#so props to everyone who is still trying to carve a space for that despite the Everything around them

[goodpointsandbadpoints]

everything is really wrecked by people not knowing themselves, and not respecting each other, and not being able to communicate (reciprocally).

need to inject the definition of intimacy into peoples' brains. how do we do this.

[brattyfics]

— until we meet again, preciosa

PAIRING || bishop losa x black!ofc, miguel galindo x black!ofc (mentioned)

SUMMARY || She’s not his, and she won’t ever be, so he leaves her with words whispered like a promise. “Until we meet again, preciosa.”

TAGS || angst, unresolved feelings, not a hea, mentions of toxic relationships, sex (referenced).

WORD COUNT || 1.6k

Shadowy clouds hang overhead, blocking out the warming glow of the Sun. Raindrops pelt the roof above, drumming a beat of their own before pooling down to the concrete paved streets below. Isis watches stray droplets gather on the tall windows for several moments before stepping out onto the covered balcony. It felt colder than usual inside the three-story, Spanish-style shophouse, but outside it’s the opposite-- balmy, earthy. The air is heavy with humidity, so she has to take deep breaths, but she doesn’t enjoy it any less. Invigoration comes with the rain, brings hope for new beginnings, renews faith for the hopeless.

Down below, people dart between vendors to continue their shopping as the rain lightens. Colorful rays spring from puddles up towards the sky. A pair of young siblings splash each other while their mother sells delicious smelling tamales wrapped in banana leaves. Another young woman peddles gold necklaces, praying candles, and other little knick-knacks to the tourists of Sonora. Everybody has to make a living, including Isis.

She spends her days stroking the strings of a guitar or the keys of her piano, helping patrons of the music shop in between. The ground floor of the shophouse boasts string instruments and an extensive collection of vinyl records. After hours, she makes money hosting private piano lessons. She performs at the Discoteca down the street on weekends, fueling her passion for music almost 24/7 except when Preciosa is closed for ‘maintenance’.

Overstock merchandise and whatever else the Mayans’ Motorcycle Clubs needs to store clutters the second floor. Don’t ask, don’t tell is her motto, so whenever they come to the shop, she simply flips the sign to closed. There’s no point in fighting it. Besides, El Presidente always makes it a bearable, if not pleasant, experience. Bishop had called ahead to warn her that he was bringing Hank, Angel, and the new prospect, Angel’s baby brother, along. She could hear them bumping around, a noisy reminder that her shop only thrived because of the illegal deals happening in the back.

“Why don’t you put all that time and energy into something that’ll get you somewhere?” Being a musician wasn’t an acceptable career in her mother’s eyes, so the woman took every chance she could to crush her daughter’s dreams. “Nobody wants to hear all that noise!” Staring out into the street, she can’t help but wonder where she would’ve ended up if her mother had been supportive. Maybe she could have been a star rising to the top of Billboard charts or someone who worked behind the scenes, writing songs, singing demos. She had the skill set. Yes, her path would have been much different.

Isis had stood front and center, crooning out an old school blues song at a hole-in-the-wall spot when Miguel Galindo first laid eyes on her. It was a chance meeting, one that felt like fate at the time because dive bars weren’t his scene. The owner was a business associate who decided to try his hand at being a restaurateur; Miguel had been kind enough to come out and support. When he caught sight of her shapely frame in a slinky, satin number, he insisted on being introduced.

Miguel stood out in a crowd, wearing a tailored button-down, dark dress pants, and an expensive pair of Italian leather shoes. His salt and pepper beard groomed to perfection, hair gelled so that no strand was out of place. The moment she’d looked into his eyes, she was caught in his web. His masculine scent drew her in like honey to a bee. His charisma held her attention. Miguel sweet-talked her all night, insisting Isis sit next to him, eat h’orderves, and drink overpriced champagne. She obliged. Who could say no to that face? He used their close proximity to reel her in like a fish on a hook, leaning down to whisper in her ear. You’re beautiful. He told her. You have such a smooth, seductive tone. You should be performing for bigger crowds. Have you ever thought about branching out? He told her everything her mother never had, so she was a lamb to the slaughter.

For months, Miguel had treated her like his very own LifeSize doll to play with. He took her on shopping sprees, kept her draped in silk and lace. Isis didn’t think of herself as materialistic, but she couldn’t deny being showered in gifts felt splendid. He was always so tender, handling her delicately as his newest prized possession. As time went on, she became more like an ornament. Something for him to marvel at when he felt like it and then hide away the rest of the time. But nothing was worse than him leaving her to harden after he was finished molding her like clay. She asked for more—time, commitment, only for him to do the opposite.

Thus, Preciosa was born. A way for him to placate her and later make it easier for the M.C. to make him money.

“Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be out your way.” Isis jumped at the sound, turning away from the street to see Bishop. She hadn’t heard him come outside; didn’t expect him to venture up into her personal space.

Isis’ smile rarely reached her eyes, Bishop noticed. He stepped forward, holding a velvet box that felt heavier than it was. Her fingertips tickled him as he passed it over. Diamonds surrounded in white gold gleamed as the clouds cleared away for the Sun. Even Bishop could admit the set was gorgeous, but she didn’t look impressed. He hated being Galindo’s delivery boy, watching the way her face fell when the gifts she received became increasingly impersonal with each week. Not long ago, he’d also been tasked with passing along handwritten love notes or antique music sheets that she caressed like she would a lover’s skin.

“Thank you.”

She couldn’t hide her disappointment from him. Not for lack of trying-- Miguel always reminded her, appearances were everything. Smile. Don’t make me look bad. But Bishop watched her closely, knew her tells. Despite every nerve in his brain urging him to walk away, he steps forward to stand next to her. His calloused hands rest on the balcony’s edge next to her delicate pair, brown in varying tones of sepia and mahogany contrasting against the white paint.

Bishop feels the heat of her eyes on his frame, but he doesn’t let himself respond. Sharing this moment, a quick breath of fresh air will have to be enough. But she’s all around him, smelling of florals and sweet spices. He can’t think. He fumbles with his pockets in search of a cigarette. “You mind?” She shakes her head but is otherwise silent. Still watching him as he smokes; the way he takes long, steady pulls, cradling the stick between his full lips and then between his strong, veined fingers. She would bet her last dollar that he was an expert at other things involving his fingers and mouth.

When his hand drops again, she links her pinky with his, hesitant but exploratory.

Bishop looks at her, really looks at her like he sees her. It’s nice to be seen, especially when you’re the princess locked up far, far away from everyone you’ve ever known. She’s a black girl from Texas living in Sonora for goodness’ sake. This is no life, and she knows it. Several moments pass where neither can look away, both weighing their desires with the potential consequences.

With a deep breath in, she musters up the courage to ask Bishop what she’s been wanting to for months.

“Stay?”

Her heart feels like it might just explode while she waits for a response.

Bishop drops his head to his chest, cursing under his breath. “Fuck.” If Miguel ever found out… But he already knew what his answer would be. He’d been waiting for the invitation. The heated looks they exchanged, the way her fingers lingered on his when he passed her something. That damned pout she wore when Miguel forgot to send a flower arrangement-- she had no idea Bishop had been the one buying the flowers for some time now. No matter what mood she was in, fresh flowers always brightened her day. He loved watching that lonely look transform into something more lively, curious as she marveled over his choice for the week. He went for variety, slowly learning what she loved and what she just liked; her favorite color, favorite scent.

