. V smiled. Of course, he knew you wouldn't agree to - "O - on second thought, sure! Why not?" You stuttered awkwardly as you finally agreed, making the poet’s lips curl up in a smile.

It could simply be described as the most relaxing day you've had in many years. You and him diving in the ocean and swimming towards that beautiful rock formation, the two of you walking hand in hand as you picked up pretty sea shells in the sand along the way, you describing the lovely things you've seen in your travels, and him tenderly telling you that he wanted to see such things with you,...

It was,... so beautiful, and perfect. In fact, the two of enjoyed this alone time too much that you didn't even notice the setting sun. It was then that he suggested to take a rest for a while and watch the breathtaking sunset with you, making sure you still have that towel to sit on for later. And as you watched the soft glow of the twilight sky with him, you couldn't help but sigh in relief and contentment. The poet raised an eyebrow, urging you to tell him whatever made you react in such a way. You smiled and simply shook your head.

"Thank you so much, V." You whispered, making the poet hum in question. "You were giving me life, weren't you?"

V smiled as he wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your temple. "And what made you say that, my love?"

"It's exactly that. Your gentle touch, your tender kisses, your warm embrace. Every time you do this, I feel this strange kind of power coming from you, and this gives me energy, somehow. Like, ah, how do I even explain this? Hmm,..."

"Like,... this?" V whispered in that low, almost moan - like, voice as he held you even closer, wrapping both of his arms around you, giving you no chance to think of a proper explanation. You were drowned in his overwhelming presence even more as he began kissing you, letting his lips move against yours in an intoxicating manner, letting your own passion guide you as you shyly reciprocated,...

... and even before you could go any further, he broke the kiss, smiling bashfully as he heard you whimper with disappointment.

"Tell me, darling," V whispered once more, sending your senses straight to Heaven. " ... did you feel,... something?"

You pouted, feeling a bit embarrassed that he was teasing you now of all times when you suddenly realized that you desperately needed him now. But, yes! You did feel something!

You nodded, simply because you couldn't trust your own voice. This scenery, the atmosphere, the man you loved above all else,...

Everything was just too perfect, and you were afraid that this was only like one of those vivid dreams you don't want to wake up from,...

"But, you're not dreaming. I'm here. With you."

You bit your lip, realizing that you've said your thoughts out loud, and looked up at him, only to see tenderness, and warmth, and something else in those beautiful green eyes of his.

"And I want to give you more." He said as his face went down close to yours again. "I need to give you more. More and everything you deserved. I need you,..." You closed your eyes, feeling his lips descend upon yours once more,...

***

🏝 A huge surprise is coming your way, courtesy of @bettybattaglia and @la-vita . Please, look forward to it. 🏝

🏝 @micaelagua , @vergils-daughter , @shadowrosess , @gothghoulfrend , @beyond-the-mirror , @cantcopewithlosingv , @lessy86 , @ceruleanworld , @yepps , @heaven-on-a-landslide , and @krazy06 . 🏝

***

🏝🏝🏝

***

[bluesfortheredj]

Hold My Hand – Smutty Wednesday.

Taron’s hand makes its way down from your shoulder to your waist, then goes up and over your hip, and eventually comes to a stop on your thigh. You smile to yourself as you lay on your side with your back towards him, and start to bite your lip when his fingers move around to your front and start to walk themselves back up your body. This was the best way to wake up on a Sunday, and even though the inevitable dread of work the next day would soon be looming over you both, it was fast becoming your favourite day of the week.

“Morning,” Taron whispers as he leans over your ear, “how’s my favourite person feeling today?”

“Hmm,” you hum happily at the feel of his warm breath on your neck, “good. Really good. And you?”

“Great,” he smiles, pressing his crotch against your back side so you could feel his excitement, “I had this dream...” he trails off and moves back a little, so you roll onto your back to look up at him as he reminisces.

“Go on...” you encourage as he closes his eyes and grins to himself.

“Well, you were in it. We were at some hotel somewhere, I didn’t recognise it, but it was some lavishly decorated room, and you were laying on this bed with silk sheets encapsulating your body...” he pauses for a moment as he shifts his hips, remembering every detail of what went on in his head last night, “so naturally, I slipped these sheets away from you to reveal your soaking wet-”

“Taron!” you giggle, “did you really dream this?”

“Swear down, this was genuinely my dream last night. Okay, so to sum it up, I ate you like you were my last meal and then may have woken up dribbling a little bit.”

“Well, my dream was shit compared to that,” you chuckle.

“Thing is, though, I really wanna relive it...” he says, wiggling his eyebrows up and down as you look at him with a slightly nervous expression. His fingers tap on your stomach, then walk down to the waistband of your pyjamas, but you place a hand on his to stop him.

“Think I need some breakfast before any of that,” you giggle anxiously.

“I was hoping you would be my breakfast,” he winks.

You can feel excitement already coating your walls at the thought, but the self conscious voice that always reared its ugly head steps in to remind you that if he saw everything down there, it would put him off completely. Somehow, you’d managed to go through your relationship with him only ever having sex in low light or complete darkness, and you didn’t plan on ending that streak any time soon, for fear that he’d be repulsed at what he saw.

“Well, I need a cup of tea!” you announce, rolling over to get out of bed. Taron’s hand starts to slip from your waist, but he grabs on to your side before you can completely abandon him.

“Let me pleasure you first, then I promise I’ll make you as many cups of tea as you want. This morning is all about you,” he says seductively, and your thighs tense up as your juices continue to flow.

“How about tonight?” you suggest.

“When it’s completely pitch black outside and you can turn all the lights off in here, you mean?” Taron replies, and you turn to look at him with a guilty expression.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yep. That obvious.”

“Sorry,” you pout.

“Don’t be sorry, just tell me what I can do to make you feel comfortable. And don’t say get a blackout blind...” he smirks. You sit up against the headboard, getting your legs back under the covers, and he sits up next to you, ready to listen.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “I just don’t like most of this,” you explain, gesturing to your whole body, “so I don’t want you to see what’s really going on under my clothes, because it’ll put you off forever.”

Taron scoffs at your comments, then shakes his head sternly as places a hand on your cheek and directs your gaze to his face.

“Well, I happen to love all of this,” he says, gesturing with his free hand to your body, “and I want to see all of this, because I already love every inch of it.”

“I don’t know...”

“Listen, I already said this morning is all about you, and I mean it,” he says, “let me do this for you, I want to make you feel good, but if you feel uncomfortable at any point, I’ll stop, okay?”

His words almost make you moan already, and as soon as you give him a shy nod, he’s throwing the duvet off of you both, making it land in a crumpled heap on the floor. You giggle at his enthusiasm, and he’s tugging your pyjama bottoms down with haste after kneeling down by your feet. You lift your hips from the bed to help him, and he discards them on top of the duvet along with his own joggers.

“See? I’m more naked than you now, you have nothing to worry about. Do you want to keep your top on?” he asks, and you look down at your buttoned up night shirt.

“I wouldn’t mind undoing it, but I’ll keep it on,” you reply, your fingers reaching for the buttons.

“Ah, let me,” he grins, and moves up the bed to slowly pop open each button, licking his lips in satisfaction when he undoes the last one, “rest your arms on the bed,” he instructs. You do as he says, then he goes back down to your legs, holding your ankles as he pushes your legs up so your knees are bent, then gently pushes your legs apart so he can settle himself in between them. He groans in pleasure as he sees everything clearly for the first time, and his tongue wets his lips in preparation.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his eyes not leaving the view between your legs. You smile as a blush creeps up your cheeks, then watch as he dips his head down and his tongue makes first contact with your folds. The feel of his soft, wet tongue against you sends a shiver up your body, and you instinctively close your eyes as he licks up to your clit.

“Oh!” you moan, and he smiles as his eyes look up to your face. His hands move from your legs up the bed to your waiting hands, and your fingers interlink as he continues to lap at you. He was making you feel completely at ease with showing so much of your body, and the gratification he was already giving you was out of this world, so there was no way you were even entertaining the thought of stopping him.

“You’re amazing,” he says between licks, “god, you taste so sweet.”

The compliments kept coming between his tongue diving inside you and moving in and out of your core to it flicking over your clit and spreading your excitement up your folds, and it was making you dizzy with pleasure. Your grip on his hands tightens as your breathing now stutters into pants, and you start to move your hips up and down a little to add a bit more friction.

“Ride my tongue,” he encourages, “you’re so gorgeous.”

“Taron,” you exhale as you get closer and closer to release.

“I know,” he replies, now grazing his teeth against your swollen nub. Your body jolts with the sensation, and you moan as you almost let go there and then. He alternates between licking and sucking, then with a few more flicks of the tongue, you’re coming undone as his tongue extends inside you to taste your arousal. He lift his head to see your chest rising and falling quickly, then without breaking the hold he has on your hands, he crawls up your body and pins your hands either side of your head as he hovers over you, waiting for your eyes to open. When they do, you notice his glistening mouth, his lips red and puffy, but a smug smile gracing them, and you lean up to kiss him, your excitement spreading around your own lips now. He pushes his tongue inside your mouth so you can taste yourself, and you smile into the kiss.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling back, “that was insanely hot.”

“You’re telling me,” you giggle, wiggling your legs on the bed excitedly.

Request: I’ve got a smutty(& fluff?)Taron request for you! The reader & Taron have had sex before, but he’s never gone down on her because she’s self conscious about how she looks especially down there(before they’ve only hooked up in the dark)so she’s nervous for him to see her & after denying his asks a few times she finally has to tell him why she refuses to let him but he tells her she has nothing to worry about so it’s really sweet when it finally happens like Taron holds her hands & reassures her

@egerton-sweetie @lizziespidiepridie @original-criminal-fanfics @anantheminmyheart22 @oheggsyno @tiffleen @marvelmakeuplover @welcometotheg0odlife @istandandan @leanimal90 @5-seconds-of-sarcasmm @baileythepenguin @hartirl @manners-maketh-taron @dragonluver9393 @xsinfulltrashx @jenloveshaydenchristensen @mmdarko @winsky1989 @venomhazcoffeewithpeterman @bohemianrhapsody86 @theworldisugly-22 @lilspacepandaboy @ediblemurderer @sprinkleofhiddles @wrrkamrrvelka @deetle625 @excellentbecca @a-goddessofmischief @tvwhoresblog

[betratyal]

                       the first clear thought in years:                              I REFUSE TO DIE.

JACOB BATALON? No, that’s actually PETER PETTIGREW from the MARAUDERS ERA. You know, the child of AMBROSIA PETTIGREW and ALISTER MCALISTER? Only 20 years old, this GRYFFINDOR alumni works as a DISH WASHER and is sided with HIMSELF. HE/THEY identifies as AGENDER and is a HALFBLOOD who is known to be CUNNING, HUMOROUS and ALLOCENTRIC but also OBSESSIVE, PASSIVE and COWARDLY. 

LINKS – pinboard, stats, app. CHARACTER PARALLELS – winston bishop ( new girl ), sid jenkins ( skins ), charles boyle ( b99 ), edmund pevensie ( narnia ), eric forman ( that 70s show ), bunny corcoran ( the secret history ) AESTHETIC –  ketchup stains on band shirts, an incomprehensible minute long string of curses, tracing the veins in your wrist, the smell of breakfast and fresh coffee, card tricks at three in the morning, freddie mercury impersonations, lying on the floor of the kitchen staring a the ceiling for three hours, trembling hands holding a joint, a guilty grin. HEADS UP – this intro contains mentions of bullying, death, mental illness (eating disorders (bed & bulimia) and depression and anxiety), self destructive tendencies and weed. ive trigger warned each bullet point where it comes up.

history ( 1960 - 1978 )

peter was born to ambrosia pettigrew, a halfblooded scottish-filipino witch. his father -- a muggle -- was not in the picture and hadn’t been ever since he’d learned of ambrosia’s pregnancy; he would sent her money every now and then, in the first years of peter’s life, but was never in the picture. ( and that was for the best, thought ambrosia; she didn’t love him, and he was a muggle, but still --- she was heartbroken and wished that she could give more to her son ).

peter grew up living with his mother in a small flat in glasgow. his grandparents lived nearby, and he spent a lot of time with them. peter learned how to be alone from a young age, with his mother working a lot and he himself lacking friends and peers to waste the days with --- as a child, he delved into fictional worlds ( superhero comics, roald dahl novels, animated tv shows ) and found friends there.

bullying tw / went to muggle elementary as well, but never felt at home there. he was the odd one out: his clothes didn’t fit well, his nervous habits were annoying to his classmates, his words were too clumsy and his eyes too shifty. he didn’t mind not having friends ( or so he thought, until he did have them ) but he did mind being picked on and teased. end of tw

death tw /  his grandmother died when he was seven and it was devastating; peter’s family was so small and compact, his social world so limited, that it had a huge impact. his relationship with his grandfather did grow much stronger through it. end of tw 

and then peter finally went to hogwarts! and peter made friends for the FIRST TIME. and he found a second home! ah, my god --- peter was so happy, he was really so hyped and in awe of his life and his friends. it all felt a bit surreal; especially because he looked up to james and sirius and remus so much --- james, mainly, but all of them were so amazing, and he was so amazed that they liked him, too.

peter always loved heroes. he loves comic books and people who save the day and get the girl and do it all. i think he kind of … projected that onto james and sirius especially? did not know how to do this friendship thing as an 11 year old tbh, was a mess, was blinded by their amazingness damn, and thus kind of hero worshipped them, didn’t see their flaws and faults.

re: peter being a gryffindor; peter admires heroism and bravery and chivalry, and it’s your values that get you sorted some place. and he always did try to be brave, and he WAS in a lot of moments, because he became a damn animagus for his bud! i mean! he was not a hatstall btw  — i choose to ignore that stupid bit of post canon. it took a while for the hat, sure, but no more than two minutes.  

peter was a pretty bad student, to be honest. not because he was stupid, but because he’s just not build for school. deadlines? exams? homework? no thank you --- those were both sources of stress and horribly tedious things and peter was much too occupied with shenanigans and having fun. peter learned better in different settings: he got very good at certain charms because they allowed him to be lazy ( hello, accio! ) and was able to put his mind to becoming an animagus because there was a necessity and a proper motivation, and became better at potions because of all the hangover potions he brew. 

becoming an animagus for remus was ! important ! to peter ! he did it for remus, not because of peer pressure, or anything else — he did it because it was right, and his friend deserved it and ! he did it, too, because he could. sure, his transfig grades may have been more than poor, but the kid did have some skill. he just needed motivation, which mcgonagall didn’t give (bc. she scared him.) and this situation? motivated the hell out of him.

peter would be lying if he said he wasn’t taken a bit aback when he learned about remus’ lycanthropy — not because he was scared of him, to be honest, but he was just ? shocked ? he was more scared for remus, and so sad? so fucking sad for him? : ( he cried

he also loved spending his time at hogwarts playing games; from muggle card games to chess to gobstones. collected chocolate frogs Very Seriously as well, and still does tbh.

weed & anxiety tw / peter started smoking pot in the summer between his fourth and fifth year, and never really stopped. it made him slack more at school, but also eased his anxiety, which had started to develop in his fourth year. as months passed, peter became more and more of a stoner, which made him both more relaxed and funnier, but also … a whole of a lot lazier. end of weed tw

peter had always been a bit … fidgety, easily on edge, a bit nervous, but he’d never really known anxiety until around fourteen years old. his insecurities grew, as he started comparing himself more to his friends and finding nothing but things he lacked in comparison to them, and questions as to why they put up with him. end of anxiety tw

so his schooldays mostly looked like … doing nothing, playing games, having fun with his mates, getting high, forgetting his homework, stressing about homework, and somewhere, in a tiny corner of his being, worrying about the war. whenever those worries started coming up, though, he was able to push them away, because the war was not yet there, not for him at least. there was graduation to worry about first, and once that was done, then he could worry about the war.