The subtle tension between them, he wasn’t even certain she noticed. The cash and the bling could’ve blinded her to all other men. But it didn’t.

When the Sun had gone down several hours later, and the guys were gone, Bishop redressed. Belt buckling with a clink, leather sliding over his shoulders easily. He let himself take one last look at her wrapped up in a poofy comforter set. The mustard-yellow velvet complimented her skin in the best way, bringing out a gold undertone. Her eyes seem to have brightened as well. He couldn’t resist leaning over to stroke her sweaty skin. Dark coils stuck to her beautiful face, frizzy in some parts from when she rode him, sweat escaping from her pores, flat in the others from when he laid her on her back and hooked her legs over her shoulders.

He wants to stay, to prop himself up against the intricately carved wood headboard and hold her in his lap while they whisper sweet nothing to each other, but he can’t.

She’s not his, and she won’t ever be, so he leaves her with words whispered like a promise. “Until we meet again, preciosa.”

NOTES || This fic and the collage above was inspired by @isisafrofairy’s gorgeous moodboard! Also, the wonderful “Until we meet again, preciosa” line is hers as well. This is my thank you for the moodboard you made for me. I really leaned on the pictures you used for inspiration and I think I managed to capture/include each element. It was so hard not to ruin the surprise, but I was able to shut tf up for once 😂 I’m really proud of how this turned out, and hopefully you enjoy it just as much! Also, I realize the moodboard had nothing to do with Miguel but he lives in my head rent-free apparently 🥴

GENERAL TAGLIST || @woahitslucyylu @briannab1234 @sheeshgivemeabreak @breakingnewsin-no-oneasked @angelreyesgirl @blessedboo @glimmerglittergirl @apantherinmypastlife @brownsugarcoffy @marvelmaree @starrynite7114 @scuzmunkie @thewarriorprincessxo @sadeyesgf @pearlkitten33 @imanerdychubbyqueen @literaturefeen @ourlittlesecretsoveragain @everyhowlmarksthedead @yourwonkywriter @trulysuccubus @sparklemichele @luckyharley1903 @thesandbeneathmytoes​ @amorestevens​

MAYANS M.C. TAGLIST || @cant-decide-at-this-moment

[omgkalyppso]

The Unforgotten King

A Dimimari drabble that fits into Fae's post canon.

The icy winds pouring down from the frigid Fraldarian mountains were starting to upset the horses with how cold they were. Many roads this far north were impassable for carriages; even the main roads, which in many cases were the only option, were made to constrict the approach of enemies and allies alike, venturing to and from the historically chaotic northern border, and the capital to the south.

They had come first by boat and then followed the trade routes carved out by the fishing villages on the eastern coast.

Marianne held her scarf against the chill, wincing and shaking her head about Dimitri, with his scarf pulled down around his smile as he spoke about his homeland. He'd long ago let his hat fall back around his shoulders, secured by a cord about his neck, and his bound hair was a tangle as a result of the gales. He was going home, and it was as clear in his person as it was in his temperament. His nose and cheeks were pink and frozen, and his beard was gelid with frost, but the Faerghan climate suited him. Marianne even suspected that the temperature might have been harsh on another man's injuries, but Dimitri was only livelier by the mile.

Some might have said he was as a boy gone to the fair, but she knew him too well now, and could see the flit of his eye as he watched the forests. He was fighting his hauntings and his memories of war, and trusting her and their guard with his insecurities. A vast improvement when compared to the dreary state of his heart and mind during the year or two past.

Marianne had worried that despite Dimitri's growth, that returning to Faerghus was going to upset him and his friends, when he and they found him without the crown, without the armour and attire one expected of a king, and with the continued trauma of never having achieved his vengeance. She was overjoyed that it was nothing so simple.

.

"Do you see how the trees have turned from green to blue here?" Dimitri asked, gesturing to the evergreens, brightening as Marianne nodded. "They say the Goddess took pity on the verdant evergreens of Fodlan after her first ice storm, and blessed all the trees north of Conand River with a piece of her home on the Blue Sea Star, that they might from then on weather the storms."

Marianne held her scarf from her face as she replied, "They're quite beautiful. I hear they house wildlife too? I would have expected we'd only find migratory birds out in these temperatures."

"It would be wonderful to hear an owl at night," Dimitri mused. "You are right, though. There are a variety of creatures in the underbrush."

"As stubborn as any Faerghan," Marianne joked. "Although I suspect, in regards to your tale of a blessing, that similar accounts are told of the seas themselves, rather than only of Faerghan forests. Anything blue."

Dimitri had blushed and laughed awkwardly at Marianne's initial declaration, knowing that it was true that sailors in Faerghus were revered and worried perhaps even that he had misremembered his own short yarn, but then he'd smiled and contributed softly, "It is a color dear to my heart."

"Because of your house banner?" Marianne asked as if to confirm, offering Dimitri no space to argue. "Perhaps a square or kerchief could be sewn in one of your pillows? Or some other secret space? I am sorry that you're only clad as one of my guards."

Dimitri shook his head. "An honor. I am glad to ride beside you, Mari— my lady, and ... maybe with the right materials, I could try to award myself with the gift you suggest. It would be a small and challenging project for a man of my extremely limited skill."

.

Upon their arrival at the manor in Fraldarius, they were escorted to the entrance hall, where Dimitri embarrassed Rodrigue with a bow and an embrace.

"Dimitri," Rodrigue said softly, as a reprimand and a prayer, testing the name, free of title and ornamentation. "It is good to see you again. If Felix had not seen you himself, I would have assumed a ruse or extortion." He pulled away, a hand still on his once and fallen king's shoulder. "To bury you, would be as burying another son—"

"Rodrigue—" Dimitri said, meaning to interrupt.

"Humor me," he begged. "Hear me. Not only am I proud to host you, in secret, in public, but should you ever need a home in Faerghus, we will never turn you away." Rodrigue swept a tear from his eyes, "Hm. I think you'll find my lack of decorum is your fault, for hugging me first—"

"My sincerest—"

Rodrigue chuckled. "Don't apologize. Just know that I intended to be more reserved, for the sake of Lady Marianne, if not for that of my son."

"Where is Felix?" asked Dimitri, as a door to the entrance hall opened at the top of a far stair, and Felix, Annette, Sylvain and Ingrid rushed out of it.

Although Felix had been to visit him in Margrave Edmund's territory three times, Dimitri could not suppress his joy at his friend's reveal, and after Rodrigue's admission, he could either hope that Felix too thought of him more fondly, or else worry that he needed to apologize to the younger Fraldarius for what he'd inspired in his father. "Felix!"

Dimitri spared a glance for Marianne, who waved him off delicately so that he could rush to his friends at the base of the stair. She shared a far more respectable greeting with Duke Fraldarius.

.

"Wait—!" Felix started to object, but too late or with too little conviction to keep Dimitri from fitting his arms around him and Ingrid and squeezing them to his chest.

Ingrid laughed happily, and Felix scoffed when Sylvain was greeted with only a joined hand and a clap on the shoulder, though Annette then jumped into Dimitri's arms.

"I half worried it was an exaggeration," Dimitri said softly. "That you all could make it."

"Mercedes and Dedue's boat is expected tomorrow," Sylvain said to assure him.

"Ashe won't be here for a week," Annette lamented as her feet hit the floor, "but I hear that will be long enough to see you?"

"I won't leave before," Dimitri promised. "It would break my heart if his journey from Gaspard was fruitless."

"Did you know that he needed to wait for Linhardt to take up residence in Gaspard?" asked Ingrid. "To deter the Adrestians from overreaching — even now."

"As well as general rebellion," Felix supplied. "Things aren't exactly settled that far west."

"You're helping him?" Dimitri confirmed, and a part of his heart stirred to be able to have this conversation with Felix in person, rather than over a period of days by letter.

"Fhirdiad's helping him," Felix said and then frowned when the others around Dimitri looked at him more directly, and corrected himself. "Yes, I'm helping him."

Fhirdiad had been Felix's home and his charge these past few years. He had taken up the title of Archduke and wielded his role with purpose. He always intended to return to Fraldarius, imagining that there would be an opportunity to suggest another lord be honoured with the capital region, but some days he worried he had sealed his fate. His father, and Sylvain, were less subtle in their matching inquiries about his return, but it seemed all others were slowly becoming accustomed to him sitting in that place of kings in the more temperate south.

"I appreciate it," Dimitri said carefully.

"There'll be plenty of time to worry about the shadow of dissent tomorrow," Sylvain said, looking to change the subject. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh," Dimitri said in surprise, looking down at himself, dressed as a Leicester soldier in wool and armour.

"Are you warm enough?" asked Annette, turning over a side of his cloak to assess its thickness.

Dimitri chuckled. "I'm plenty warm, I—"

"How many layers is that?" Ingrid inquired critically.

"Do the rest of Marianne's escorts have hats like this?" asked Sylvain, propping Dimitri's upon his golden hair.

"Four. No, most have wool lined leather caps."

"Four? Like this? That's not enough," Ingrid worried.

"We'll warm him with drink and games," Sylvain suggested. "Maybe dancing if Annette feels like singing?"

Annette squeaked in protest, but Felix spoke first.

"You're being ridiculous. Dimitri's had a long ride—"

Dimitri's lips tightened to hear Felix call him by name, and he spoke gently, worried he might break this simple spell of friendship when he spoke in favour of Sylvain's suggestions, "I think it would be nice to drink with everyone, but I might like to bathe first. I fear as soon as I loosen my collar my sweat will thaw from where it's frozen upon me."

Three exaggerated tongues of disgust extended in sympathy.

"Do you want to stay inside?" asked Felix. "Wood fires can heat baths in the lower levels."

"Oh, no, lets show Marianne the hot springs," Annette said, as if pleading with Dimitri, though he would have agreed without any provocation.

"I would like that," he agreed, looking at Felix for permission.

With an expression of vague annoyance, Felix nodded, and then he and Dimitri each glanced to where Marianne continued her conversation with Rodrigue.

.

There was a social element to the hot springs that Marianne feared, but Sylvain made a joke that set her at ease, and challenged her to try the new experience.

Dimitri half expected Felix to return home after dutifully guiding their group to their destination, and thanked him for his continued company and conversation, such as it was, while they sat together in the steaming water. Sylvain was kind and assertive, inspecting Dimitri's right side as he stretched his arm and took advantage of the heat, to massage strong fingers into his shoulder.

Elsewhere, Ingrid and Annette had Marianne giggling as the trio raced from the spring to the snow and back again each time they grew over-red from being boiled together.

Later, they drank and reminisced, and Ingrid pulled Dimitri aside, to reaffirm that she would have been his knight and protector ... and that she still would, if he wanted to pursue his place in Fhirdiad. She saw no reason to defer to the law in Garreg Mach when Faerghus could still have its own king, and if not that, then at least he could be recognized, as the rest of them were, within Fodlan's nobility.

The shock that overtook Dimitri frightened her, when she had only meant to offer him his ancestral home, and the respect many had died to get him.

Sylvain and Felix were in listening distance, and Ingrid had known that; the four of them looked to Marianne, weaving Annette's hair in a five strand braid, while they spoke of seals and bears and other creatures that plagued the harbours.

Felix hissed about how Ingrid would throw them from one war into another, reminding her that Dimitri was hidden away precisely to avoid what she was suggesting: that there would be people willing to die for their rightful king to reclaim his place in Fhirdiad.

Everything would change if Dimitri returned, and they'd lose the trust of the Adrestians, especially Ferdinand, when they had already been caught in another lie.

"You can't come back," Felix said to finish his argument. Aggressive, nervous, cruel.

"Dimitri should be given a choice now that he's recovered," Ingrid said, firm.

"He's recovering," Sylvain insisted.

With a great expression of self control, Dimitri maintained his volume as he declared for his friends' forgotten benefit, "I am right here." He waited for the shame to silence them before he went on. "And things are not ... how I envisioned them — how I wanted them? My mind and upbringing feel ... wasteful, at times; and yet I have been consulted," he sighed, "on strategy and trade, customs and etiquette — by Felix and Marianne both. My input is heard in Faerghus and Leicester, and if I willed it, I am sure that Garreg Mach is within my reach ... even Almyra."

Sylvain raised his tankard in salute as he walked away then, seeing that a fight wasn't about to break out, and that Dimitri had their conversation well in hand. He complimented Annette's hair, and strove to further distract the ladies from the dark turn of that other corner of the room.

"If Faerghus was threatened, I would find my way back here, lance in hand. But I trust the peace that's been building. And the crown, as it was, only invited duplicity and massacres. Faerghus will thrive without me." With one arm he embraced Ingrid, pressing a kiss to her temple. "And Sylvain is right, I have been recovering. I would not risk all of Faerghus' progress, all of your work," his eyes drifted to Felix for a moment, "because I could not accept the truth of what a minister said. I still struggle. I am more comfortable with smaller challenges ... and I would appreciate your reassurance of our friendship as I am."

"Of course, Mitya," Ingrid insisted.

"Thank you."

"I miss you," Ingrid clarified. "I miss... The lives I thought I'd have by now."

"Change is painful," Felix agreed, sharp and forgiving.

"Yours is a life worth celebrating," Dimitri promised. He drank at the same time as his old friends, and then fumbled after, worried about sounding too much like his healers, but still he added, "Take time to recognize success."

Their quiet conversation was interrupted by Marianne and Annette hollering with laughter, and Dimitri could not even imagine Marianne's disappointment in him if in returning to Fhirdiad he brought a new conflict to her doorstep. He could not imagine his own heartbreak if their peoples ever returned to bloodshed. Sadly, he had imagined his horror with the possibility of witnessing another day like the tragedy, his blue love desecrated, their hypothetical children screaming, and him again, a lone survivor.

He would not speak of this in casual conversation with his friends, though perhaps in private with Marianne at some later time.

He was grateful for his anonymity.

.

It was late in the night when they made for bed, and Marianne was as drunk as he, and Dimitri worried between her state and their locale that he shouldn't have followed behind the door of her rooms. They had lain together a handful of times, but not for weeks now, yet she pressed him against the door like it was a casual thing, delicate fingers curving over his hips.

They leaned close as if they might kiss, and then she turned her face away from him with a sigh.

"I hope I haven't made a fool of myself. Did you have a good night, Mitya?"

"Beloved," Dimitri beckoned, curving a large hand around the side of her face, his scarred fingers had been mended and shattered an embarrassing number of times in the early use of his Crest. He guided her to look at him, his shining blue eye, deep as the ocean in the dark of the room.

"Thank you for bringing me here," he said, his tone deep and sincere. "The snow, the culture, my friends... I missed them more than I realized. I've had a very good night."