post graduation - now ( 1978 - 1980 )

peter joins the order along with his friends, because it was what was right. peter believes in their cause, hates the death eaters, hates discrimination and racism and terrorism --- of course he fucking does, and so he joins, even though he feels incompetent. i have written a lot about this in his app too, which is linked above! 

he starts working as a dishwasher in muggle glasgow, preferring a bit of a break from the wizarding world every now and then. peter’s not unambitious, per se, but he doesn’t have enough faith in himself to try and pursue a career ( and besides, what’s the point in the midst of a war? ). plus, peter doesnt need any more stress on his plate, and dish washing is laidback and at least kind of fun. 

depression & weed & eating disorder (bed/bulimia) tw | peter feels useless in the order, though. he seems to lack the skills, the guts, the everything that the people around him have. before, their heroics mightve inspired him; now they just make him feel like a shitty person, like a burden. peter starts secluding himself a little, hiding in his mother’s home. he smokes more pot. he sometimes goes almost week without seeing someone besides his mum and his coworkers. he watches too much telly and reads comics and drowns in fictional worlds and he becomes depressed. he sinks into it without noticing and can’t come back from it. his eating habits ( which have always bordered on unhealthy ) turn worse; peter binges, and then restricts, falls into a cycle. it’s the only routine he has.

when he’s around his friends, he lives up a little. he cracks jokes and wants to play games and laughs and feels a bit more alive, but he always craves his time on his own. that’s his new way to feel safe: to stick to his newly found routine, hidden in his room, away from reality. | end of tw

the idea to join the death eaters comes out of fear. peter feels like the order is losing, and feels like death is inevitable. i dont know how true this is, but the fact is that the death eaters are ruthless and that his life is on the line because of his position. i wrote a Lot about this in his app too, so if u want a more comprehensive explanation i’d def read it here, its the second hc!

he joins, because he thinks it will give him a saver position. play both sides, play for the winning side --- he’s always had a bit of an opportunistic streak, which definitely helps sway his decision. in the end he’s just afraid of dying, and that’s why he joins; he’s twenty, his life has hardly started --- he doesn’t want to die, no cause is worth that, none at all. ( he should have just ran )

he joins in may 1978, for timeline reasons, so he’s been a death eater for only a few months. it’s been a lot different than he imagined ----- peter thought he’d blend in the background quietly, that he’d have to do shitty jobs ( which is true ) and that he’d be left alone. he underestimated it, because well --- he was desperate when he joined, and he didn’t think about the consequences, and he didn’t think about how voldemort’s cruelty wasn’t just reserved for his enemies but for his followers, too. there’s no stepping out of line with the death eaters; mistakes are not treated lightly and peter --- afraid, a bit of a bumbling idiot, learns this quite soon.

his function is mostly just to be a spy; relay information and share plans, name members, etcetera. he’s not very active because he’s a spy, but i imagine that he is present at the bigger meetings. AND FML HE’S GOOD AT IT! he’s good at lying and sneaking and being a sly bastard --- he used those skills for pranks, once. now he uses it to betray his fellow prankers : D

peter, at that point, hates himself. he’s always had a bit of self loathing, but it’s gained the upper hand now and he’s drowning in it; it does allow for him to ignore his conscience, though, for him to ignore the reality and just stew in his negativity. he’s got a woe is me mentality, for sure, and he’s so god damn passive about his situation. 

timeclash reaction.

peter’s reaction to the timeclash was ... a lot. i wrote about it in his app, so if u want to read my whole ass rambling, i rec that. but tldr: he’s shocked, at what he becomes. the peter he is now is a traitor, yes, but he’s not yet the person who ends up betraying james and lily and harry, who frames sirius --- and it’s ground shattering to find out that he’s on the road to become such a person. 

self destructiveness, weed, alcohol tw / his self loathing grows more. peter wasn’t doing very well before, but the timeclash makes something snap inside him --- he abandons his needs, punishes himself in small ways, loses sight of himself. he drinks and smokes too much. he’s so scared of himself. he’s in hiding, when he first finds out, scared of his friends and the death eaters and the order members and the people from the future who have met a worse version of him end of tws

part of peter is also like “i havent done any of these things yet, i know i am not the BEST person but i am still . not That Bad! stop being mad for something i havent done yet!”

around this time, he’s realising that he can either keep hiding, that he can completely destroy himself and all the ties he has, or he can take this opportunity to change his course. to not become the person all these people from the future know, to change change change, to make up for the wrongs he has committed and the wrongs he will commit if he keeps on going the way he is --- and that’s where he’s at now.

on another hand, he definitely watched all the star wars movies that came out over the past 50 yrs and hates kylo ren and cried when han died!!! he is in awe of the mcu movies but also thinks they did the comics dirty. i wish someone would introduce him to video games bc he would cry from happiness.

personality & details

OKAY onto the fun stuff, that was way too depressing and peter is usually a comedic icon

peter parker is his favourite superhero just because … they share a first name and because peter parker is a bit of an underdog too and peter is just like! amazing! he named his owl parker.

he hates cats. used to love them — he was allowed to take the cat from home with him to hogwarts when he was eleven, but he brought him back home after an unfortunate incident where his cat nearly ate him while he was in his animagus form. “sorry ma, i don’t love him any more. here. have him.”

peter is actually a solid cook. this is because he learned to make some basic food when he was still a kid, first with his grandma, and later on his own. he liked doing it for his mother and he was. .. good at it? peter is also just passionate about food and finds comfort in cooking. breakfast food and baked goods are Prime Food Categories.

he is asexual af, panromantic. has kissed both guys and gals and nb pals but did not like it??? confused. does not understand sexuality and all that jazz but tries not to think abt it because like! he’s got enough stress! doesnt need to think abt this!

peter is also agender, but i think he’s a lot less aware about this, because it’s confusing and so he just tries not to think about it. he does feel okay with he/him pronouns, but just doesn’t feel connected at all to being a boy/man

peter has abandonment issues because his dad, well, never even bothered to be there. not even for a second. he’s just constantly scared that people will leave and it’s funny, because he will probably end up abandoning all of his loved ones KDJFHSDF.

peter is quite non confrontational but also not … meek? he just avoids it, either by physically staying out of people’s way or by dismissing most of the things said and getting out of there. a Passive Kid. 

he’s such a fucking dork i swear to god. but he’s funny! peter is really funny. i deeply believe in this. he makes great puns and is able to just come out of nowhere and make a comment that just. hits the nail right on its head.

peter curses a lot and has a scottish accent and sometimes he will have a minute long cursing session that no one rly understands.

[nevillelongsbottom]

oscines pairing: george weasley/neville longbottom word count: 2,437  for the @hpqueernet favourite queer ship event

“Neville,” George gasps, the sweat dripping from his forehead, his eyes screwed shut, “ah, fuck, Neville-”

George finds Neville sitting in the kitchen in the morning: Neville’s house isn’t exactly something he had paid much attention to before, but it’s sweet. Plants line every windowsill and many stand proud on the floor, some singing as he walks past, dancing on their stalks. Everything seems to have a warm hue to it, furniture in streaks of orange and green, and Neville’s loose knit jumper is no exception. He blends in to his house, deeply ingrained in it as if he is its living breathing heart.

He looks up from his mug of tea as George walks in. The loose knit is too loose, and the jumper too large, and George can see his collarbone where it slides off, the red marks he left on Neville’s soft skin. He runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t know what emotion necessitated it.

“Please don’t say something about how you regretted it,” says Neville, “because I enjoyed it, and I haven’t - I just haven’t felt safe like that in so long. And I know you regret it but I just want to let myself believe that something is okay.”

“What makes you think I regret it?” George asks. Neville’s knuckles go white, then he slackens them again, quite unsure of what to do with his limbs, his reaction unsteady through him. He looks like he might cry for a second.

“Haven’t you heard all those people saying that we’re each other’s - pity projects?”

“And what does that mean?”

Neville’s mouth moves for a moment as if moving to explain, and then he licks his bottom lip in thought, and then gives up on the process entirely in favour of setting his tea down. “I don’t know. Am I your pity project? Am I supposed to make you feel - better?”

George laughs, but not unkindly, cracking open a window and lighting a cigarette. Foul habit, he knows, but the tang just seems to take him through moments he might not manage unguided. Neville doesn’t like it, nor do his plants, but George doesn’t like Neville’s self-deprecation either and that’s never stopped him. “I mean, you make me feel better. I feel better when I’m around you. But that’s because we’ve been working our arses off trying to get better, and helping each other, not for anything else. Maybe we are each other’s project, but I’m not here because I feel sorry for you. I’m here because you feel like shit, and I feel like shit, and we’ve been through some shit, and you’re one of the few people who just understands that. I don’t regret anything except that I didn’t take you out to a nice dinner or something first.” George coughs on his cigarette for a moment and wonders if it’s a sign. “Merlin, Neville, you have no idea how much that meant to me.”

“Maybe I do,” says Neville. George looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. Neville is chewing on one of his fingernails, which is another habit George is not fond of, but they’re both full of bad habits. They’re both just waiting to find the strength to break out of them. George thinks they’re getting there. “I never really had anyone else to speak to about this. Harry and that lot, well… when they went out, you know, they didn’t want to hear about it. And I understand that, but there was no one to say I really need some help to until you.” Neville smiles a little at some thought he’s having, lets out that noise that’s between a breath and a giggle. “I felt so bad that night, unloading all of that onto you, because you had so much going on yourself, but…”

“I mean, Flamel’s sake, Neville, I was so happy to finally hear somebody else’s problems! I was stuck with my own and nobody would be honest to me because they all thought I was too bad myself, and there was that point where I just wanted to scream and say it’s fine that we’re all big messes right now, and then, of course, you happened.”

Neville smiles. “I regret so many things I said to you and some of the things I did, but… I don’t regret you.”

George has to stifle his own grin in his shirt, because he loves it when Neville says that, just loves it. Most of the time he feels like somebody’s depressed brother, the wrong half of a whole, a person who still has to be spoken about in awkward whispers. But Neville has never thought so. He knows what it’s like.

The singing rose on the windowsill is whistling up at him, and George thumbs one of its petals, and wonders why he’s never let himself be here before.

He is scared of commitment, true. Scared of definites and absolutes and things that could go wrong and things that don’t last forever.

He is not scared of Neville.

George is scared of truths, he discovers.

“Sometimes,” he says, “when I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself, I see Fred, and I let myself believe that it isn’t a mirror, and that he’s standing there. And he’s in my dreams, all of them, because he always has been, and so I can’t say that he’s dead and have it ever feel real, but last night I dreamt without him and it felt like someone cut the last cord between us. And now when I look in the mirror all I see is myself and he’s gone and I have never let myself accept the truth that he is dead because I’m scared of it and what it means for me because I don’t know how to live on my own, Neville. I don’t know who I am without the other part of me and I’ve just been pretending and the truth is fucking here and I can’t keep pretending but I want to, I want to, I don’t know how I can live in this world when it’s all so real, and…”

Neville is tempered, waits and listens, lets George rock on the floor of his house with his hands over his eyes and his feelings like an oil spill between them. He draws little shapes on George’s back, and George slowly lets his hands drop, lets Neville see his tear stained face and his bloodshot eyes because, he supposes, this too is a truth.

“And I am absolutely in love with you and I’m too scared to say it because I think I’m going to drag you down with me and Merlin, you deserve better.”

Neville waits a moment, sits, lets that digest; his eyes shift, and the edges of his mouth tug softly. “There’s a species of magical plant,” he says, “that cycles through all the seasons in just a day. So in the morning it’s spring and blossoms and it stands proud and tall in the afternoon for summer and then goes red in the evening and sheds all its leaves at night. But then in the morning again, it’s blossoming.” He reaches out, touches George’s face for just a moment, feeling the patterns of smooth and bumpy that are becoming familiar to him. “You’ve always known these things,” he says eventually, and George would argue, but of course, Neville is right.

The truths are not new. He just reads them like they are because suddenly they seem truer, fresh again.

But it doesn’t make him hurt any less, and he knows that, and Neville knows that, too. George catches his breath again, follows Neville’s own.

“I did say I love you,” he says eventually. “That is - that’s true. Maybe it’s the easiest truth to say.”

There is something so unnameably spectacular about Neville sometimes; not just in the moments where he’s sitting calmly and George can count the moles on his arms, but more so when he’s taking the world head on again. The shine of his sweet smile when he’s talking to Molly, the way he holds his mouth tightly in concentration when he’s casting his housework spells, the sound of his laugh when it’s genuine and unbridled. Neville even dances sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, listens to the Weird Sisters and lets himself go for a minute at a time. No more than that, of course. George knows better than most people that Neville is never quite off edge. He had held Neville’s hand when they had lowered the wards on his windows, though he still has magic strong enough to give George a headache at the front door.

George stirs his cold coffee thoughtlessly, watching the early crowd of shoppers out of his window. He isn’t opening today, and is giving himself an hour or two before he goes into the shop. He is instead letting himself think and entertain an idea that he knows is completely preposterous and yet is totally enamoured by.

He reheats his coffee, finishes the dregs, throws his coat on and apparates out of the house.

Harry Potter does not seem particularly used to surprise visits, and knocks over a whole row of the Black family’s ornaments when George arrives; he swears, and mutters “reparo”, though much to George’s amusement, none of them seem to quite look the same even when he puts them back on the mantel. Harry rubs his forehead. “Jesus Christ, George, most people knock.”

“Yeah, well, you said it there. Most people. I’m one of the least people. Harry, do you ever clean your mirrors?”

“Well, I was trying to.”

“With that amount of effort, you might as well just blow the dirt off.” George plucks his wand from his belt, spins it round in his hand a moment before bellowing “scourgify!”. This, of course, does the trick perfectly, and the mirror almost shines as it shakes off its layer of filth. “Wow, I look great today.”

“You are looking better,” Harry notes, leading George through the dark corridors and to the dining room, where he hangs his coat up and runs his fingers across the peeling wallpaper. “Are you actually going to tell me why you’re here or are you just going to make me feel guilty for being a bad homeowner?”

“You can let this place rot, for all I care,” George says, then trips his tongue over the thought a few times before allowing himself to finally say it: “would it be ridiculous if I asked Neville to marry me?”

“Yes,” says Harry, immediately, then, “wait, you guys are dating?”

“Harry!”

“What?”

“How did you not know? We were the talk of the bloody Burrow for about two months! It’s not every day you get a gay wizarding couple with quite the amount of cumulative trauma we have.” George rests a hand on his hip. “Wow. Wow.”

“Hey, I’ve been busy.”

“So I heard.”

“You really want to marry him this soon?”

“Without giving you a very soppy speech about it, yes.”

“Why don’t you ask Neville?”

George sighs. “I don’t want to ruin things. If he doesn’t take it well, and doesn’t want to see me any more, then…”

“If you think Neville would leave you just because you wanted to get married and he didn’t,” Harry says, “are you sure you know him?”

That, George thinks, is a very good point. Not that he shouldn’t marry Neville, of course; George is still caught up in that thought, but he’s doing the thing he should never do and giving too much credence to irrational fears. There are no Death Eaters coming for them, the war will not happen again, buildings will not crumble at their foundations and swallow them whole, Fred is not trapped in George’s dreams, Neville would never stop talking to George because a marriage proposal went badly.

He looks at Harry, not quite sure what to say.

“Just go ask him and stop looking at me,” Harry says.

(“My gran will throw a fit,” says Neville, throwing his arms round George;

“So will my mum,” he laughs, burying his grin in Neville’s shoulder.)