His last sentence was near whispered upon her lips, his thick lower lip tickling against her mouth.

Eyes closed, Marianne hummed her approval, bumping her nose against Dimitri's; narrow and then bulbous, a pretty princely feature that somehow he still maintained despite the violence in his life.

He bent to kiss Marianne, his hands finding her upper arms, her shoulders, her neck, and her twin braids, a gift from Annette that extended nearly to Marianne's waist.

"I should let you sleep," Dimitri whispered, though he felt how Marianne's hands wandered, pressing his shirt against the muscles on his chest and stomach.

Marianne looked from her bed to Dimitri. "Let me sit," she requested, "and I'll untie your hair. Stay with me a while longer." She swayed a little and Dimitri worried he would have to catch her. "Your friends are kind," Marianne confided, "but it felt a little strange as the night wore on, and maybe it's just me, and maybe it's just the building, but I know I can rely on you. Say you'll stay."

"A while longer," Dimitri agreed, drifting a thumb through her bangs as his hand rested on the side of her tightly bound hair again.

He sat between her knees while she pulled the ribbon from his fine hair, carefully carding through it with her fingers around the strap of his eye patch, and then allowing her hands to find the muscles of his neck, thick from stress and training.

One dainty foot made it's way over one of Dimitri's monstrous shoulders, and he brought the opposite one over his other side, leaning back into Marianne's space so her skirt ballooned out around him. They shared a soft laugh.

"Did you have any trouble today?" Marianne asked, gentle in her approach of his occasional visions.

"I thought of Glenn," Dimitri confided, "but I am uncertain if I saw him or imagined him today. There are many memories of him here. And ... at the gates, I ... I saw some violence that was not there, but I could not hear it. I'll write it down tomorrow."

"Tell me about Glenn? There must be a happy memory tucked into what came to mind."

"He would have made you feel welcome," Dimitri insisted with a smile. "He was very personable, and I was always glad to be in his company — though I was always closer with Felix, and so thought, like Felix, that I was in contest with him. Unless my Crest activated, I was always left embarrassed, and regardless of whether my Crest activated, I always lost. Felix was often disappointed in both of us."

.

Dimitri spoke of friends like family until well after Marianne curled up on her side. He stayed on the floor, and spoke with less frequency, though the memories didn't fade. He could picture Glenn on the opposite side of the room, a macabre spectre of the self from his memories, but it wasn't a hallucination this time, just a horrible imagining, the loss of a friend.

Dimitri kissed Marianne's forehead, and she mumbled that she was still awake, despite sounding as if she were miles away. Still, Dimitri smiled and kissed her lips, just in case, and then left for his own chamber.

[shadowhuntertrash]

Prompt #4: “There’s… one bed.” for Thomastair! I love your writing!

Thank you so much!! Also I got a little carried away sorry 😳

Thomas didn’t want to go on patrol, he was tired, something he seemed to always be nowadays.  He was even more against going on patrol with Alastair.

   It wasn’t that he didn’t like Alastair, it was quite the opposite actually, he liked him far too much. He always wasn’t big on going on patrol with anyone who wasn’t the merry thieves, Lucie, or Eugenia. It took a long time to learn someone’s fighting style which was why it was uncommon to go patrolling with someone you don’t normally go with.

   When Thomas got to the institute where he was meeting Alastair he went inside, he had gotten there early so he could grab some water from the kitchen before being on his way. He was almost to the kitchen when he saw Will and Tessa walking towards him, they hadn’t seen him yet but it didn’t take them long to spot him, after all his height at 6’4 was rather hard to miss.

   Will smiled brightly at him, his arm around Tessa’s shoulders, Tessa was smiling kindly as she did with everyone. “Tommy! What are you doing here?” Will asked, his face radiating happiness. Thomas smiled back politely. “Hello, Uncle Will. I was just going to get some water before patrol if you don’t mind?” Tessa smiled at him, a smile that held more affection than kindness, one only her immediate family, the Fairchild’s, and the Lightwood’s got. “Of course, you don’t have to ask you know.” 

   Thomas smiled and felt a rush of affection towards his aunt and uncle, they weren’t technically blood-related but they were family in every other way. Thomas smiled tiredly at them and casually hugged Tessa who smiled and hugged him back. “All right there Thomas?” Will asked, concern involuntarily leaking into his tone, Thomas nodded. “I’m alright, just tired I suppose.” 

   Tessa frowned and pulled away taking in his face, “I’m sure someone else could go for you Thomas, you don’t look very well.” Thomas smiled at the motherly gesture, it reminded him of his own mother who was currently with Eugenia in Idris. “It’s quite alright, I’ll be okay.” Thomas said, his smile turned slightly stiff. Will turned his alarmingly perceptive eyes to him. “You can come stay here tonight or for a few nights if you want to Thomas.” Will said carefully, Thomas was always alarmed at how well Will could read people when he wanted to.

   Truthfully, Thomas could use a few nights at the institute. His parents were currently in Idris with his sister, the wake of Barbara’s death heavy on them. Thomas had decided to stay behind, staying at his uncle Gabriel and Aunt Cecily’s house. They had been kind, very kind, but they hadn’t given him any space to himself. They were always trying to distract him, which worked well in the beginning but it didn’t leave him time to grieve, the only time he had time to think about it was at night which led to horrid nightmares every night. So really Thomas could do with a few days of silence at the institute.

   Despite his thinking, Thomas shook his head, “I wouldn’t want to be a bother thank you though.” Tessa’s frown deepened and she put a hand on his arm. “Thomas-” Thomas sidestepped her, her arm falling back to his side. He put on a fake smile, afraid that if they talked now he would lose his calm, collected appearance he had worked so hard to keep up these past few weeks. “If you don’t mind Aunt Tess, I should get some water, I suspect Alastair will be here soon.”

   Tessa smiled sadly, Will kept his face blank but his eyes gave away the concern he was feeling. “Of course sweetie.” Tessa said moving to the side so Thomas could get by. He smiled at them and continued walking, he was a few paces away when Will called his name, he turned around to face them again. “The offer still stands, any time.” Will said, a smile gracing his lips. 

   Thomas gave him a grateful smile, turning around and hurrying to the kitchen for some water. Bridget was there, cleaning some dishes and singingly loudly and off-pitch. “Hello, Bridget!” Thomas said with false charm, Bridget looked and him and smiled back. “Hello lad, water?” She asked and Thomas realized that he came in here for water every time he has patrol, how predictable can he be?

   Nodding his head, Thomas got some water and drank it quickly before headed back to the front of the institute. He paused at the door, knowing full and well that Alastair will be there. After all, punctuality was something Alastar simply couldn’t ignore.

   Running a hand over his face, an attempt to mentally prepare himself, he pushed the doors open. As predicted, Alastair was leaning against a pillar, eyes closed and his head thrown back. Thomas couldn’t help but stare at him, he looked like a statue, carved beauty that only artists could dream of. 

   Alastair’s eyes opened too soon and Thomas was forced to stop watching the beautiful person in front of him. “Where were you?” Alastair asked with a raised eyebrow as he pushed himself off the pillar. Thomas gestured vaguely behind him, “Institute.” He answered, gingerly checking his pockets for his stele and seraph blade. His bolas was also in his pocket but in case he lost it he always had a knife.