Fred appears again in George’s dream, a fully-formed thing; they’re somewhere in Hogwarts, in a secret corridor that’s an amalgamation of reality and imagination, one covered in portable swamps and all sorts of magical mishaps. Fred is waving his wand, casting little sparks about them, looking younger than George does now. He always was the more mischievous of the two. George is probably thinking himself into grey hairs.

“Didn’t we turn him into a canary?” Fred asks.

“Yeah,” says George. “He made a cute bird.”

“You know, canaries used to be popular among old Muggle kings in England and Spain,” Fred says, sniffing and twisting his nose comically, in that way that he and George would always do behind peoples’ backs to make them laugh. George resists a snort. “Because of their beautiful songs. Hermione told me that.” He groans. “I can’t believe I bloody remember that. You’re meant to be the brains.”

George laughs. “The canaries were your idea in the first place.”

“Oh, clearly I have an affinity with the bird. I, too, am colourful and love a good song. Always trust a canary.” Fred beams, looking as proud as the day he first apparated; or maybe as proud as the day they first tricked Filch.

George nips out of the party, stands in the back garden, in the shade of The Burrow. The summer heat is incredible, and he undoes a button of his shirt, eases off his dress robes til he’s just in ruffled shirt and trousers. There’s a breeze rippling through the air, but a warm one, not quite enough still to cool him off.

He would’ve asked Neville back here with him, but Neville seems to be making himself at home among the family. So he supposes he’ll treasure the moment alone.

He takes out his wand, always close at hand, and runs it across his palm for a moment.

He shifts it between his fingers, holds it, lets his breath steady. He is moving on, he thinks, taking this step forward. The past isn’t gone but he asks it to stop haunting him all of his waking moments, and with an elegant swish, he casts:

“Expecto patronum!”

And from his wand bursts forth light, and in his mind he captures Neville’s smile, shy like the first time he saw it, gentle in the light; and from the trees, the sound of birds, singing through the branches.

[the-everlasting-dream]

The Revelation, Chapter 12 - TRR AU

Summary: Taking Zoe to the costume ball does not go as planned.

A/N: Some parts have been taken right from canon - you’ll see what I mean.Sorry if its not my usual standard, I’ve seem to have lost all motivation to write recently and action sequences are my worst lol. 

Word Count: 6900+ 

Warnings: Swearing, lewd behaviour (all Zoe), violence, blood, description of injury. 

SERIES MASTERLIST

Drake swirled the last of his whiskey, eyeing the amber liquid as it splashed against the sides of crystal tumbler, wondering just how much of it he needed to consume to forget... 

To forget about the night before and Zoe and what they'd done. To forget about the electrifying panic he'd woken up to when he found his college girlfriend lying naked next to him and the horrific sensation of wondering just how far things had gone last night before they'd both passed out. Not as far as she'd hoped, her eyes told him and he couldn't deny the rush of relief that had followed. 

-

 A splash of water to his face after rolling out of bed that morning provided a clarity about the night before. She’d blown him and he’d eaten her out. 

 Nothing else. 

 The thought of that made him shudder as Zoe’s pornographic moans echoed again in his mind, the scrape of her teeth on his cock and her fingers in his hair as she pulled him closer to her folds while he could only move his fingers and tongue faster, hoping it would be over soon. Thankfully as soon as Zoe hit her high with a loud screech, she seemed to pass out immediately, too drunk to continue.

If they’d gone all the way… Drake shuddered again now, he didn’t want to think about that. 

His mind didn’t allow him to sleep that night, guilt and shame swirling on an endless loop until morning finally arrived and he rolled out of bed, hoping he put it all behind him when Zoe’s eyes snapped open. Her hazel irises, surprisingly clear despite the early hour, remained trained on him as he paused mid way through dressing himself, alarm streaking through. 

  Why did he feel guilty for sneaking out? Surely she didn’t expect him to stay right? 

 When she didn’t speak, he continued to dress himself and just as he was tugging his denim shirt over his shoulders, he had heard her voice. 

'So I'll see you tonight?’ 

Drake froze. His back was to her, but he could feel her eyes trained steadily on him. 

Tonight?

'The costume ball shenanigan you promised to take me for… You invited me to come along remember?’ Her voice held a note of underlying expectation bordering on disappointment and for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to say no. 

Drake had forced his face into a smile and turned around to face her, eyes running over her naked body under the sheets. ‘Sure. I’ll pick you up at seven.’ 

Zoe’s lips curved into a tantalising smile. ‘You fucking know it.’

-

He couldn’t explain it but somehow when he was getting dressed that evening, the box that held his grandmother’s ring fell from where he’d tucked it into his top drawer, spilling its only content across the floor. As he bent to pick it up, memories of her flooded through his mind again as the metal band burned into his skin when he touched it. It was almost as if the ring itself knew it was in the wrong place. 

This would always be Elizabeth’s ring… whether she wanted it or not, it would always be a part of her. 

 He ran his fingers over the three diamonds set in gold, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears from falling as the painful memories resurfaced. For a moment he marvelled how she did it. Elizabeth wasn’t even here but she still commanded such a presence in his mind. 

 Tonight would be his first appearance back at court without her. He didn’t want to do it, to go back and face the sneering nobles and nosy press without her to steady him, to reassure him with that calming smile of hers that immediately settled his nerves that it was going to be okay, whatever it was they’d go through it together... 

 Drake's watch beeped, indicating it was time to go. He didn’t want to go but he’d made a promise, a stupid heat of a moment decision but if he had to do this, he wanted to have a piece of Elizabeth with him and tucking the box into his pocket, he steeled his nerves and strode out, praying this night would be mercifully short. 

-  

Gripping his glass tighter, Drake now fought the urge to take that ring out again, to feel the coolness of the metal in his hands again, just to reassure himself that it was still there, that the last part of her was still with him. 

  She should be here, his heart whispered. 

But she’s not, his mind answered. I just wish I’d- 

Someone calling his name brought him out of his thoughts and he glanced up to see Maxwell approaching, a haunted look on his face. 

 ‘Drake buddy, am I glad to see you..’ 

His face immediately creased into a frown. ‘Don’t you have a dance floor to be tearing up Beaumont?’ 

Maxwell’s usually sunny demeanour had evaporated. ‘I think I’ll hang out with you for a second.’ 

Drake lifted a brow at the very uncharacteristic statement. ‘What happened?’ 

Maxwell shifted uncomfortably, obviously debating with himself. ‘Nothing… its nothing.’ 

‘Maxwell…’ His tone held a warning now. 

 ‘Its really nothing Drake,’ his friend assured him, trying and failing to cover his uneasiness. ‘Zoe.. uh..’ 

‘What did she do?’ He immediately searched the room over Maxwell’s shoulder for what was possibly the biggest flimsiest pinkest dress he had ever seen in his life. 

 Zoe’d arrived that night in a plastic confection concoction with skirts that must have expanded out at least three feet from her waist, shimmering with giant globs of tacky glitter, it had rustled together loudly as she clambered into his car. As she attempted to manoeuvre herself in the passenger seat, the sheer volume of fabric got lodged in the doorway and she strained against the opening, barely able to balance on her knock-off designer shoes that even he could tell were fake. Her strained grunt of effort broke him out of his trance and with an almighty pull from Drake who was instantly regretting ever decision he’d ever made, she finally made it into the car, skirts and all. 

 Maxwell began hesitantly in a shaky voice, ‘She ah.. we were dancing right... then she pulled me into a tiny alcove thing and ask me to…’ He lowered his voice, almost scared to continue. ‘Fuck me daddy.’ 

 Drake sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Where is she?’ 

‘Over by the bar.’

‘…lady like you shouldn’t be left alone on such a splendid night.’ The oily voice of Duke Richards as he leaned down to talk into Zoe’s ears could be heard over the volume of the ball as Drake approached. 

Zoe was just knocking back the last of her champagne, swaying slightly as she threw her head back, leaning into the Duke’s touch a little more, as his hand slid meaningfully down her side. 

 ‘Whaddya propose, my good sir?’ She giggled back, obviously tipsy, her hand in turn wandering over his slight paunch to where his trousers were precariously fastened. 

‘Sorry I believe she’s already promised the next dance to me,’ Drake interjected, fighting to keep his voice even as the last of the whiskey burned in his throat, deftly manoeuvring Zoe out of the older Duke’s grasp. 

 ‘Ahh Mr Walker….’ His beady black eyes fixed on him, not even bothering to hide the disdain. ‘I think Lady Zoe was perfectly fine where she was.’ 

Drake gritted his teeth, forcing an even tone when he replied. ’That may be true but Lady Zoe is my date tonight and I would like to take an opportunity to dance with her.' 

Duke Richards’ disdainful expression morphed into something more condescending as he raised his voice intentionally, attracting the attention of the people closest to their little trio. ‘Of course… though one might wonder what happens to women you call your dates… Tell me Mr Walker where might the delightful Duchess Elizabeth be tonight?’ 

 Drake could not stop himself from clenching his fists — he barely heard Zoe’s confused reply of ‘who’s Elizabeth?’ — as blood rushed in his ears, more than ready to knock this smug bastard back whatever hole he came from. Perhaps the only thing holding him back were the curious eyes of the small crowd that gathered around them, breath held to see what his response would be, like bloodhounds sniffing out the scent of a fight. The older duke’s eyes glinted in amusement as Drake grappled with his inner conflict.

Glaring at the taller man, he forced his anger down and flexed his hands, taking a deep breath. 

‘It is very kind of you to ask, Your Grace, but as we are all well aware, Duchess Elizabeth is taking some personal time to be with her family.’ 

Before his adversary could speak, Drake stalked off towards the dance floor, practically dragging Zoe after him until they were in the on the opposite side of the dance floor and he guided her hands into the starting position for the Cordonian waltz.

‘What the fuck Drake?’ She squealed loudly in annoyance, gaining the attention of more guests to his chagrin. ‘What are you making me do?’ 

‘We’re going to dance now,’ he told her carefully, still annoyed and talking to her as if she was a child. 'When I step forward, you step back got it? We’ll start out slow and I’ll teach you the rest as we go.’ 

She nodded vaguely, her disinterested look making him doubt if she was capable of following his lead. But with too many eyes on them and the band striking up the first notes of the waltz, it was too late to change his mind. Drake almost shook his head in disbelief at his endeavour: He never thought he’d be the one teaching someone the steps at a big fancy ball…

 If only the Drake from one year ago could see me now… 

He nodded to Zoe indicating to do as he’d instructed but she mistimed the step and he ended up stepping on her ridiculously high hot pink shoes, earning a loud yelp of pain from her. Zoe’s arms felt heavy in his, her body wooden as he attempted to lead them across the floor, barely managing to hit the steps and after a particularly bad blunder, they bumped into a nearby couples, earning a glare of annoyance. 

Drake’s resolve crumbled as he realised belatedly that Zoe was far too intoxicated to perform even the simplest of instructions. She could see it too, how his face fell in disappointment when she stepped on his toes for the umpteenth time. 

‘Drake I-‘ 

‘Forget it,’ he told her bitterly as he broke out of the waltz hold. ‘This was a crap idea anyway.’ 

Ignoring her cries of protest, he stalked away leaving Zoe on the dance floor, the gawking nobles parting like the Red Sea before him as they turned to whisper loudly amoungst themselves. 

Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?

He didn’t stop until his feet had taken him outside the very walls of the palace itself and he stood on the driveway, hot tears welled in his eyes and he brushed them away angrily. 

Was he ever going to be able to move on? Why wasn’t anything working? Why couldn’t he just —  

Frustration and hopelessness built in him, the feelings built and built until reaching boiling point at an alarming rate and just when he couldn’t take it anymore, muscles poised to release everything into a tense shout of — 

‘Drake?’

Zoe’s wobbly voice stung his ears as her high heels clacked loudly against the tiles steps. ‘Drake I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fuck up... I-I can do better,’ her voice was breaking now as she staggered up to him, hiccupping loudly before continuing. ‘Let’s try that again. I just need a bit of practice, I can do this,’ she pleaded desperately but he ignored her.   

‘You can’t Zoe,’ he snapped harshly, barely looking at her. ‘You just can’t okay?!’ 

Her hazel eyes welled with tears. ‘Y-yes I can Drake, just give me a chance I promise I wi— ‘ 

‘Forget it Zoe. This was a mistake…’ Drake sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of the entire night pressing on his chest until he found himself fighting to breathe. ‘You’re not — ‘ He caught himself before he could finish but the damage had been done and she stiffened as if he’s struck her. 

 ‘I’m not her,’ Zoe stated flatly, suddenly sounding very sober. ‘I’m not Elizabeth.’ 

Drake gasped as she mentioned her name but Zoe cut him off before he could get a word in, her voice growing shriller and shriller. ‘Just fucking say it. I’m not her and I never will be. I’ll never be good enough for you and I’ll never live up to that precious duchess of yours.' 

Anger flared up in him but he pushed it down. 'Shut up Zoe you’re drunk. Don’t make a scene.' 

 'I’m not fucking drunk,’ she spat venomously. 'You’ve changed Drake Walker you’ve become just like those fucking bastards you so proudly claim to hate. Using people for your own end then throwing them away when you’re done with them!' 

‘Zoe.’ His tone held a warning as he glared at her, livid. 'I’m gonna call you a cab. You’re drunk and I’m sending you home.’ 

 'I wasn’t drunk Drake!’ She exclaimed loudly. 'I knew exactly what was happening last night. I was okay to pretend, to fool myself into thinking that you could actually like me but you never fucking could!’ 

 ‘What the fu— ‘ Drake was bewildered beyond belief as he fumbled in his pockets for his phone, belatedly realising he’d left it on the table inside. 'What the hell are you talking about Zoe? Shut up I’m calling a cab now.' 

'I could see it in your eyes Drake,’ Zoe continued to yell. 'Every time you kissed me and touched me you were thinking of her. You didn’t mention her name but I know you were comparing me to her, remembering what she felt like when you were with me! You wanted her instead of me!’ 

Mascara was dribbling down her cheeks in ugly black lines as tears gushed but she continued anyway. ‘ That's why I pretended I was too drunk to continue last night! Because you still love her! I’m not the one you want Drake…’ Zoe took a shaky breath. ‘And I never will be.’   

He was stunned into silence, her words slicing deep, burning white hot as they whipped painfully across the open plain of his soul. His breath came in heavy pants like hers did as they stared at each other and in her eyes he could see only hurt and truth reflected back at him. Everything Zoe had said was right, he had used her he was ashamed to admit, taken advantage of what she was willing to give just for a temporary pleasure.. 

 ‘I thought you were different Drake,’ she finally spoke up, her voice broken and quieter now. ‘I thought you were my friend…’

‘Zoe…’ 

Without thinking, he reached for her but she twisted out of his reach, wrapped her own arms around her protectively against the cold. Drake had never felt more like scum as she fixed her hollow gaze on him. 

 ‘I’m going now,’ Zoe announced forlornly. ‘I’m going and you won’t ever have to hear from me again. You don’t have to say anything.. Actually please don’t...’ 

They waited in a thick silence until her Dryve arrived and in a flurry of pink skirts Zoe disappeared out of his life just as quickly as she’d appeared.

Feeling more miserable than ever, Drake gazed helplessly as the tail light of the car disappeared beyond the palace gates before dropping his head into his hands, allowing a few hot tears to escape him. How long am I going to go on like this? In this endless pattern of mistake after mistake? His mind went to the only stable source of reason he knew and he picked himself off the palace stairs, heading back into the ball room. 

Things between him and Liam had been tense to put it mildly, he’d mostly smoothened things over with the rest of the gang but ever since Elizabeth had left they’d barely spoken two words to each other. In truth, he'd missed his best friend, missed his company, his dependable voice of reason that never failed him all the years they’d known each other. This was the longest he could remember them going without speaking and a part of him still shrunk away at the thought of approaching the King of Cordonia but in his heart, Drake knew it was time to mend things with his best friend. 