   Thomas watched as Alastair’s eye followed the movements, an unreadable expression crossing his eyes. Thomas ignored it to the best of his ability and turned to Alastair. “Ready?” Alastair watched him for a second before nodding slowly. “Are you alright Lightwood?” He asked in an uncharacteristically concerned voice. Thomas nodded and waved the concern away. “Tired is all.” He said, wondering just how bad he looked to have had three people question him in the last ten minutes.

   Alastair didn’t seem to buy it and took to staying close to his side all night. Thomas noticed it but was far too tired to care. When their patrol was over, both having said a total of five words the whole night with no demon activity, they made their way to the institute to report the lack of activity.

   Right as both boys made to leave Will stopped them, a guilty look on his face that made Thomas’ heart sink. “I know you’re tired Thomas and you know if there was any way I could avoid asking you I would, but someone needs to go to a muggle town to check reports of demon activity about six hours away and you two are the only available ones at the moment.” Thomas sighed deeply, nodding his head tiredly, Alastair watched him with a frown. 

   “Mr. Herondale I could go, I don’t think Thomas is quite up for the trip.” Will nodded, running an exasperated hand over his face. “I know and normally I would let you, but there were seven reported demons and I was already hesitant on sending just two people. I simply cannot allow you to go by yourself.” Alastair turned to Thomas again but Thomas just smiled, attempting to wipe the tiredness from his face.

   “It’s quite alright Uncle Will, I’ll be okay.” Will watched him with sad eyes before nodding slowly. “I am sorry.” Will said hugging Thomas, it was slightly awkward due to Thomas being so tall but neither of them seemed bothered by it. Alastair watched, a bittersweet feeling settling in his chest. No adult other than his mother had dared shared any physical affection towards him, much less a man, and Will wasn’t even Thomas’ father.

   Will pulled away and ruffled Thomas’ hair before reminding them to be careful and to take the carriage. They walked out the door in silence, Thomas felt the entirety of the bone dead tiredness setting in him.

   He knew he couldn’t sleep in the carriage, he couldn’t risk having a nightmare and screaming in front of Alastair. It was already two in the morning so they decided they would go for an hour before stopping at a hotel and then finishing the trip in the morning.

   When they were settling in the back, Thomas on one side and Alastair across from him, Alastair turned to him poorly masked concern on his face that made Thomas sigh. “Are you sure you’re alright Lightwood? You look all pale and sickly, terrible to put it frankly.” Thomas laughed bitterly, “Well thank you for that Alastair.” Thomas said, his eyes closed to avoid the burning he was currently feeling from having his eyes open for more than twenty-four hours.

   Alastair blushed and kicked Thomas’s leg lightly. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Thomas laughed quietly. “I know.” They fell into a comfortable silence. Thomas was fidgeting, trying desperately to fight off the need for sleep that was slowing his movements considerably. Alastair had fallen asleep fairly quickly and Thomas silently cursed him for leaving him awake alone.

   After about an hour the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a small hotel. Thomas grabbed their small bags, preciously packed by Will, and checked in, putting off waking Alastair up. The lady that checked him in informed him that there was only one room available, Thomas just smiled and told her they’d take it, shoving down the rising panic. Once Thomas had everything settled he went back downstairs to wake Alastair.

   When Thomas gently shook him Alastair groaned, slowly opening his eyes. “Thomas?” Alastair asked, sounding so utterly confused that Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah it’s me, we’re at the hotel.” Understanding dawned in Alastair’s eyes and he stood up, stretching slightly. They climbed out of the carriage, Alastair went to the back and turned to Thomas confused as to what had happened with his luggage. 

   Thomas shrugged, stifling a yawn. “I put it in our room already.” Alastair quirked an eyebrow. “Our room?” Thomas nodded slowly, his brain too tired to comprehend things at a normal pace. “There was only one left.” Alastair made an ‘ah’ sound and walked with Thomas up the stairs to their room, once again sticking close to Thomas’ side.

   When Thomas opened the door and walked in Alastair paused. “There’s… one bed.” He said slowly, Thomas turned to him confused before looked at the singular bed in the room. Groaning Thomas sat heavily on the end, propping his chin on the palm of his hand. “Sorry I wasn’t paying attention when I came in.” He said, a blush creeping on his cheeks. “We can go another hour and find another one.” Thomas proposed, silently willing Alastair to turn down that idea, he was far too tired to go anymore.

   Alastair seemed to have similar thoughts. “It’s quite alright Thomas, we can stay here.” Thomas nodded, shoving down the fact that he would have to share a bed with Alastair, beautiful, stunning, unreadable Alastair. Thomas went to the bathroom to change and get ready for bed while Alastair changed in the room.

   When they were done they switched and Thomas laid in bed while Alastair took the bathroom to get ready for bed. Thomas took the left side out of habit and curled up, Anna always said he curled up to try and protect himself from the dreams and Thomas couldn’t help but agree.

   Thomas was already drifting by the time Alastair walked in and took the other side. It was weird sharing a bed with someone, the last person he had shared a bed with was Barbara. Thomas quickly shoved away the thought, knowing that he was going to have a bad night if he was thinking about Barbara before he fell asleep.

   Blaming his delirium from lack of sleep Thomas turned to Alastair in bed and closed his eyes. “Talk to me.” Alastair looked a little surprised at the demand but didn’t question. “Cordelia has been talking nonstop about Lucie and becoming parabatai. She goes through these weird weekly thins where one week that’s all she’ll talk about and then the next week she doesn’t talk about it at all and then the next week it’s all she can talk about again. It’s like a never-ending cycle.” He said laughing, Thomas joined him and laughed quietly. He could already feel the pull of sleep and silently thanked Alastair. 

   Right before he was pulled into dreamland he felt a calming hand in his hair, “Sweet dreams Thomas.”

   Barabara stood in front of him, a smile plastered across her beautiful face. “Oh Thomas, isn’t it lovely?” She asked, her eyes skimming the lake. They were having a picnic at the lake, the water was shimmering and reflecting the sun in pretty waves, the trees were swaying softly with the breeze.

   Thomas laid on his back, the blanket blocking the grass that would have been poking him uncomfortably. “It is.” He agreed, smiling at his sister. They sat in silence, watching the scenery, and hearing the birds chirping peacefully.

   Turning to tell his sister to look at the cliffs where a deer was standing, his head held high, he saw his sister’s confused face, a startling shade of white. She was looking down at her white dress that was slowly turning red in the middle. “Barbara?” Thomas asked, not yet catching on to what was happening.

   Slowly, his sister turned her face to his, her beautiful face was now marked with cuts and blood. “You’re bleeding.” Thomas said, alarmed as he realized that the growing red stain on her dress was also blood. Barbara stared at him, her normally kind eyes cold.

  “You did this. This is your fault, Thomas.” Thomas’ eyes widened and his eyes snapped back up to his sister’s. “What?” Thomas asked, confusion and hurt settling in his voice. Barbara glared at him, anger and blood turning her face ugly. 

   “You did this. You should have been faster, you should have been there.” Thomas wasn’t breathing properly anymore, breaths coming in too fast and not leaving fast enough. “You killed me, Thomas. You protected your friends over me.” She said, anger gone, sadness now laced in her voice. “No, I didn’t! I tried to help!” Thomas said desperately trying to make his sister believe him.

   “Why did you kill me? What did I do to you? You killed me.” She said again, betrayal obvious on her face. Thomas felt tears falling down his face. “No, I didn’t! It’s not my fault!” Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “It is Thomas, yo know it is. You could have been faster, you should have been with me. You should have protected me but you didn’t and now I’m dead.” Thomas let out a sob and shook his head. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Barbara shook her head, her brown curls bouncing, the tips soaked in blood. “It’s your fault Thomas, it’s your fault.”

   Thomas backed away quickly. “I’m dead and it’s your fault. Thomas, you did this. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.” Suddenly everything went quiet and then Barbara’s eyes widened and her body jerked. “You’re fault.” She whispered before she collapsed to the ground, a mixture of blood and beauty.

   Thomas jerked awake, sitting up straight and breathing hard. Tears were falling down his face and he dropped his head in his hands trying to take calming breaths. His sister’s face burned into his memories, her voice piercing his heart.

   “Thomas?” A sleep-laced voice asked beside him. Thomas in his panic had forgotten that Alastair was next to him, he let out a pitiful sound and closed his eyes tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I-I didn’t m-mean-” Thomas was cut off by the hysterical sob that escaped him.

   Alastair sat up quickly, fumbling with the light switch next to him. “Thomas? Are you okay?” He asked distressed. Thomas couldn’t think of anything else but Barbara’s betrayed voice. “You killed me. You should have been faster.”  Thomas was shaking and crying and he couldn’t breathe, he felt a hand on his back but could barely hear the words Alastair was saying.

   Fingers grabbed his chin and forced Thomas to look at Alastair, desperation and fear in his eyes. “Thomas, what happened?” He asked, moving closer to Thomas who dropped his head helplessly on Alastair’s chest. “I killed her. It was my fault I killed her.” Alastair brought his arms around Thomas. “What are you talking about? You have to talk to me Thomas, who? Who did you kill?” Thomas shuddered and buried his head further into Alastair’s chest.

   “Barbara! It’s my fault she was dead. She kept- she kept telling me it was my fault.” He broke off with another sob and felt Alastair’s arms tighten around him in a protective manner. “Oh Thomas.” He said sadly, one hand going up to run his fingers through Thomas’ hair. “That was not your fault Thomas. None of that was your fault. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

   Thomas pulled away, staring at Alastair’s eyes, willing Alastair to understand. “No! I should have been with her, I should have moved faster, I should have helped her. I killed her Alastair, it was my fault.” Alastair’s eyes were watery now and he shook his head, pulling Tomas back against him. 

   His face pressed against Alastair’s neck and Thomas couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his mouth. “Thomas I promise you none of that was your fault. There was no way you could have saved her, no one could. Oliver was right next to her and he couldn’t save her either. It was not your fault.” Thomas felt the hysteria leave him. He wanted to believe Alastair, he really did but he couldn’t bring himself to, not with Barbara’s voice whispering in his ear.

   They sat in silence, the tears finally subsiding, until Thomas thought he might burn from the embarrassment he felt. He had not only had a nightmare in front of Alastair but had completely fallen apart. The only thing keeping him from dying on the spot was the fact that Alastair was still holding him, murmuring comforting things in his ear while he soothingly rubbed Thomas’ back.

   Not wanting to pull away in fear of Alastair seeing how red he was, he mumbled a quiet ‘I’m sorry’ into Alastair’s neck. Alastair sighed and pulled back, Thomas immediately looked down but Alastair put a finger under his chin and gently lifted his head. “Don’t ever be sorry for feeling things Thomas, it was obvious you’ve been keeping this in.” Thomas closed his eyes, he wasn’t aware of how much he needed to hear that until someone said it.

   “I’m here Thomas, if you ever need me. I’m here if you need to talk, or if you want to sit in silence. I’m here.” He said gently, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. Thomas, now more overwhelmed with gratefulness instead of embarrassment, leaned forward and hugged Alastair tightly. “Thank you.” He said, tiredness abundant in his voice.

   Alastair squeezed him gently before releasing him and laying back down. “Are you going to be okay?” He asked quietly. Thomas nodded slowly, laying down and sitting in silence for a minute before scooting closer to Alastair, craving the comfort and safety that came with Alastair. 

   It only took a second for Alastair to react, opening his arms as an invitation. Thomas let out a breath and fell into them, curling up to Alastair’s side. Alastair slid his arms around Thomas’ waist. Just before he drifted off, comfort making it hard to fight off the needed sleep, he felt warm lips on top of his head.

   “You’re okay now Thomas, I’ve got you.”

[angst-fairygodmother]

Grief (Ben Hargreeves x Reader)

A/N: I’m not really sure where this came from. But it’s pretty angsty and kinda cheesy. Just a long conversation with a medium, and a ghost, about things that might have been. Word Count: 1378 Rating: T - Discussion of death, reference to dead parent

“Is this how you’ve felt all these years?” Klaus asked, hugging one of the throw pillows to his chest. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

You looked at him sadly, nodding softly. He had just told you about his time in Vietnam, about Dave, and your heart ached for him.

“How do you do it?”

“You hold onto the happy memories and the time you had with them. You take deep breaths and you let yourself be sad sometimes, but you don’t let it drown you. I wish I could say it gets better but it doesn’t. You just find a way to keep moving forward and you get used to the pain; if it ever goes away I haven’t found that point yet.”

You stared up at the ceiling, fighting back tears. “And I don’t know if this helps, but at least you had the time with him, you told him how you felt.”

“I think your mom knew how you felt about her…?” his confusion was palpable.

“Oh, you meant her…well that’s a different kind of grief.”

“Wait, if you didn’t think I was talking about losing your mom, who did you think I was…?”

You laughed incredulously, stopping quickly when you realized he really didn’t know.

“Klaus, I was hopelessly in love with your brother for years. I just didn’t think it was worth risking our friendship or making things weird with the rest of you to say anything. Biggest regret of my life, even if it probably wouldn’t have ever been something.”

“Why do you think it wouldn’t have been anything?”

You didn’t know it, but Klaus was staring at his brother’s stunned face over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle. I mean even Luther noticed my stupid crush,” you shrugged. “I’m sure Ben ignored it in order to spare my feelings.”

There were few times Klaus truly hated his powers more than as he watched his brother reach out to you, knowing that he would pass right through and you wouldn’t even notice.

“Oh I don’t know, Y/N,” he said, hoping the ache in his voice was easy to write off as more of his general mood since returning to the present. “Ben was always shy. And never really thought much of himself, so he probably wouldn’t have ever guessed that you, or anybody, had a crush on him.”

You smiled bitterly, eyes stinging with tears. “Don’t, Klaus. It doesn’t help anybody to give me hope now. It just…hurts more.”

“I still see him sometimes,” Klaus admitted, withholding the fact that it was near constant and that Ben was a silent participant in your current conversation. “A lot actually. I could ask him, or give him a message or something, if you wanted.”

You shrugged, smiling softly despite the tears running down you cheeks unchecked. “I don’t even know what I’d say. Other than I miss him. Some days more than others…” You looked down, fiddling absently with your fingers. “It’s stupid, but I used to write him letters, whenever I saw something that reminded me of him or did something I wish I could have shared…”

Ben frowned, opening his mouth to speak, and Klaus shook his head softly, a warning that now wasn’t the right time, to let you finish baring your soul first.

“And my first night alone here in the apartment, surrounded in boxes and sitting on the floor because I hadn’t gotten the couch delivered yet, I tried to imagine him here too, like it was our place. We always talked about running away together, when things at the Academy were bad…”

“I think little touches of him made his way here anyway,” Klaus said softly, indicating the shelf full of the sorts of things Ben used to read all the time and talk to you about, even when you didn’t understand what he was saying, framed by curled tentacles.