 He scanned the crowd intently for Liam’s tall figure and blonde hair and frowned when he couldn’t pick him out. 

 ‘Maxwell have you seen Liam?’ He grabbed his friend’s shoulder as eh walked past. 'I really need to talk to him..’ 

The younger Beaumont brother’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. ‘Dude didn’t you hear the announcement earlier? Liam’s not here.' 

Drake blinked in surprise. ‘What?’ 

‘Nah man. When the King Father opened the ball, he mentioned that Liam was away on business or something…’ Maxwell searched his face carefully. ‘You really didn’t know?’ 

 Drake was stunned into silence for the second time that night. The Costume ball was a major event to rally the nobility in the wake of the attackers’ arrest, just the kind of event that Liam would have to attend to show support for his people so for him to be absent was decidedly… uncharacteristic. 

 He couldn’t help but wonder what was so urgent just as something struck him. 

It couldn’t be Elizabeth could it? 

Before the thought could even be completed, Drake was already shaking his head. Fight or not, surely Liam would have told him if something was wrong on her end… right?

Still figuring out how to process this information, he headed towards the bar in need of a stiff drink and while lost in thought accidentally bumped into a costumed hooded figure, his shoulder swinging painfully despite having healed weeks ago. 

 ’Sor-’ Drake began to apologise before making eye contact with the face under the hood. ‘Neville?!’ 

The Earl of the Cormery Isle threw back his black cloak off his head with a flourish, gaining the intended gasps of shock from the ball-goers nearest to them as he fixed his spiteful gaze on Drake. 

 ‘That’s Lord Vancoeur to you,’ he spat, voice loud and harsh. ‘I shouldn’t expect much from the commoner scum you are.’ 

 Drake felt the blood boiling in his veins as he settled his eyes on the man who was indirectly responsible for Elizabeth’s accident. If this bastard and his father hadn’t sprung that surprise press conference on them, she wouldn’t have had that panic attack and she wouldn’t have ran out onto that cursed balcony and had that accident. If it wasn’t for that, she might still be — 

The other man eyed him with amusement, almost as though he could hear Drake’s thoughts out loud. His anger skyrocketed to boiling point, wanting nothing more than the punch that smug smile off his rodent-like face. The tension rippled off the pair of them in waves while as a small crowd gathered around the two men, suddenly in rapt attention but Drake ignored them.

‘Well Lord Vancoeur would you care to tell us all where the hell you and that slime bag you call your father have been hiding? It's been weeks since Richmond's accident. Where the fuck have you been?’ 

‘Pah! I don’t have to explain myself to you of all people,’ Neville barked venomously. ‘And you will not blame me or my father for your heedless mistake. It was not me that lead Her Grace to her demise!’ 

His words drew a gasp of horror from the crowd, many of whom were watching the interaction like spectators at a tennis match. Neville grinned wickedly, turning to them with a flourish of his cape, relishing in the attention of all. 

‘Lord Neville what is the meaning of this?’ Queen Regina demanded as the crowd parted to reveal her and the King Father approaching the commotion. 

‘Your Majesties, please accept my humblest apologies for interrupting your evening,’ Neville bowed low, looking the picture of humility. ‘But I cannot, in good faith, bring myself to stay silent when the wrong doings towards the lovely Duchess Elizabeth remain hidden.’ 

‘We appreciate your pursuit of the truth, Lord Neville but is this rea— ‘ The queen began but Constantine interrupted her with an authoritative hand.

‘Let the Earl speak Regina,’ he declared, pulling himself to his full height. 

‘Thank you King Father.’ Neville’s wicked grin was back as he bowed again and stepped up onto the raised dais. 

‘My lords and ladies, I regret to be the one to tell you that your illustrious hero, Drake Walker seems to have conveniently left out a few choice details about his beloved fiancee’s accident. 

Did he tell you that he brought her onto that balcony in the first place despite the Marquess’ explicit caution? 

Did he tell you he was the one that antagonised her, goaded her, provoked your sweet duchess into such a fit that made her stomp on the fragile floor of the balcony leading to its collapse and her demise?’ 

The filthy bastard is spinning lies. Drake’s nails dug painfully into his calloused palms as anger boiled in his veins. He made to lunge towards the earl but the strong hands of Bastien and Mara held him back, as the head of security muttered a quick order into his ear piece. Temporarily restrained, he threw his rival a glare so venomous some members of the crowd actually stepped back but received a smug smile in return. 

‘Tell us!’ Someone cried out from the crowd. 

‘Lord Neville do enlighten us!’ another voice — Duke Richards' — cried out and the sentiment gained traction, building and building until the entire ballroom was filled with shouts of ‘TELL US! TELL US!’ 

Bastien and his team attempted to subdue the people pressing agains the dais on all angles but even their authority was lost on the frenzied crowds, flocked forwards eagerly.   

 Shooting a smug smile over his shoulder at Drake, Neville raising his hands for silence dramatically, the crowd immediately fell silent, hanging on to his every word. 

‘Despite what he has miserably attempted to convince you, Drake Walker is no better than the commoner scum he brought as a date to the ball tonight. While you might know him as our beloved King Liam’s best friend and fiercest protector, I regret to tell you my good people, your hero is not as pure as he is made out to be. In fact I have it on good authority that he is willing to do anything to further his station, including taking a bullet for the woman he claims to love all the while concealing the fact that he cheated on her!' 

A ripple of shock filtered through the crowd and a few ladies clutched their throats dramatically. Drake felt the eyes of the nobles on him, many of whom were in “traditional Cordonian marriages”, their gazes cold with disgust and horror. Any loyalty these people may have shown to him once had vanished. It was like all his years at court as an outsider, hiding on the fringes, came flooding back with ten times the force, every backhanded comment, every insult reflected in their eyes which were all too ready to condemn him with the same message: you will never be one of us. 

‘Tell us now Mr Walker, isn't that the reason why Elizabeth left?’ Neville asked mockingly and it took all Drake's willpower to keep himself from doing anything stupid. 

 ‘You fucking know its not,’ He spat back but the earl was already turning back to the crowd. 

 'My lords and ladies do you not think that it is strange that His Majesty would not be here tonight? On this important night, the Costume Ball, a chance to shed the ordinary layers we don each day for something merrier, to unify us all in the wake of the horrific attack a few months ago. One must wonder what could possibly draw our King’s attention away from this paramount event… Or’ 

Neville paused for a moment, looking out at the crowd.' Should I say who?’   

At once the ball goers caught onto the implication he was making and a rush of whispering filled the ballroom as rapid suspicious and empty conclusions were drawn. 

 ‘Lord Neville, surely you did not come here to create strife for our guests,’ Regina’s tone was loaded, her meaning clear but the earl easily sidestepped it, his face turning apologetic.

‘I do apologise Queen Mother. It was never my intention,’ He gave her an oily smile and a shallow bow. ’Surely you cannot begrudge a man for simply wondering about the calibre of woman that has risen to power in our small nation. Duchess Elizabeth has betwixt’d the hearts and minds of our people so effortlessly during the social season and was once a promising candidate for the Queenship.’ 

However in our time of greatest need, she seems to have vanished. Surely I am not the only one who finds it difficult to readily accept a woman who was so eager to take from our country during prosperity and equally eager to abandon it in times of strife..’ 

 The whispering began again, as many of the nobles latched into the meaning and Drake felt his hackles rise again defensively, the blood roaring in his head. I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him. 

 Without missing a beat, Neville continued, ‘Perhaps it is for the best that Ms Richmond is no longer with us. With her knowledge and experience of governance, I shudder to think how many cues she might have taken from her country’s democratic leaders… Her American temperament may have won her the hearts of our nation, our king and one of her most devoted servants but one might wonder the reason why she chose to remain in Cordonia this long…’ 

A subtle shift of his eyes towards the pair of thrones sitting atop the dais was enough to deliver his meaning and as the crowd grew restless. ‘And the lengths she might have gone to achieve her goals.’ 

 Something in Drake exploded now. 'Don’t you fucking talk about her that way you bastard!’  

'Or what?’ Neville turned, fixing his yellowish snake eyes on him. A biting response was on the tip of Drake’s tongue but Bastien’s fingers dug purposely into his skin. Stubbornly he replied anyway. 

‘Anyone who knows Richmond, knows that she had more passion and heart than any of us here! She loved this country so much and she wasn’t even born here. But I guess when you don’t have a damn heart ‘noble’ breeding and etiquette are all you’ve got to cling to...' 

That got the crowd’s attention as they tittered amoungst themselves as they pondered on the veracity of his words. No matter what lies Neville was weaving, no one could deny the truth about Elizabeth and her devotion to. And as he felt the crowd turn slightly towards his favour,  it brought Drake a small sense of satisfaction to see Neville’s face flush bright red with anger. 

'I have tolerated his insults long enough!’ His voice was shriller when he spoke, fishing inside his ugly blazer for a moment to retrieve a white glove, throwing it down at Drake’s feet. 

‘I demand you meet me in a duel!’    

Drake’s anger glowed white hot but he managed to keep his voice even. ‘I accept.’

-

On the lawn outside the palace, Drake eyed his opponent grimly as Neville executed a few practice strokes against the air, obviously showing off for the crowds who had gathered to watch the match. No matter how he tried to fight it, the sensation of apprehension grew with every slash of the razor sharp blade and he forced himself to tear his eyes back to wear Bastien was finishing up strapping his shoulder. 

‘You should have never agreed to this,’ the bodyguard berated him again, tucking in the end of the bandage. ‘You’re just as stubborn and bullheaded as your father, you know that?’ 

Drake nodded. ‘I do. Any advice?’ 

 The older man paused, sizing up the earl with a calculating look. ‘Lord Neville is skilled but his weakness is his ego. If you’re patient enough, you can goad him into slipping up and making a mistake.’ 

‘Guess I should thank Liam for all those mock duels we had as a kid, huh?’ Drake tried for a smile as he slipped his shirt back on. 

‘More like, guess you should thank me for teaching you two how not to accidentally behead yourselves,’ Bastien scoffed before pausing for a moment. ‘And Drake?’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

His eyes softened a little but his meaning was clear when he spoke. ‘When you’re out there… It always helps to remember your reason for doing this in the first place.’ 

 Drake nodded in return, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. ‘Thanks Bas.’ 

As soon as the head of security stepped away, a concerned Hana and Maxwell immediately surround him, their worried looks darting nervously between him and Neville. 

‘You’re the toughest person I know Drake,’ Maxwell burst out, seeming like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. ‘You’ve got this.' 

Drake couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. 'What? No jokes about how you’ll be filming the entire thing from the sidelines?' 

 Instead of a light-hearted response, Maxwell’s voice had never been more serious. 'Just win and I’ll broadcast your victory on every form of social media I can get my hands on.' 

 He nodded once, feeling doubt flicker back in again. If even the ever-excitable Maxwell was serious about this… 

Next Olivia came into view, sizing him up in one calculated look. ‘Don’t lose Walker. It would be such an embarrassment.’ 

‘Just be careful please,’ Hana put in, fidgeting with nervous energy. 

 Drake nodded grimly and turned to go when she called him back. 

 ‘It might be kinda silly but I think she’d want you to have this.’ 

She tied a scrap of blue fabric around his upper arm and he recognised it to be one of the ribbons Elizabeth had occasionally worn in her many extravagant updos. It felt warm against his arm, through the layers of clothing he was wearing and if he were a more sentimental person, he might even admit it gave him hope.

‘Well, well Walker,’ Neville’s cruel voice spanned across the lawn. ‘Its time.’ 

 An attendant handed him his own short sword and testing its weight and balance Drake walked up to stand before his opponent, the air between them crackling with hostility.   

‘This is the first duel we’ve seen in Cordonia in one hundred years,’ the King Father announced. ‘Both parties have been provided equal weapons and engagement shall continue until one party is well blooded, disabled or surrenders. I trust you gentlemen will be fighting with honour.’ 

Constantine’s hard gaze turned on Drake for a moment. 

‘Let the duel begin!’

Neville immediately lunged at him, swing his sword with more speed and accuracy than Drake would have expected for a weasel. He raised his weapon to block and the shriek of metal scraping on metal filled the air. He had not been ready for the sheer force behind the strike and stumbled back a little. Neville’s face curved into an evil grin as he sent another blow flying towards him and Drake had barely time to duck as the sword cut through the air where he had been standing milliseconds ago. 

 'Would you like to know what I despise most about you and your kind Walker?’ The earl sneered as they began to circle each other, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

'Gotta feeling I’m about to hear it either way,’ he grunted in response, rolling his eyes.   

'What I despise most is that you have no respect for your betters.' Neville flew at him with another sharp jab and this time he blocked the strike, their swords locked in a tight X as they glared at each other, adrenaline spiking through the roof. 

‘Oh I have plenty of respect of for my betters,’ Drake replied venomously with just enough dismissiveness to see fury flitting across Neville’s face. 'Just don’t consider you one of them.' 

 To supplement his point, Drake twisted his sword away and swung it hard. Neville caught the blow on the flat of his blade but the force of his strike pushed him back into the crowd as Drake’s friends roared in support. A few nobles attempted to help the earl to his feet but he shrugged them off angrily, coming to resume his defensive stance before Drake. 

He sized his opponent up, the shorter man already showing signs of strain. He might be smaller but Drake knew not to underestimate him, his technique and experience was far superior. 

His weakness is his ego. 

 'Brute strength…’ Neville drawled angrily as they began to circle each other. 'You’re only proving my point.’ 

'Which is?' 

'They will never accept you!’ The earl cried and lunged towards him, swinging his sword and the pair traded parries, each analysing the other for a weakness. 

Sweat began to drip down Drake's back as the muscles of his injured arm burned under the weight of the sword and he had no choice to adjust his grip a little to alleviate the pain. Sensing his hesitation, Neville took the opportunity, the crowd watched in complete horror as the blade cutting through the air in a deadly arc. 

Drake's vision flashed red as he felt the searing blade of Neville’s word cut mercilessly into his side. He gasped, feeling his grip on the sword falter as hot fire flooded his senses and when he put a hand to his side, it came away covered in crimson. 

'We have to stop, Drake’s hurt!’ He heard Hana scream out from somewhere behind him but the King Father’s voice cut her off.

'Nonsense. You’d be surprised how much blood a man can lose and still emerge victorious.' 

Out of the corner of his eye, Drake saw a flash of silver hurtling towards him and acting on pure instinct, threw himself to the side. He groaned in pain as he tumbled to the ground, his vision beginning to tinge red.

  Get up, his mind screamed. I need to get up. 

'Get up Walker!’ It was Olivia yelling now, echoing his thoughts over the din of the crowd. 'As long as your head is still attached there’s no excuse for lying around.' 

 With a paramount effort, Drake pulled himself to his feet, feeling his strength ebb away as blood dripped down his side. 

‘Back for more commoner?’ Neville taunted, twirling the blade lazily. ‘I see its going to take you a few tries to learn this lesson… But I’m happy to teach it to you as many times as needed.’ 

This time it was Drake who struck first, half sick of the earl’s blabber while the other half hoped he could get in a lucky blow. But Neville was ready with years of practice and technique on his side, easily blocking his parries while Drake’s frustration only grew when he couldn’t land a hit. With a loud cry, he swung his sword again and instead of blocking, Neville smoothly dodged, his hands clamping on his healing arm before yanking down hard. 

Drake let out a grunt of pain as the bullet wound in his shoulder burned in pain, hand still stained with blood moving to clutch his injury before he felt the metal pommel of Neville’s sword smash into his jaw, drawing a collective gasp of surprise from the crowd. In his weakened state, the impact was enough to knock him down onto one knee, his sword skittering over the cobblestones, out of reach. Head bowed, he felt rather than saw Neville coming to stand over him, raising the blade over his head.

'Let this be a lesson to you and that wench you were going to marry,’ his opponent spat but Drake could barely focus on what he was saying, struggling to keep himself conscious. 

'You can try all you want to rise above your station but you commoners will always end up where you belong. In the dirt.’ 

 Around him in the crowd, his friends yelled, screamed at him to get up.  His heart rate sped up, his flight response jacked up so high on adrenaline, every cell screaming at him to move, get out of there but he couldn’t, no matter how hard he willed his legs to move.

 "You can do this!” "Fight back Drake!” "You're stronger than this.” 

But what if he wasn’t? What if he couldn’t? What if Neville was right and he shouldn't have even attempted to be a noble in the first place? 

As Drake teetered on the brink of defeat, the pull of surrender seemed more and more appealing..  It would be so much easier to say the word and take it all away… They never accept him, he’d never be one of them. Neville, that bastard might actually be right about something. Maybe he should just — 

Then he heard Bastien’s voice ring out over the crowd. 

 ‘Remember why you’re doing this Drake!’

The words echoed in his mind with clarity of the clearest bell above the noise, above the din as he caught sight of the ribbon tied around his upper arm, the blue fabric fluttering in the cool night air. 

 He was doing this for… her. 

'Drake get up!’ Hana urged, her voice shrill. 'He doesn’t know a damned thing about you! About Elizabeth!’ 

‘You have to do this for her!’ It was Olivia now. 

‘ Yeah do it for Elizabeth!’ Maxwell echoed just as strongly. 

It didn’t matter if she wasn’t coming back. It didn’t even matter if she didn’t love him anymore. Drake Walker would always love Elizabeth Richmond no matter how far apart they were. He’d made her a promise to guard her and defend her and he’d be damned before he ever broke that promise. 

He raised his head, glaring defiantly at the figure towering over him. ‘What do you have to say for yourself Walker? Let me guess,’ Neville leered. ‘Something about defending the honour of that wench of yours?' 

 'Her name is Elizabeth Richmond,’ Drake answered lowly. ‘And I’ve still got one good arm.’ 

Before Neville’s weasel face could crumple into confusion, Drake knocking the flat of the earl’s short sword out of the way with his injured arm and lunging up, he wound his other arm up, connecting it to Neville’s jaw with a sickening crunch! 

 The impact knocked the weasel off his feet, sending his sword flying through the air. In a feat of pure luck, Drake was able to grip the handle, plucking it out of its trajectory and aiming the razor sharp point squarely at Neville’s throat, pressing just hard enough to extract a single bead of scarlet on the earl’s olive skin. 

Neville gulped, scrambling away from the point, fear written in all across his weasel face. 

‘I-I yield!’ 

At that moment the King Father stepped forward. ‘I declare Drake Walker the victor!’ 

The crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers and applause in all directions as Drake dropped the sword, the metal clattering loudly against the cobblestones and Neville scrambled to his feet, face indignant as he tried to protest. 

‘This is an outrage! Outrage I tell you,’ he screamed, trying to be heard over the din. 

Rolling his eyes, Drake stalked over towards his defeated opponent. ‘If you and your weasel father ever think of spreading lies about Duchess Elizabeth again, I won’t hesitate to find you and kill you myself,’ He declared loudly. ‘And I won’t need a sword for that. Got it?’ 

‘I will never forget this!’ Neville’s face flashed with fury and he threw one last ugly look over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. 

 Drake scarcely had a second to think before he was surrounded by his friends and well wishers. 

‘You did it!’ Hana exclaimed, her small face radiant with joy. ‘You won!’ 

‘Aww man,’ Maxwell burst out. ‘I knew I should have filmed it!’ 

Members of the crowd came forward pressing on every angle, shaking his hands, patting his back and strangely their voices began to seem further and further away. Drake blinked twice, straining to see who was talking to him but the world began to spin fast and he could barely feel his legs giving out underneath him. 

 ‘Give him space!’ Someone shouted. 

 A dark haze creeped up from the edges of his vision. Air seemed to get stuck in his lungs. 

‘He’s still bleeding!’ A man shouted. 

 ‘There’s so much blood, I can’t look!’ A shrill voice pierced his ears. 

 ‘Hang in there Drake, the ambulance is on its way.’ 

Bastien’s face appearing in Drake's rapidly shrinking field of vision for a brief moment, worry etched across his mature features, before even he faded away and everything went black...

-

Tags:  @choicessa  @quartzandarrow @drakewalkerwhipped ,  @meeraaverywalker , @xxrainbowprincessxx , @boneandfur , @lizeboredom , @topsyturvy-dream , @american-duchess , @withice ,  @majesticmintyj , @ninamckenzie22 ,  @drakelover78 , @h3llostrang3r , @cocomaxley , @zarina-x-zig , @nicestrokepam , @bizzyschoices , @enmchoices ,  @kellyale1804  , @mrswalkerreynolds , @kamybelen-blog ,  @hhiggs , @jenjosh5 ,  @bruhvs ,  @natalievgoodehenry ,  @choiceswreckedme ,  @llholloway , @theroyalweisme  , @jamielea81  , @penguininapinktuxedo  , @tmarie82 , @crookedslimecreatorpasta ,  @asprankle  , @drakewanker  , @graceisgone56 ,  @josieschoices ,  @mfackenthal  , @smritysriv , @drakewalkerfantasy, @bobasheebabyficlibrary , @ineedpeetalikehekneadsbread  , @liam-rhys ,  @srawesleyghuewrites , @ekhw1989 @mymandrake , @writtenbycandy , @andy-loves-corgis , @alwaysthebestchoice , @snyggflicka @mrsdrakewalkerblog , @moodygrip , @barbaravalentino , @agent-bossypants , @radpicklebakeryhero  , @innerpostmentality ,  @fairydustandsarcasm  , @speedyoperarascalparty , @debramcg1106 , @gardeningourmet , @blackcatkita , @meladoridarcy @lovelylittlewren @walkerduchess , @caz1003 , @annekebbphotography ,  @lizk77 , @jayjay879 , @tornbetween2loves , 

[get-a-new-lease-on-life]

A New Lease on Life - #59

         WELL. It's been about a donkey's age since I've been able to update this. Normally I'd apologize for the wait…but…well, honestly, I've been beating myself up enough as it is and it's not like it happened out of the blue. Kinda-brief update for anyone wondering:            I've warned about an impending grief hiatus since my uncle Bob's cancer diagnosis, and the hiatus came to pass in December. Uncle Bob finally lost his fight to cancer after two years of treatment and fading. The end came on rather suddenly but after the deathwatch he went peacefully and without pain. His death really messed me up, especially since I was already suffering from depression. Our first Christmas without Bob was also our last Christmas with Granny Chance, his mother and my grandmother…she suffered a massive stroke in January and died soon afterward. In the space of a month, my family and I lost two members, one right after the other. In a word, the whole situation has been FUCKED and it's still not completely over. There are good days, and bad days…and, to quote a certain Del Toro film, "Then there are the really bad days." Between those, we're all slowly working our way through the fallout and healing process.            This chapter is the first I've been able to finish since SEPTEMBER, largely because all of my stories are currently in plot-required angsty-dramatic phases and I CANNOT WRITE SAD SCENES when I'm depressed. It's entirely IMPOSSIBLE, they always come out farcical or they just don't flow. It SUCKS. TBH, I don't know for certain if I'm going to be able to catch up to my previous writing abilities or pace anytime soon but I'm certainly going to try. Also, quick note if you're reading this on Tumblr – they recently enacted a WORDBLOCK LIMIT on text posts of 100 blocks. Yeah. We're now limited to 100 paragraphs including the title. If the chapter's low dialogue and has no notes, that's fine, but if not? Well, we're just screwed because THIS ONE ran 86 ¶s WITHOUT the notes, glossary, and pre-story stuffs. I'm not sure yet how I'll be handling that limit for good, whether that means posting links to sites without the bullshit limits, posting long chapters in pieces, or linking to the separate posts with the notes and glossary, but I'll figure it out in time. For now, I’ll be including the NOTES at the end and you can find the GLOSSARY at FFnet or AO3.  Check out Spotify for a playlist centered on this arc - features suggested listening for this chapter and the next few, and much, much more.         Lastly, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone for their patience and understanding, and give a shout-out to some wonderful people who've made this new chapter possible. This chapter is dedicated to Wolf, Newt, and Ihlni for their invaluable support and kind words – to my hubby Cold for letting me ugly-cry on him without complaint and never failing to remind me that life has to go on – to my ma-in-law for teasing me about earning a nasty hangover instead of acknowledging that I looked like death-on-the-rocks and was obviously crying before I answered the door – to my mother for being a bloody SAINT and to my father for intentionally being an asshole when someone to fight with was just what I needed – to Wanda Farmer on AO3 and vbt22220 on FFnet for their encouragement in reviews, the folks on Tumblr who offered kind words when I needed them most, and to all you wonderful people who've stuck by me, read my stories, and are still reading after all this time. Above all, though, this chapter is dedicated to the memory of Granny Chance and Uncle Bob – may they ever rest in peace.

Suggested Listening: Fuel "Hemorrhage [In My Hands]," Paramore "The Only Exception," Prince "Purple Rain," Survivor "I Never Stopped Loving You" 

 59: A Matter of Honor

The Lair, November 19th - around noon

Donatello wasn't known for being a fool; regardless, he felt rather foolish anytime the obvious failed to register until it was staring him in the face. This was just such a time. He didn't recall sequestering himself in the lab much less falling asleep at his workbench, but the proof was self-evident: a crick in his neck, a strand of insulated wire still stuck to his drool-sticky cheek, and sweat-smeared glasses half off his face. It took a moment of tired lip-smacking and searching to comprehend the facts—ah, right, he pulled an all-nighter to complete the vital signs monitor for Kimber's visit. From what he could see, the device was, indeed, completed. Too tired to consider the absurd picture he must make, he peeled the wire trimming off his cheek and set it aside.

What woke him? He searched his memory, found nothing, then turned to more closely examine his surroundings. A plate of now-cold PopTarts and a cup of coffee (helpfully covered with a cracked saucer) waited a safe distance from his elbow. Right - it was Saturday. This time last year he easily lost track of the days between all-nighters and the sleeping-binges that always followed them. Now he had a weekly reminder in the form of too-sweet coffee and half-burned pastries, courtesy of the confusing woman whose scent still clung to his skin. How blessed he felt in this moment…

The moment ended with a familiar sound—a sleep-slurred phrase he could recognize anywhere but never quite understood. Ya been away too long he got, and he recognized the terms sook, e'en, and nip though he wasn't fully certain of their context.* Beyond that the half-Celt tucked into the cot may as well have been speaking Greek for all he knew. The oft-repeated tease fell short in a particularly nasal snore. Donnie hoisted himself out of his chair with a chorus of protesting joints and slowly rounded the workbench. Silently, he regarded his sleeping woman, soaking in all the silly little details that caught his eyes—the freckles spattered across her skin, the flash of faded ink peeking up over her drooping neckline, the stubborn silver cowlicks sticking up at odd angles from her loosely bound hair—anything to remind himself she was still alive.

He shook his head in weary defeat. A full week after their desperate flight from Willsdale and every time he woke he still half-expected to find Amber cold to the touch, lifeless and painted in blood. Perhaps, he considered as he gathered her in his arms and made his way to their bedroom, this was one scar which would only be healed with time. Perhaps, he considered as he lay her across the neatly tucked quilt and curled up behind her, he could only conquer his fear of Amber's death by focusing on her life. Even as he tugged her flush against his plastron and groin and nuzzled into her neck, he couldn't erase the memory of her: bruised, bloody, and broken, and rapidly fading in his arms. He shuddered and sucked in a steadying breath of her scent.

She wasn't dead, she was alive now…it was enough…right?

Red Fern Florist, Noon

Normally, Red Fern Florist was a calm place – a quiet and classy establishment that just so happened to be run by people who didn't care about being quiet or classy. This, alas, was not a normal day, not even in the slightest.

Abilene Whitaker manned the register, eyes focused somewhere beyond the neon-streaked pages of her textbook and not registering a word. The backroom echoed with near-constant racket—crashes, curses, objects falling or being thrown… Abby sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and dragged herself off of the barstool to investigate. Sure enough, Mercy was stocking the shelves a tad too roughly…if by roughly one meant throwing the bags of supplies around like a spandex-clad steroid junkie at a WWE grudge-match smackdown.

"Alright, that's enough," Abby snapped at her blonde subordinate; Mercy froze, embarrassed grey-blue eyes meeting Abby's over a lean, hunched shoulder. "You've been stomping around and slamming things all afternoon. What on earth could be so horrible you've gotta torture the mulch?" Mercy cringed, fixing guilty eyes on the bag of mulch in her grip. Caught. "Well?" The blonde uttered a sound halfway between a groan and a growl, snorted, then slid the bag onto its shelf with more care than necessary.

"My man's ex is comin' by tonight," she admitted under her breath. "She's stayin' a few days."~

"WHAT?!" Abby squawked in protest. "He's bringing his ex over?! Aw, Hell naw! Girl, you drop that boy before I find him and punch him in the man-fritters!" Man-fritters?** Mercy couldn't help it – she sniggered at the visual – but her laughter faded into regret when she registered the rest of Abby's threat.

"No can do," she sighed, "it's kinda unavoidable." Abby crossed her arms, scrunched her lips into an almost exact replica of Leo's 'pissy leader pout,' and waited for an explanation. Mercy rolled her eyes, spearing her fingers into her hair and yanking. "Kimber…well, she's like me an' Amber," she explained under her breath. "Remember I told ya Amber…uh…went home for a few days? Well, she almost…um…didn't come back. Bitch-nipple's comin' over to see how long any of us can stay home without that happening. She invited herself, we voted, Raph lost, she won." Abby took a moment to let that sink in.

"Your guy tried to vote her off the island?" A grim nod from Mercy. "They broke up before she left, right?"

"…and she left before he an' I met," Mercy added even as she rolled her eyes.~ All the code-talk really got on her nerves but they had to be mindful of the security cameras. Abby leaned against the doorframe, lean shoulders at a sharp slant, and hazel eyes puzzled behind her fuchsia-streaked hair.

"You think she wants him back?" she asked quietly. "He won't…" She sucked in a nervous breath. "What if she tries to win him back?"

"You're kiddin', right?" Mercy scoffed. "He dumped her! He's been angsty as fuck over breakin' her heart, yeah, but I know'im—she could make all the moves she wants, he ain't gonna budge."~ Not to mention Kimber's still dead she added in her own head then shook it. After all, she was dead, too. The whole situation stank like a crappy soap opera. "I trust'im, Abbs," she added under her breath. "Raph chose me, not the Jersey-Devil-wannabe…jealousy's pointless when I already know the end result, an' that end result is he's with me."

Abby watched her a moment, scrutinizing and studying; just as suddenly as she issued the threat against Raph's genitals, she smiled. "You're a strong woman," the neon-haired clerk remarked lightly. "I ever heard one of Cherie's exes asking to stay, I'd bash the twat's teeth in. You need anything, you give me a call, alright?" Mercy nodded, halfway between a cringe and a grateful smile, and went back to the stocking. "So how are things going between you two, anyway?" Abby added taking up her share of the lifting. "You never bring him by, you never tell me much about him…how's he treating you?"

Mercy paused, brow furrowed, and scrambled for an answer that didn't make her sound like an absolute sap. She couldn't find one. "He makes me wanna listen to Faith Hill, watch him sleep, an' punch his ex in the teeth," she grumbled. The heat in her cheeks went nuclear at Abby's excited squeal.

"Oh-em-GEE!" the younger practically shrieked. "You love him!" Mercy shot her a sour glare.

"Woman," she groused, "shut yer ass – the bullshit's leakin' out."