You chuckled. “I got those bookends as a joke at a flea market.”

Ben was staring at the shelf. You had found copies of every one of his favorite books, and a few others that he hadn’t read but probably would have enjoyed. He reached up, trailing an incorporeal finger over the swirl shape of one of the plaster carvings.

“I like it,” he said softly.

“I thought maybe having things that reminded me of him would make it hurt less, you know, make it feel more like he was going to walk in any time and prop his feet on the coffee table and apologize for being gone for so long. And it’s stupid. There’s no reason for it. We were only ever friends, and dumb kids promising all the things dumb kids say before they really understand how the world works.”

You rubbed your hands over your face, trying to brush away the tears and the grief that were settling in there.

“I’m sorry Klaus,” you said, reaching out to take his hand comfortingly, watching the other fiddle with the dogtags around his neck as he stared into seemingly empty space. “I didn’t mean to derail the conversation.”

He jumped slightly at your touch, turning back to you with an apologetic look in his big, sad green eyes.

“No! No it’s fine,” he reassured you. “I don’t even know what to say about Dave. So listening to you talk about Ben…”

He swallowed guiltily as the pain he was probably causing you both dawned on him again. He took a deep breath to steady himself, closing his eyes to ignore the frantic gestures of his brother’s ghost.

“He’s here you know,” he offered finally, so quiet you barely heard him.

Your heart lurched. “Ben is here? For how long?”

“He’s been following me around like a Jiminy Cricket for years honestly. All the booze and drugs in the world haven’t been able to get rid of him.”

“Why…why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged. “I guess I never thought about it. Everyone seemed to be able to move on so I thought it would make things worse. If anyone even believed me, which they never do.”

“So if he’s here, and he’s been here, then he heard all of that…?” you bit your lip as a fresh wave of tears threatened, these ones mixing shame with the sadness, knowing that you had just accidentally spilled everything you had kept secret for all these years to the very person they were about.

“Klaus, you moron!” Ben shouted at him, making him wince. “If you weren’t going to say anything at the beginning, why would you say something now! It’s going to make things so much worse!”

“He’s sort of pissed at me for springing this on you now, and he says he likes the bookends…”

A small giggle bubbled up in your throat as you imagined Ben standing there, lecturing Klaus, as he frequently had during your youth. You could tell by Klaus’s facial expressions that they were now getting into a rather heated argument, and you stayed still, a silent witness to it, and tried to imagine your best friend’s face in the air beside your couch.

“I’m not telling them that!” Klaus whined. “That’ll make them cry again. Do you want to make them cry Ben?”

“What are you not telling me, Klaus?” you whispered.

Klaus clamped his jaw shut as he argued internally with himself as much as externally with Ben. Finally he sighed.

“Ben says that he’s…always loved you and always will. And that seeing you grow up and live your life and be happy is the best thing about being a ghost. He just wishes he could have been here to do it beside you.”

Your breath hitched, more tears spring to your eyes and coursing down your cheeks.

“But he also doesn’t want you to dwell so much on him. That time has passed, and you should…move on and find something present instead of being stuck on things that never got to be.”

“I…I don’t know if I can.”

“Ben says you can,” Klaus shrugged, wrapping you in his arms. “And I believe in you too.”

Unseen or felt by you, Ben did his best to join the hug, his own tears dripping into nothingness where they should have fallen in your hair.

[ad1thi]

and then there’s you | Au-gust Day 8: Superheroes/Superpowers AU

AU-gust masterlist

i took a brief hiatus but now im back!! this is possibly one of my favourite things ive written, ever

//

Steve was never expecting to get along with James. He didn't have the best start with Tony - even though he likes to believe that they've moved past that and have become good friends - and James' protective streak was well known. After all, the man broke records trying to fly back to New York fast enough and managed to show up just as the Hulk picked up Tony from the sky.

 He still remembers the way James landed around them with a thud, his faceplate snapping up and shoving all of them to the side so that he could get to Tony. He remembers the way Tony's face softened; the way James reached out with one metal encased hand to awkwardly rub his hair before settling on his shoulder.

 He remembers fiercely missing the time in his life when someone looked at him like that, like he was the reason the world continued turning.

 In retrospect, Steve honestly should've seen this whole thing coming, but he's still blindsided by the whole thing.

After the last of the Chitauri are felled down, Thor and James raging in the sky until they drop like flies, they regroup back at Stark Tower. It's almost too easy, over in a matter of hours, even though Steve feels like it's taken ages. They lock the Spectre away and clasp chains around Loki's body - and he can release a breath that he didn't know he was holding it.

 "Colonel Rhodes," he says, later, when they're all lounging in a beatdown shawarma joint, shamelessly taking advantage of an extremely grateful store-owner, “I just wanted to say thank you for all your help. Having two heavy hitters in the sky really helped us take down the stragglers. We couldn't have done it without you."

 James and Tony (from where he's resting on James' shoulder) both turn to him and give him identical looks, the kind that makes Steve want to duck his head and rub the back of his neck.

 "No need to thank me Cap," James says finally, "Just doing my civic duty." But he keeps looking at Steve, in a way that stirs feelings inside Steve that he thought had died when he went into the ice.

 Guess not.

 He nods once and is saved from answering by Tony grabbing the Colonel into another discussion. He takes another bite into his wrap, the food feeling wooden inside his mouth. Tony has one hand in the air, gesticulating wildly, but the other is wound around James, inter-twined with his own. It twists something inside Steve, and he tries to tell himself that it's just him missing his life before the ice. Before he was dropped into the twenty first century.

 He looks up to see Thor giving him an all too knowing look for a man who only met him a couple of hours ago. It makes him so uncomfortable that he stands abruptly, pulling both Tony and Rhodey out of their conversation.

 "I have to go," he says stiffly, "I have some work to attend to. I'll see you guys at the Helicarrier tomorrow at 0900 for a debrief," he nods at his team, "Colonel, it would good to meet you."

"Call me James," he says, nonplussed, "that’s what everyone who isn't this fella calls me," he thumbs at Tony; who's face twists in mock outrage.

 Steve doesn't say anything, spinning on his heel and all but running out of the shawarma joint, lest he dwell too strongly on the fact that James called Tony fella.

 Despite their horrendous first meeting, Steve and James actually get on fairly well. He's in New York a lot, despite still being on active duty. Ostensibly, it's because the War Machine - now rebranded as Iron Patriot armour needs regular check-ups and after what Tony and James mysteriously refer to as the Hammer incident - Tony is the only one who fiddles with it.

 It makes sense, since Tony designed the damn thing, but Steve knows that James is a genius of his own right. Privately, he thinks that James is equipped to deal with any and all faults in the armour, but he makes it a point to come for Tony. Watching your bestfriend strap a nuke to his back and fly into space with no concrete desire to return tends to do that to someone. Hell, if Bucky had pulled something like that he wouldn't have left him out of his sight.

 Besides, now that Steve has been living with him and gotten to know the man behind the mask so to speak, he can see why Tony inspires that kind of loyalty. The way he badly misjudged Tony still digs at him, even though Tony has waved off his apologies multiple times and promises that he harbours no bad feelings.

 Steve isn't complaining though. He likes that James visits, even though he frowns everytime James complains about how hard it was to finagle time with his superiors. Clint calls it his Captain America face, says that he makes it every time he thinks there's a fight. Steve doesn't know if he has a specific face, but he does know that it doesn't sit right with him that James has to fight that much to come stateside.