The Lair, shortly after dusk   -   00:00:00  

Two weeks ago, Kimber Bryant faced down Leonardo and demanded the opportunity to make right the trouble she caused his family. Now she stood in the hallway, practically quaking in her mud-stained canvas sneakers, unsure how to proceed. It didn't exactly help that Leo was still glaring at her from behind and her other escort, Donatello, kept fiddling with the tablet strapped to his left forearm.

"Now remember, you've gotta keep the leads from getting tangled," the genius rambled without ever once looking at her. "A little perspiration shouldn't cause any unwanted interference—I insulated the outer casing well to deter any outside condensation or humidity finding its way into the monitor's internal components but there are limits." Kimber rolled her bottle green eyes over at Leo in hope of rescue from Donnie's babbling but received only a glare. "It's not fully water-tight," the genius continued with a shrug and 'meh' expression, still without even glancing her way, "so we'll need to cover it with a water-resistant dressing when it comes to bathing but other than that it—"

"Today, Donnie," Leo grumbled. The younger startled out of his thoughts, fingertips still poised on the holographic chart projected over his tech-tab. He blinked a few times in rapid succession as though refreshing his memory then turned to Kimber in question. From the looks of it, she seemed ready to chew her ankle off to escape the lecture. She really was so very different from Amber…how could they possibly be the same person underneath it all? Could a person's history and past choices really have that big an impact on their personality and attitude?

"Uh…right," he uttered with a wince. "Anyway, it's natural for your core temperature to fluctuate a certain amount over the day but if it drops too low, I'll get an alert. We may not have much time to get you back…so…" he trailed off in hopes she'd pick up the slack.

"Don't get comfy," she finished sourly. "Yeah, I got it. Git lawst."~ He crinkled his nose at her demand but said nothing; instead, he rolled his eyes in defeat and took off toward the lab.

"Remember our agreement," the eldest warned under his breath as he shouldered past her. "You have one chance, and you're to stay—"

"I got it, I got it," Kimber snapped in response. "Go dig t'at stick out'a ya ass before it gets stuck up t'ere."~ Other than a deep-chested growl of warning, Leonardo said nothing—he just stormed past her to some destination she didn't care to know. Rolling her eyes at his attitude, she made her way toward the light at the end of the hallway. The closer she came the more clearly she heard a familiar voice—a voice that still haunted her fondest dreams and worst nightmares.

Familiar laughter led her into the living area where two people were cuddled up on a lumpy sofa. The larger wore a familiar boyish grin that stole the breath right from her lungs. In her grip, the duffle-bag strap slid loose—sweaty palms, she realized. A fluttering, weightless sensation filled her veins—oh, no… 'Gawd dammit…why've I gotta still love'im?'~ She choked around the damned butterflies doing barrel-rolls in her gullet. Steeling her nerves, she shook off her mushy thoughts and turned the corner. 'It don't change nothin'—dead's dead, an' he never chose me anyway. It's better t'is way.'

Raphael…he looked so much the same and yet so different. His eyes shone with laughter where they once burned with distrust; his posture was relaxed where he always kept up a front before. Tucked into his side and 'narrating' the boxing match with absurd faked voice-overs was a tall, lean woman with short messy blonde hair. Kimber's lip ached to curl in a sneer as the blonde loosed a raucous laugh but she fought it back—Raph wasn't hers. If this…this woman in his arms was enough for him…well, she'd respect that. She only ever wanted to see him happy and by God, she'd do so, no matter how much it hurt.

One moment, everything in Mercy's world was perfect. There was a decent match on TV, Raph had 'bullied her' into not-cuddling with him, and for the moment they had no other obligations. As it always seemed to, though, everything fell apart in a single breath…a breath that carried a perfume of vanilla, sugar, and musk. The smell wasn't entirely unpleasant but it was strong enough to make her sinuses burn and her head hurt. Why must so many people marinate themselves in perfume and cologne?

As Mercy and Raphael turned to greet the newcomer in unison the arm around her waist slackened—bright golden hazel eyes widened—full, scarred lips fell slack in dismay. Those lips formed a single word—a name Mercy spent hours cursing that afternoon—but no sound came forth. Torn, she held her silence, eyes darting from Raphael to the stranger and back again almost desperately. She knew this moment would come, she just didn't realize how much she'd want to scream obscenities when it did.

The stranger broke the stare first, bottle-green eyes flustered behind their impeccable smoky eyeliner. She reached up to her modest neckline, grabbed at the pair of worn metal dog-tags at her chest, took a deep breath, then looked up again with a weak smile. "'ey, Raphie," she murmured in a voice still thick with smog. "Long time no see, huh?" The hulking mutant couldn't even get out a single word; he just nodded, his chin and lips unnaturally stiff. Even as he stared down Kimber Bryant he clenched his fingers even tighter to Mercy's waistband. Mercy glanced down at the sight of his three-fingered hand anchoring her in place by a belt-loop. Just that morning, she woke up with that hand tangled in the hem of her nightgown anchoring it at mid-thigh. She had nothing to fear.

She pried Raph's fingers loose, stretched an imaginary crick from her neck, and rolled off the sofa to her feet. "I'll catch up later," Mercy remarked with an entirely faked smile and made her way to the side door. "Compost prob'ly needs a turnin' 'bout now."~ On the way past, she silently took in what details she could, mentally comparing them. The other woman was her height but beyond thin and into skinny. Her hair was coarse—naturally red from the looks of it but with a texture similar to unraveled jute twine. A sharp glance told Mercy the other had practically no ass; no competition there. She rolled her eyes, punched in the security code to pass through, then let the door drift shut behind her.

Before she could get anywhere a pair of large, powerful hands snatched her by the shoulders, spun her about, and pinned her to the tunnel wall. "Why you leavin'?" Raph demanded sharply. His voice was barely below a shout but as so often before, Mercy saw underneath that posturing—she saw the suspicious shimmering in his eyes, the nervous tic in his jaw, the vulnerable hunching of his shoulders, and the lurching of his throat and plastron from frantic heaving breaths. Fear was the one thing he really had no reason to feel in this case but it was written all over him. She cupped his squared jaw, thumb tracing the scar splitting his lip.

"I ain't leavin', ya meathead," she corrected as he covered her hand with his in a frantic grip. "You were friends, right? Ya never got to say goodbye. I've seen how this's been tearin' you apart an' I'm sick of watchin' it."~ Her lips curled in a tease but it was entirely true—she was beyond sick of having another woman in their relationship, even a dead one. "Ya need closure, I get that—I'm backin' off so you can get it. Got it?" Raphael said nothing—he just stared back, visibly searching her words for subtext. When he finally spoke, what he asked made no sense.

"Why?" he demanded in a near-deadpan. Mercy wrinkled her nose but before she could speak, he continued. "Why're ya testin' me like dis? What've I done ta deserve dat?"~

"Testin' you?" Mercy shook her head and scoffed. "I'm not testin' ya, Red," she promised. "I know you and I trust you—you're not about to cheat on me with anyone, much less a dead chick, right?" He shook his head in agreement and his eyes softened; he belatedly released her hand, choosing instead to cup her cheek.

"I wouldn't do dat to ya," he confirmed gruffly. "I'd never…I promised not ta hurt ya an' I meant it…but…" He faltered, flustered and struggling to find the right words. "Dis ain't right…ya ought'a be pissed at me fer even lettin' 'er come here…heck, if dis happened to any other guy, he'd get slapped fer lettin' it happen!"

"You're not any other guy," Mercy reminded shortly, "an' I'm not any other gal. Jealousy won't help anything, it ain't healthy, and you weren't too keen on her comin' over, to begin with. I've got no reason to be mad at'cha, an' especially no reason to hit ya."~ Her eyes drifted back toward the side door, now closed, and she sighed. "I don't like it," she admitted as her hand drifted down to his thick neck, "but I know you need closure an' I trust you enough to not interfere."

Raphael said nothing—what could he possibly say?—instead, he took a step back, eyes wide. This wasn't the first time she professed her trust in him, nor would it be the last, but this utterance seemed the most improbable of all. Wait…no, there was one other moment even more unexpected—a recent moment, the moment he first witnessed Mercy Ross fall apart at the seams, right there in his arms.#

Tousled blonde hair spilled across his pillow like scattered straw. Unpainted lips, swollen from friction, panted around gasping breaths. Work-roughened fingertips clawed at the equally tough skin of his bare scalp and shoulders as he unleashed all his pent-up frustration on her finally bared skin.

   "I trust you," she'd promised only moments before. "When are ya gonna start trustin' yourself?"  

   "Ya shouldn't trust me," he'd blustered, but despite his denials, he caved to her temptation. He knew from the first breath it would take weeks to clear her pheromones from his lungs; he'd never forget the taste of her or her keening cries of completion. When the madness left her eyes and the fire dulled in his blood, Raphael knew he'd never be able to see his Mercy the same, nor would he ever cease to be humbled by her seemingly unshakable faith in him—trust he couldn't recall doing a damn thing to earn.  

That July, Raphael took a chance on happiness in the middle of an open rooftop—a single kiss followed by countless more, all sound-tracked with heavy metal. Ever since then, anytime he fell to the temptation of Mercy's lips, he lost himself completely. He wanted her—he needed her—he craved her—she was the air he breathed, vital to his very survival and responsible for every beat of his heart. Far below the filthy streets, in a dark passage forgotten by the world in general, he stole her lips and breathed her in reverence.

He loved her—loved her beyond the limits of his fears and follies—and that was why she knew he wouldn't let her down.

"So you two, huh?" Raphael ducked his head to avoid Kimber's eyes, hoping she couldn't see the traces of stickiness at his lips or the tenting of his patched trousers. She said nothing, choosing instead to examine the worn red tweed of the sofa arm she perched on.

"What of it?" he retorted slumping onto the seat at the opposite end of the couch.

"Looks like ya found a good one, 'at's all," she shrugged. He studied her silently a moment, searching for signs of deceit. In his heart, he knew this stranger was Kimber—his Kimber, the friend he threw away over his insecurities and fears—but her appearance was largely unfamiliar. Kimber was always on the chunky side of curvaceous but with an undeniable sex appeal. This new body was built like a scarecrow - all long limbs and frizzy hair - but underneath he could see the same sensual confidence Kimber had before she died. That sensuality was all Kimber - Amber lacked it completely, always coming across somewhere between odd and awkward. This woman, though visually unfamiliar, was definitely Kimber. Something in her eyes spoke of mischief…and regret. "Fer Gawd's sake," she swore under her breath and turned an acidic glare on him. He refused to meet it, locking his eyes on one padded and splayed knee. "I know t'a drill—I'm dead, not stoopid."

"Ya were never stupid, Kim, jus' stubborn an' naive," he protested but she waved him off.

"T'en quit lookin' at me like t'at." After a moment of resistance, he finally bit the bullet—he met her eyes. "Yeah, like t'at," the redhead grumbled, "like I'm gonna jump ya if ya take yer eyes off'a me or somethin'. I may be livin' in a homewrecker but t'at don't make me a homewrecker." This time, she was the one to hide her eyes.

A long, tense silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional sound from the Lab or utility room. In this unexpected but overdue moment, despite the drastically different appearance, Raphael saw Kimber as she was when they first met—not the over-confident temptress with the venomous smile and devil-may-care attitude but the lost, lonely, frightened runaway searching for her place in the world. Her new body was thirty-five if it was a year old, but she'd never looked more like a child to him than she did now. The night she turned Lefty and Northpaw over to the police and fell apart, Raph let the wrong head do the thinking and her heart suffered for it. So much heartache came from that one bad call—Kimber's death, too, was a result—how could he ever make it right?

"Rah-fay-el." The quiet – almost reverent – utterance of his name startled him from his brooding. Kimber faced the far wall but her eyes were locked on his askance. "Tell me t'a truth…did ya ever love me?" He blanched; she scoffed and picked at the faded red tweed covering the sofa. "I know we was close," she clarified in a soft tone void of accusation, "friends to be sure, but did ya ever love me like I loved you?"

He didn't answer—he couldn't answer, not around the painful lump in his throat. For so long, he wondered the very same. Loving Kimber, after all, would have made his betrayal a crime of passion rather than a bad move made in paranoid self-defense. Despite all his brooding introspection, though, he always came up with the same answer: he could have loved her, but he didn't…if he'd kept his head, maybe, someday, he could have loved her, but he didn't. "Exactly." Kimber's near-whisper broke his train of thought. "I knew ya didn't love me," she admitted even as her shoulders drew tight and her painted lips stretched in a sort of sneer. "I always knew it, I just t'ought…eh, no matter. I'm not gonna fuck up yer life again."

"I think ya got dat backwards," Raph pointed out dryly. "I fucked up yer life—I'm why yer…" He faltered, his throat clenching around the word as though to prevent him from voicing it. "Ya know," he settled for with a weak half-shrug, "like dis." Kimber watched him silently, eyes sharp enough to cut away his protective façade.

"Say it," she challenged. He flinched; she slid off the armrest and stalked over to face him, arms crossed in defiance. "Say it, Raph," she ordered, "ya know what I am—ya know t'a word, so use it. I'm…" She trailed off, one eyebrow cocked in expectance.

Raphael cringed. Of all the times he wished it was possible to completely withdraw into his shell, this was one of the worst so far. Weary hazel eyes drifted from Kimber's dirty canvas sneakers up her faded jeans and cotton blouse, up to her unimpressed eyes. "Yer…dead," he whispered as if confessing some great sin.

"Exactly," Kimber harrumphed and jabbed him between the eyes with one clear-lacquered fingernail. "Dead folks an' live folks jus' don't mix, ya muck-brained mawron.~ It wouldn't work an' I ain't about to waste my time tryin' ta make it work. Capiche?" He nodded, glaring up at her retreating back.

"Den why'd ya come back?" he asked, letting his hand fall back to his knee. "Dere had to be anutha way to test Don's theory, so why'd ya volunteer?"~ Kimber stilled in her pacing, carefully arranging her words before they could all spill out without concern for her feelings.

"I never got ta say goodbye," she admitted in a near-whisper, "not ta you, not ta Daron or Lefty, not ta anyone who mattered…but I've neva been t'at big on goodbyes anyhow, ya know?" Her voice cracked on the last words and she took a moment to compose herself. When she spoke again, she turned to the side as though watching him over her shoulder but her eyes remained hidden. "I made a lotta mistakes, Red—a lotta stoopid decisions t'at hurt a lotta people—an' much as I wanted to just stay dead, I lived ta regret every one'a t'ose decisions. T'at's why I came back…t'a fix t'a shit I broke an' atone for my sins. If t'at means stayin' here fer t'ree days while you an' Blondie play suck-face, so be it."

"Ya know you're puttin' yer life at risk, right?" Raph reminded, ignoring the suck-face comment. "Donnie ain't sure about da timing on dis thing, ya know. He an' the braided nutcase passed five days in her world but they weren't gone a whole three days, here. Who's to say ya'll have a full three days here? Who's ta say ya won't drop dead in an hour, or three hours, or even a minute from now?" He shuddered at the thought, his mind helpfully supplying several months' worth of nightmares to choose from, most of which ended with Kimber dying in his arms. "Ya froze, Kim, an' dat ain't an easy way to go; are ya really willing to risk goin' through it all over again?"

"It's my choice," she reminded with a stern expression reminiscent of an unimpressed schoolmarm. "No one asked me ta make t'at choice. Besides, see t'is?" She tugged her neckline aside to show him the small plastic device hung from her neck and the line of wire trailing down to her armpit. "T'is lil' t'ing's monitoring my core temp—we've got t'is covered. Trust me?"

Raph considered the plea a moment—for it was, indeed, a plea in every sense of the word—then gave a slow, reluctant nod. "I don't like it," he admitted in a throaty rumble, "but it ain't my job ta like it." There was much more to say, but for the moment, he hadn't words.

"Nope," Kimber agreed with a sly grin. "It's yer job ta help me give Daron a heart attack. What say we give'im a visit from t'a Livin' Dead Girl?" It was just a tease—just another excuse to ignore the elephant in the room—but for the moment, Kimber didn't care. She had more important tasks to focus on—messes to clean up, mistakes to correct, sins to atone for, and honor to regain. For now, the rest could wait.

  The Lair   -   00:35:00 and counting

Time stops for no man, people often said, and the same could be said for women. Never mind that Amber's cantankerous counterpart was staying in the Lair for the weekend…lurking around every corner…stinking up the place with her perfume…just waiting for a chance to bitch-slap Amber back into her place at the bottom of the food chain…

Amber shuddered at the thought and firmly shoved it into the back of her mind. Kimber Bryant made Amber all kinds of nervous but her presence didn't excuse Amber from her chores. There was too much to do—laundry to put away, studying to do, dinner to prepare— Something soft and furry brushed against her calf, startling her from her thoughts. "Right," she muttered as Kirk bypassed the laundry basket at her feet and hopped up onto Donnie's bed. "Gotta clean the litterboxes an' feed Kirkland too." After a mrrruhl of warning and a superfluous butt-wiggle said feline launched himself right into a pile of folded undergarments and began viciously mauling a sock big enough to double as an oven mitt. As he lay on his side, wrapped around the sock and kicking like a homicidal kangaroo, Amber sighed and shook her head in whimsical defeat. After how much she'd missed him she couldn't really be upset with the little murder-machine; cats, after all, would be cats, and socks could be darned.

"It's inevitable, Kirk," she teased as she hung a pair of patched canvas trousers in the frame-and-fabric 'closet.' "You're just gonna have to get used to sharing me with Donnie. I know I'm Mom but he's mine - you can't resent him forever." With an adorable cotton-muffled urrrr, Kirk glared at her over a mouthful of beige knit as if to say watch me. Ah, the jealousy of spoiled cats.

"Honestly, I'm lucky to have Donnie," she added to herself, doubts and worries filling her thoughts between wire hangers. Back before the dream connection was confirmed—before Donatello confronted her with his old Tonfa and confessed the name of her dead classmate—Amber could fool herself he wasn't the same Donnie she grew up with. She could tell herself that he didn't know all her dirty little secrets. He didn't watch her fall apart over the last few years of her life, partly from illness and her and partly from depression and apathy. He never heard how her poor choices in college may have led to the death of a classmate. He never knew she routinely slaked her carnal needs in impersonal encounters so her time with him in dreams could be focused on more important things than her hormones. If this Donnie wasn't her Donnie, then the mistakes of her past were only a secret to keep.

The problem was…now she knew this was her Donnie…and by the sounds of it, he remembered everything. Amber paused, fondling a strip of worn purple fabric. Even after countless washings, every one of those masks smelled strongly of his oddly comforting blend of coffee, machinery, musky exertion, and spice. "How can he even look at me, Kirk?" Amber murmured into the sweet-smelling fabric. "I screwed up with him so many times…I gave up on him, I – I gave myself up to other guys…how doesn't he hate me by now?"

This last question seemed the most perplexing. Sure, the purpose of those impersonal booty-calls was to shut up her hormones so her scant time with Donnie could be put to better use, but she always regretted them afterward. Regret, though, didn't count if a person intentionally committed the same crime over and over again, and she was guilty—guilty of closing her eyes, mentally replacing the other men with Donnie, and crying herself to sleep after they left. Regret was a weak word, really; what she felt wasn't weak. After all the time she spent hating herself for the infidelity, the idea that Donnie didn't hate her for it made no sense.

The dead silence tore her from her ruminations; odd, considering Kirk had a habit of 'answering' her every time she spoke.## After a quick glance at the bed, it was all she could do to keep from laughing. The little furball was out cold, wrapped around her favorite bra and snoring into one generous cup. The battered sock sprawled on the floor half under the bed—the enemy was vanquished. Chuckling at the absurdity, Amber crouched to retrieve the sock but paused when she noticed something wedged between the mattress and box spring. A warped silver wire binding, traces of green beyond the rings…surely she was mistaken, but it wouldn't hurt to check…right?

Amber tugged the notebook loose and promptly cringed in recognition. It was her journal, the one she hadn't written in for months then misplaced. Why was it jammed under the mattress like a nudie magazine? Curiosity drove her to investigate and she quickly discovered the litany of notes scribbled upside-down in the back. She quickly lost herself in the writing—questions and memories, hopes and fears Donatello couldn't bring himself to share with her, all centered around their years apart. Though she didn't dig too deeply, there wasn't a single word of blame or judgment anywhere—nothing that indicated resentment or disgust. Amber almost missed the sheet of loose-leaf that slipped out and fluttered to the floor—almost. The pencil-scribbled contents might have made her stumble if she hadn't already seated herself before. "I met my lover in a dream," she whispered in recognition.^ "That poem…I thought I lost it...I guess Donnie found it?" Soon enough, she hit the final lines:

Mibbe someday he will see –     Someday the truth I'll tell. For now, I've only memories,     And dreams I shot tae Hell.

Or, rather, those should have been the final lines—they were the last she wrote. Someone, however, clearly thought the poem wasn't finished and added their own verse…in pen…neatly printed by a familiar hand straddling the border between calculating and persnickety. "No way," Amber muttered thickly as she scanned the added verse, wide-eyed and breathless. "Naw fookin' way!"~ No matter how she protested, the words remained clear, impossible yet obvious. Still marveling at their presence—and at the subtext—she never heard the soft ticking of a distant clock, or the even softer inhale accompanying.

Dreams can sometimes fall apart,     And memories can fade. The truth you shared can't change my heart…     Your lover-friend I've stayed…

I'll see you in our dreams.  

There was no stopping it, no holding back: Amber crushed the paper to her pounding heart in elation. He remembered. He understood. He loved. Perhaps, even…he forgave?

Sometimes emotions are too powerful for words; fortunately for Amber, squealing unintelligibly required none.

UP NEXT: (Currently in-progress)

Chapter List

- The vital signs monitor – At first I wasn't quite sure if such a device was on the public market, at least aside from 'smart' devices like FitBit and such, so I did what I do best: I researched the fuck out of it for funzies. Turns out there are more varieties out there than I expected, each monitoring different signs in different fashions and to different accuracy levels. Since Donnie's never been the sort to simply COPY others' ideas, we can safely assume he's combined the best of several devices. The result is a small electronic monitor [about the size of a 9-volt battery] hung from the neck by a lanyard, which measures core body temp by way of leads attached to an adhesive-backed electrode stuck in the armpit. We can also assume fitting the device on Kimber was incredibly awkward because she intentionally MADE IT awkward.

* Full statement including what Amber's snoring cut off: "Ya be'n 'way too long 'gain, ya sook—nae be'n by fer a nip'er a bosie. Wha's a lass ta think?" – This little bit of Scotchness is a routine in-dream tease from Amber. You've been gone [from our dreams] too long again, you old softy—you haven't even come by for a kiss or cuddle. What's a woman to think?

** Man-Fritters – Alas, I cannot claim authorship of this little snigger-inducing euphemism. That honor belongs to author Mimi Jean Pampfiloff in her Accidentally Yours series. While the first two books were pretty recipe [if you know what I mean] they were HILARIOUS recipes. I'm not ashamed to admit that the scene in the first one where the heroine belts out 80's pop hits to keep sane made me laugh so hard I spewed my tea, CHOKED ON IT, then spent the rest of the day CROAKING. It was WORTH IT. (That said, the author also used a lovely little nonsense-word coined by my IRL friend Autumn back when we were in high school but didn't notate it. I'd encourage Autumn to stop starting word trends without first seeking a copyright but that'd mean I'd have to pay her every time I stole her stuff, heh.)

Also: Abby has no accent. She's intentionally warping the Oh, Hell no! in hopes of showing Mercy just how upset the news makes her.

# Implied smut – The encounter referenced here didn't make it to in-story occurrence BUT it took place during the Absolutes arc, which took up too much time-and-space for the intended back-and-forth between worlds. It's written up and included in the "Gallery of Memories" as The Blonde and the Beefcake and it can be found HERE.) It's almost entirely lemon, BTW. ;P

## Kirk tends to 'answer' Amber every time she talks to him – I am SO not basing this on our cat Heiferlump. Nope, not at all! …fine. Yes. Heifer responds to EVERYTHING she hears, no matter who says it, and it's rare to find someone she can't bait into answering back. She's particularly adept at getting my father to argue with her and routinely tries to argue with the microwave beeper. O_o It's awesome.

^ The Poem, "Dream Lovers" – I've not posted the entirety of the poem in any chapters or even the GoM installment of the same name. NOW, however, you can find the entire poem in comic format HERE, on this story's Here on Tumblr, OR on DeviantArt. The comic includes Donnie's additions and a small blurb of backstory leading to this scene, and the Tumblr/AO3 posts include a glossary for the many odd words used in the poem. For convenience's sake, I've included the translation of the included verse below.

Again, since Tumblr’s decided to be an ass about wordblock limits, see FFnet or AO3 for the glossary if anything throws you off.

[xraex]

Great Minds Think Alike: 008 (Part 1)

“Someone lock it!” Donghyuck screamed panickedly as he held the door shut before Jaemin hurriedly followed his word.

Mark hugged his boyfriend, calming him down while Jeno and Jaemin did the same to Renjun.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head against the wall of the safe room as the lights flickered. Go away, go away, go away.

They were a little more than halfway through the maze when they had to run and hide for the second time.

“Why can’t he just wait outside to kill us?” Mark asked after a few minutes had gone by, making everyone look at him weirdly. “I mean, not that I’m complaining but….”

Renjun wriggled himself out of his boyfriends’ grasp. “It must be some kind of twisted game like Five Nights at Freddy’s or something. He spawns somewhere different every time.”

“I hate this so much,” Donghyuck groaned. “Why the fuck is it us out of all people?”

Jaemin shook his head. “We have to get to the bottom of this once— if we get out of here.”

Jisung finally stopped self-isolating and went towards the others. “I was gonna say that we could ask that Chenle kid, but then I realized that we might die if we do.”

“This whole thing is supposed to be kept a secret, isn’t it?” Jeno reminded darkly.

“Whatever, we’re almost there, so that’s good,” said Mark, trying to be positive. “We just have to stick together.”

“Yeah,” Jisung agreed. “Is it safe to go out yet?”

Renjun nodded. “He’s busy trying to figure out where he is.”

“How do you know when he’s there anyways?” The youngest asked with the tilt of his head.

“I get a weird feeling on the back of my neck when he’s close, and I’ve been having visions of what he’s doing ever since I read the note.”

“Nice,” Jisung sighed. What’s next? Dreaming about people you’ve never seen before without them knowing— oh, wait.

Mark glanced at the map before leading the boys to the door they planned on going through.

Donghyuck grabbed the door knob before letting go with a shriek as it started to jiggle on its own.

Heart beating twice as fast, he locked the door again quickly while holding his chest before turning to his best friend angrily. “I thought you said it was safe to go out!”

Donghyuck’s angry facade dropped to a guilty and worried one when he saw that Renjun was in no shape to argue.

The Chinese was holding his head in his hands, slightly shaking in pain while both Jeno and Jaemin tried to comfort him by rubbing his shoulders.

“T-That’s not him,” Renjun stated shakily, bringing his hands down and revealing his tear-streaked face. “W-We still need to redirect either way. I guess giving me pain is some kind of warning.”

“WHAT WAS THAT THEN?” Donghyuck screeched while Mark dragged them back to the middle of the room.

“I don’t know!” Renjun retaliated as Jisung took the map from Mark’s hands and started redrawing the path. “Lucas didn’t say anything about that. It could be something invisible for all we know.”

“Sounds plausible,” said Jeno, referring to three specific people from the night before.

“They were actually really nice, though,” Jaemin muttered almost as though he read his boyfriend’s mind. “After they, you know, almost scared us to death.”

“Okay, I found another route we can take,” Jisung interrupted, surprising his friends at how fast he was.

Renjun looked to where Jisung was pointing before looking up at him with wide eyes. “Are you kidding? He’s literally in the hallway on the opposite side of it.”

“He moved that fast?” The youngest then shook his head and waved the map at the smaller. “We still need to pass him in order to go in the right direction. There’s no other way.”

“Well,” Jaemin gulped as Mark grudgingly led them to the new door they were going to go through. “Let’s just hope we’re quiet enough.”

Mark unlocked and opened the door slowly, still checking the corridor even though they knew the killer was on the other side.

He motioned for the others to follow him outside, not a single word spoken between them as you could cut the tension in the air with a knife.

Jisung silently walked in front and led them all to the end of the hallway where they reached another split in directions.

They took a right turn and passed another door which led to the same room they had just exited.

Renjun grimaced and held the back of his neck firmly as Donghyuck stopped them once they reached the end of the hallway.

The murderer was pulling at one of the door handles just around the corner.

He’s right there, Donghyuck mouthed to his friends after peaking his head out to look, gesturing towards the small and petite man wearing a black, blood-stained facemask.

“What do we do now?” Jaemin whispered, him and Jeno rubbing Renjun’s shoulders.

Jisung glanced behind him into the empty hallway with paranoia as he felt like someone was watching him. “Should we make a run for it?”

“Are you sure there’s not another route we could take?” Donghyuck complained quietly as he looked at the map the youngest was holding.

Jisung nodded coldly, causing an unwanted shiver to run up their spines.

“Hmm.” Renjun tapped his chin as he looked at the map as well. “Obviously, we can’t run past him, so we’ll have to distract him and go around the whole place until we get back here again.”

“Good thinking,” Mark complemented. “So how are we going to distra—”

“AH, SPIDER!” Jisung shrieked as it had fallen from the ceiling and landed on his arm.

“Shit, RUN!” Donghyuck ordered as Jisung shook the arachnid off of him, the others quickly following behind him.

Jisung gripped the map tightly while running, only catching a glimpse of the murderer bounding behind them. “Do you have any idea where we’re going? I’m the one with the map here!”

“Of course I do!” Donghyuck yelled back after running through a couple more corridors. “GO LEFT!”

“HOW DO YOU REMEMBER THIS SHIT BUT NOT ANYTHING WE LEARNED IN HISTORY?” Jaemin screamed as they turned into the next hallway, already losing energy.

“I DON’T NEED TO KNOW WHAT HITLER’S GRANDMOTHER’S SECOND DOG WAS CALLED TO SURVIVE A LIFE THREATENING SITUATION!”

"GUYS, I DON'T THINK RENJUN’S OKAY!" Jeno found himself pushing his pale boyfriend forward after they ran through a couple hallways past the room they were in before.

Donghyuck glanced back at his best friend worriedly before leading them into another corridor. “THERE’S ANOTHER SAFE ROOM OVER HERE SOMEWHERE.”

No one said anything as they continued running, everyone short on breath.

They were only inches from the door when Jaemin and Donghyuck felt themselves getting dragged by their jumpsuit and pushed into a different corridor.

“What the—” they started before realizing that it was none other than Jisung.

The youngest had done that to throw the person chasing them off, making it look like they had split while the others entered the safe room.

The three of them quickly entered the room from their side of the hallway before locking the door behind them.

The lights flickered as Donghyuck and Jaemin ran over to Jeno who was holding a weak Renjun in his arms, the Chinese’s face contorted in pain.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jaemin asked his boyfriend softly, moving the smaller’s sweaty hair out of his face.

“H-He was trying to slow me down,” Renjun sighed shakily as Donghyuck rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. “I’m fine now, though. He spawned somewhere different again.”

“We should probably get going before he finds us,” said Jisung as he watched Jeno and Jaemin kiss the top of their smaller boyfriend’s head.

Mark nodded, still exhausted from running earlier. “We only have a few more corridors to get through. We can do this.”

Next Chapter

Chapter Index

[simonssnow]

carry on countdown day 8 - Hogwarts au

This is part one. Part two will be continued on crossover day. And yes teddy Lupin is in this because I love that little hufflepunk. @alltoowheeler  @carryon-countdown

SIMON We’re on the outskirts of the forbidden forest,waiting for Hagrid to come with whatever creature he’s teaching us about today. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws have Care of Magical Creatures on Wednesdays, and everyone’s getting loud and bored with just waiting. I’m with Penny, leaning against a rock watching Baz and Teddy talking about who knows what.

We’re all in Hufflepuff together, except Penny, she’s Ravenclaw, and me and Baz are arch-enemies. Teddy’s always in the middle of us, trying to stop us from fighting each other, he’s like the peacekeeper. In first year it was him and Penny but she kinda gave up after she saw how hopeless we were, and it’s also easier for Ted ‘cause we’re in the same house. Me and Teddy are pretty decent friends, but him and Baz are best friends. It’s weird though, because they’re so different but they also have so much in common, and it’s always like they’re whispering secrets.

Hagrid comes out of the first now, and I whip my head around to start listening, COMC is my favourite subject, I find it easier because not too much magic is actually involved. And I also just love animals.

But we can’t see any creature with Hagrid. He’s just holding a rope that’s suspended in air. It looks like he’s guiding something - but there’s nothing there. Everyone looks confused. Except Baz. It’s like he’s mesmerised by the air.

'Alrigh, now can anyone tell me what creature this is?’ Hagrid starts. Everyone just stares ant him blankly. 'Can anyone see the creature?’ He says 'I bloody hope not,’ he mumbles under his breath. But then he looks up and looks right past me.

He looks at Baz, who has his hand stretched up high. So he can see something. He looks around at the class and when he sees that no one else has raised their hand he quickly pulls it down.

'Ah yes, Mr Pitch, I forget 'bout you’ Hagrid says solemnly, 'well this 'ere is a Thestral. It’s a creature yeh can only see if you’ve witnessed death.’

Everyone turns their heads to look at Baz, who has a look of understanding, anger and sadness on his face. Everyone understands now.

BAZ Of. Fucking. Course. Today of all days we’re learning about the death animal! I don’t know what I’m feeling right now except I know I’m pretty upset and annoyed at the same time. Everyone is looking at me and I can see from the corner of my eye that Teddy motions to Hagrid to continue the lesson. Good lad.

We’ve been best friends since the beginning, heaps of people, especially Snow, don’t know why we’re friends. We’re completely different. But what they don’t know is that we both have huge ass secrets. I’m part vampire and he’s part werewolf. He gets it from his father and only his family knows, but I’m different, I was bitten. Which is also why my mother is dead and why I’m the only one who can the damn skeleton horse.

Hagrid continues the rest of the lesson and tell the class to open their books so they can look at the illustration of the Thestral. As soon as the lesson ends I basically run back to the castle.

TEDDY 'Aye Teddy! Is Mr Pitch 'kay?’ Hagrid approaches me as he says this, he has a guilty look on his face.

'Uh, yeah he’s ok Hagrid, it’s just that it’s the anniversary of his mums death, so you know..’ I lead on.

'Ah it is isn’t it? I feel real guilty 'bout this now, can’t believe it’s been twelve years’ he says with a sigh.

'It’s okay, don’t feel bad’ I say and he just mumbles and wonders off to tend the Thestral.

'It’s been twelve years?’ I here someone say behind me. I turn around to see that Simon and Penelope have been listening.

'Yeah,’ I say as I move towards them.

'She was a legend, such a same she died, especially the way she did,’ Penelope says. At this point Simon starts walking towards the castle.

'Uhh Penny, I’ll be back later. I just gotta uhm, get some books.’ He says distractedly. Penny doesn’t even respond, she just sighs and turns around to look at me.

'You realise that our best friends are in love with each other right?’ She says bluntly to me.

I give her a slight chuckle 'Yeah I know, who doesn’t really?’

'Well we need a plan to set them up’ she says like its the mosh obvious thing.’

'Oh believe me, I’m one step a head of you,’ as the words come out of my mouth I change my hair colour to a pinky-red. I love playing Cupid.

SIMON I’m in the common room now, (I love our common room, it’s so cosy. And it’s next to the kitchens) and I’m about to enter our room, but at the door I hesitate. Maybe I should just leave him be, but every fibre in my body disagrees, so I open the door.

Baz turns around and then whips his head around just as quickly. Was he crying?

'Snow,’ he’s gritting his teeth as he says this, 'get out.’

'I’m just getting my books,’ I say turning towards my trunk. Baz is about to open the door and leave, but I catch him by the wrist.

He turns around and it looks like he’s about to tell me to piss off, but then he doesn’t when he sees the concerned look on my face. His face  is streaked with tears, and the whites of his eyes aren’t white, they’re red.

'I’m sorry about your mum,’ he doesn’t say anything just stares at me, breathing heavily, 'no one should have to watch their mother die. No one should have to watch anyone die.’

'You don’t think I know that?’ His voice cracking, and more tears run down his face, 'you don’t think I know she shouldn’t have died? She died for me you know? Trying to save me,’ the words almost don’t come out of his mouth right, because he’s crying so much. I want him to stop. To stop think these things, to stop blaming himself.

I don’t know when it happened but our faces are almost touching, if I wanted to I could kiss him. Do I want to kiss him? I want to kiss him? I want to kiss him. 

I’m about to kiss him and I think he’s about to kiss me. We’re millimetres apart when he jumps back away from me. Teddy walks in through the door and he has a grin creeping up on his face.

'Hey uh, Baz you ready to go now?’ He says, the grin fading when he sees the tears on his friends face.

'I’m going alone,’ Baz says as if it was aimed at both of us. I go back to my trunk and pretend to look for something, I’m blushing like crazy. Did that just happen? Why did I want that to happen?

[warriorqueen1991]

Memoria (pt. Two)

Characters: Sam X Claire

Warnings: some serious angst and just a tid bit of fluff

**I just wanna apologize for the error in part one, Sam’s injury is actually located on his right leg not his left sorry for the confusion.**

—————————————

“How are you feeling today Sam?”,

Claire watched as the man in question continued to stare at the white card table set up between them. The question itself was a mere formality, There was no doubt in Claire’s mind how he felt. Sam was angry. His brows pulled together, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, the sleeves of his black wool sweater pulled over his large hands. He felt vulnerable, he was guarding himself that much was clear. “It says here in the staffs nightly report that you didn’t get much sleep last night” Claire scanned over the papers in the manila folder leafing through at a leisurely pace.

Sam decided to give up his staring contest with the table to slide his chair away from it so that his hard gaze was now aimed at the neighboring wall. Claire was disappointed that he chose to remain silent. Grimacing slightly she nodded at his unspoken answer writing down something in her note book as Sam finally spared her a quick glance. His eyes were tired and frustrated as she met his hazel orbs with a sympathetic smile. “Hmmm” was the only sound Sam made as his eyes returned to the wall. Claire was dressed in a deep maroon pants suit that clung to her curves, her long legs complimented by ink black heels her hair hanging down in a slight wave below her ears. Sam snuck another glance her way as she flipped through what he guessed was the nightly report she had spoken of.

She nodded a couple times to herself before lifting her eyes once more to his, a soft smile lifting her glossed lips as he jerked his gaze away. He heard her let loose an almost tired huff, “Sam, please don’t do this…you agreed to talk to me” she flipped the folder closed with a snap placing her manicured hands on top fiddling with the large paperclip attached to its corner. “look if you don’t want to talk about the nightmares then don’t…but please don’t shut me out, I can’t help you that way”. When she didn’t get a response Claire was struck by an idea clapping her hands together causing the sound to echo around the room. Sam’s body jolted in surprise his lips pulling into a grimace as he eyed her angrily, well at least now she had his attention.

Keeping her hands together Claire smiled brightly “ok how about we do something fun?” Sam continued to eye her in annoyance as she suddenly grabbed a large white box he hadn’t noticed before by her feet pulling it up onto the table. Sam watched closely as she flipped the lid off the box and began rummaging through it before letting loose a triumphant “ah ha ” slapping a small stack of laminated cards next to her notepad “here we go” Claire giggled at Sam’s displeased expression.

“What’s your favorite color Sam?” she giggled slightly continuing to stare at him, Sam glared at her before letting out a scoff “I don’t have a fucking favorite color doc”. Claire raised an eyebrow at him with a mischievous smirk as she spread the cards out in between them “I want you to look over these cards and when you see a color that makes you happy I want you to point it out”. Sam continued to glare at her before she let out a heavy sigh “Sam humor me, please” “this is fucking stupid” he growled turning his body back toward the table before dropping his eyes to the cards.

The cards were simple enough, each an off white signaling their use with large circles of different colors in each center. Sam exhaled through his nose as his eyes darted from one card to the other. Claire watched him closely looking for the slightest change in demeanor. The room was silent except for the ‘tick tick’ of the nearby clock. It seemed like hours before she saw it, the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. Claire couldn’t hold in her gasp “there!!” once again causing Sam to jump in surprise any hint of a smile disappeared quickly, replaced with a mixture of annoyance and maybe some fear. Claire smiled wide “what color were you looking at?” “uh…i..when?” he stumbled over his words clearly confused by her excitement his brow still tense and his mouth now opening and closing not realizing there was anything to be excited about.

Claire smiled gently reaching her right hand out with her palm open, Sam eyed her fair skin then her face in curiosity. “It’s there if you need it Sam” He gave a slight nod but didn’t accept the gesture. Claire gave a soft smile before pulling her hand away “which card made you smile Sam?” He made an uncomfortable noise in response before clearing his throat “none of em” he growled. Claire let out a short frustrated sound “that’s not true Sam” she snapped. His eyes darted to the table then to the floor, Claire felt a pang of guilt realizing how unjustly short she was becoming with him, “I…I’m….look Sam i’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you” she sighed rubbing her temple before gesturing toward him “when you were looking over the cards you almost smiled, it wasn’t a full one but it’s enough to get excited about”. Sam looked at the cards his fingers lightly touching the edges of a few, his lips pulled in a tight line shaking his head before he looked up at her.

“I’m not sure” Claire nodded with a slight frown “ok, well…. here…” startling Sam once again she gathered up her chair positioning it next to him their shoulders touching gently as she pressed in to gather up the cards. Sam coughed roughly, his mouth a gap once more as she moved back to her seat. He internally scolded himself for his increased breathing at her close proximity. Sam watched her shuffle the cards in her lap scooting away from the table gesturing him to do the same so that they were once again facing one another. Claire smiled up at Sam noticing him slowly rubbing his right shoulder where they touched. His far off stare making her feel the need to apologize “crap, god Sam I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to make u uncomfortable or anything…” Sam shook his head smiling briefly “it’s fine Ma'am”. Claire watched him, a smile spreading across her face “there it is!” Sam met her gaze tilting his head in confusion at her words. She leaned forward slightly “the smile I was looking for” her voice soft, her smile widening as he looked to the floor in attempt to hide his own, his face turning a slight shade of pink barely visible amongst his tan skin. Choosing to not pry to far into his emotions Claire smiled biting her bottom lip before holding up the stack of cards. He had a beautiful smile. “I’m gonna hold up each card and when I see a reaction I’m gonna place it on the table, ok?” Sam took a deep breath nodding in compliance as she began holding up each card. Silently he watched each card presented to him, a heavy weight pressing in on his chest. He didn’t want to smile. It had been a selfish mistake when he had let it slip earlier. Claire was a beautiful woman.

She was smart, vibrant and kind. Sam was none of those things. He was damaged and even the best psychiatrists in the state weren’t able to pull him from the depths of his self pity. What’s worse was the fact he didn’t know why he felt guilty, just that the feeling felt right. He would be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to see how much she cared, but in the end he didn’t fucking deserve it. In his heart Sam knew he was a horrible person, he could feel it like a sickness. It’s like his soul had been poisoned. Well, that is if he even believed in that sort of thing. He didn’t deserve to be happy. He didn’t deserve her pity, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve to smile.

Claire had been observing Sam’s retreat into himself as she flashed the cards. He checked out right around green, his eyes glazing over. Gently she sat the cards in her lap. “Sam?” Claire made sure to speak softly, the last thing she wanted was to startle him into a panic attack. Her heart began to race when he didn’t answer, looking around the room she got to her feet setting the cards on the seat of her chair before walking over to him kneeling by his side taking it slow as he began to breathe heavily.

Claire eyed his rigid form cautiously as several emotions played over his handsome face before she did the only thing that made since. Reaching over to place her hand on his wool covered arm she gasped in shock and pain as he quickly locked her hand with his in a vice grip. His eyes wide and distant, his chest heaving as he sunk further in the chair. “Sam!…Sam! Come on snap out of it” Claire was running her hand over the one he had a death grip on she was getting worried. Claire had read about his episodes but this was the first one she had witnessed first hand. Ignoring the growing pain in her hand she quickly brought her left hand up to his cheek running it across his silver facial hair pulling his forehead to hers. “Sam you can make it back, just listen to my voice ok, focus”.

“You!!…you hunted us like animals you piece of shit” the voice screamed at him the sky rolling above him a deep red. Sam lay on the burning sand his right leg on fire as blood oozed through his cargo pants pooling beneath him. His chest heaving against his sweat soaked shirt as he reached up toward the silhouette hovering above him, lighting broke the sky with a loud crash “Let the dessert have you!” the shadow growled at him as drops of rain fell from the sky soaking his overheated body. Sam roared in pain arching his back off the ground as the wound on his leg seemed to get worse the skin tearing away from his exposed bone. “LET THE DESSERT KILL YOU!!!” another streak of lightning illuminating the golden sand as Sam dropped back to the hot ground sending dust dancing up around his writhing body. All he could see was red as he lifted his hands above his face the rain turning a deep red drenching him in dark blood. “Sam!!” a loud clear voice echoed in his head causing him to cry out.

Sam screamed in pain as he shoved himself away from Claire falling to the floor with a painful thud. His whole body was trembling, panting as he scrambled to the nearest corner beside his bed, pulling his legs to his chest. He was sure his heart was going to tear right out of his body at any moment. His lungs were on fire as he gasped for air slamming his head against the wall. “Sam! Calm down, it’s ok, breathe” Claire had made her way to the foot of his bed, she wanted to help but she didn’t want to make matters worse by invading his space. “Sam, look at me please” Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at her, they were getting worse, his nightmares weren’t nightmares anymore, he couldn’t escape. His lungs refused to work, wincing as he smashed his head against the wall again and again screaming out in agony and rage before dropping his face to his hands letting in a shaky breath. The sound of his door opening caught Claire’s attention, quickly she waved her hand at the orderlies telling them she had the situation under control.

“Sam, it’s ok…you’re safe here” her voice was clear but shaky as she gently place her hand on his shoulder rubbing his arm in soothing circles. Sam jerked at the touch but didn’t move away his head still firmly in his hands as he tried to catch his breath. Claire’s heart broke as he moved his hands through his graying hair gripping the back of his head releasing a choked sob. His shoulders shook slightly as he took deep breaths “just….leave me alone, please” his voice broke barely audible beneath his sweater clad arms. Claire shook her head scooting in next to him on the floor happy that this time he remained motionless “that’s not happening Sam. what kind of person would I be if I left you now?” “A smart one!” He growled beneath his arms propping them onto his knees still hiding his face. Claire’s smile faded before returning slightly “Sam I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere I promise” she watched as his head bobbed slightly in acknowledgment, she could see the side of his face was damp with tears but she kept silent choosing to just sit next to him there backs against the bleach white wall as she continued to rub his arm. She didn’t need to talk. She needed him to know He wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

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