 That was the whole point of the War, that they would fight so that future generations don't have to. There's a lot to be said for the twenty first century. His country's proclivity with inserting themselves into every war that side of the Atlantic isn't one of them.

 Still, James' regular check-ups mean that Steve has gotten a chance to get to know Tony's bestfriend - since he winds up spending a lot of time in the workshop these days; sketching while Tony putters around. It's like white noise - the sound of a wrench or a blowtorch, interspersed with Tony and JARVIS sniping with each other, and it reminds Steve of the barracks, of the Howlies huddled around a single fire and sniping around each other.

 (It reminds him that he's no longer alone)

 When James comes however, the entire workshop lights up, and Steve along with it. Despite his best efforts, the smidgen of interest he'd felt in the shawarma joint has buried itself inside him, planted seeds and grown around his heart. It doesn't help that James is one of the most easy-going people he's ever met, the kind of person one gravitates to.

 He reminds Steve deeply of Bucky, but then again - Steve was never overcome with the urge to bear Bucky down and kiss him until they both couldn't breathe.

 "Steve!" James cries out, as the workshop doors open with the faintest snick, "It's good to see you."

Steve looks up from his sketchbook - where he's been drawing James funnily enough - and gives him a warm smile, "James. Good to see you. How's the Iron Patriot?"

"Don't call it that," Tony wags his wrench at Steve, looking like he's contemplating the merits of lobbing it at him, "You do not call it that in my workshop. This is a sacred space."

 "She's handling like a dream," James says over Tony, but he still walks over and pulls Tony in for a small hug before making his way over to Steve. The first time this had happened, Steve was almost jealous, but he's since realised that it's just a part of James' schedule. The need to physically remind himself that Tony is okay.

 "There's been a couple of tough missions," he continues with a grimace, after he's done surreptitiously looking Tony over and found his way to the couch where Steve is currently propped up. "I've definitely got some fresh bullet dents. But nothing Tony can't fix, isn't that right Tony?" he calls out to where Tony has turned back to his holo-screens and gets a half-hearted gesture in response that Steve takes to mean that Tony has heard James.

 "Enough about me though, not in the least because I could be arrested for going into detail," James reaches out and places his hand over Steve's; and it takes everything in Steve to not react to the touch, "You getting through the list okay?"

 A month into his stay at the Tower, Steve was listlessly chewing a banana in the Common Room when James came out for some water and saw him. "They taste weird," he'd said, when James asked if the banana had done something to offend him, "I guess I was just hoping it was something that hadn't changed."

James had regarded him for a second, and then pulled out a napkin from thin air, "You should make a list. It's what I tell most of my rookies, when they're going back after a long tour. Make a list of everything you want to catch up and work through it on your own pace. At the very least, it gives you something to do."

 Ever since then, Steve keeps a small black book on his person, filling it with a never-ending list of things. The entire team pitches in, depending on what it is that Steve is about to discover about the twenty-first century. Steve likes it best when James carves out time for him though.

 "I'm adding more things than I'm crossing out," Steve admits, and James clucks sympathetically, "but it's good. I've not Star Wars on my list next? And Tony made me promise to wait for you to come back so that both of you could introduce it to me together."

 James whistles lowly, but his eyes light up, "Oh I am so happy that you waited for me for this. Never listen to Tony, he thinks the prequels deserve rights," he bends down to whisper at Steve loudly, "we don't recognise the prequels."

"Is that prequels slander I hear in my safe haven?" Tony pipes up, spinning around to face them. He's still got the wrench in his hand, "Don't make me revoke your access honeybear because I will, don't test me."

 James holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm going to go freshen up," he says with a clap, "but after I'm back, we can discuss Star Wars strategy."

 Steve watches him go, until he disappears around the corner. When he looks back at the workshop, he sees Tony looking at him with a look that's half speculative, half sympathetic.

 "You know that nothing can happen right?" he says apropos of nothing, but Steve knows exactly what he's talking about, "It's against the law. DADT. If his superiors find out, his career is over. 's why me and him ended in the first place."

  Steve found out about Tony and James' history only a month ago, and the sting has faded. Mostly because he knows it was a long time ago, and neither of them harbour those feelings anymore.

 "I know," Steve says carefully, because Tony is still James' bestfriend, "and I wouldn't ask him to risk that. Doesn't change how I feel though. And if I have to wait, or hide it, or even ignore it until he's ready to deal with it - I'm ready for all of it."

 Tony nods, like it's the answer he's expected, "You'll be good for him Steve. He deserves someone who'll wait." Unlike me, who didn't goes unsaid.

 "I don't expect anything from him Tony," Steve says, looking Tony right in the eye, "but I can't just pretend I don't feel the way I do. Especially not if there's the barest possibility that he feels the same."

 Steve isn't generally good with these sorts of things, recognising interest. Still, he doesn't think he's imagined the looks he's gotten from James the past couple of times he's been over, over misread the touching, the talking, the borderline flirting.

 "He does," Tony confirms, "but like I said - nothing can happen." He says in a careful tone, and it takes Steve a couple seconds to cotton onto what Tony is implying. It leaves a rush through him, reminding him of back-alley trysts, protected by the shadows.

 "Nothing can happen," Steve repeats, and Tony pointedly turns his back as Steve leaps up from the couch and follows James out. He thinks about calling ahead, or maybe messaging - but there's a decent chance that James already knows about this conversation, since Tony wouldn't have brought it up unless James had expressly allowed him too.

 Steve might not know much about the twenty first century, but bro-code well enough.

 He knocks on James' door, thrumming with energy, and his heart stutters when James opens it in a towel; one around his waist, catching the droplets of water falling down his chest, and another around his neck.

 "Steve?" he asks, and there's no mistaking the hopeful tone in his voice. It confirms Steve's suspicions, that Tony was talking to him on behalf of James.

 Steve doesn't reply, just pulls him for a kiss.

 Fin

[copias-thrall]

This is Halloween (Halloween)

Mary expands Suey's world by taking her to a crazy art party.

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8; 9)

It’s one of the stretches where you actually haven’t seen Mary in a few days. He’d apparently been by your apartment—dishes were done and he took out your trash—but you’d spent that day hunkered down at a coffee shop so you could have sandwiches with a friend who got a job downtown. And while Mary can be lyrical when he wants to be, his texts are usually brief and full of letters that only make sense to him in his shorthand … so you’re not ever going to get any missives from the front lines from him.

Which is fine: you’re super-busy and full of your own hobbies. Like napping. And complaining. Occasionally you’ll round that out with chip-eating. You’ve never been particularly creative—which makes Mary wince at you every now and then (you love art, you’re just not … adept, and sometimes it seems unfair that he can write music AND lyrics AND doodle great sketches)—but you are a voracious reader. You’d been shocked to find out that not only had Mary read Austen, but he also had a love of Persuasion—a novel you yourself found superior to Pride & Prejudice. He’d been similarly chuffed when he’d realized you liked Chuck Palahniuk for more than just Fight Club. 

Which is all to say that when Mary’s not around, you like to combine your hobbies—a little chip eating while you read, only to fall asleep with the book on your face. 

Tonight is no exception.

It’s nearly Halloween (it’s tomorrow actually, and you’re only slightly bummed that Mary has to work), so in honor of the holiday you’re working your way through an anthology of Lovecraft. Unexpectedly, there's a knock at your door. You check your phone, but there are no texts.

Hmm.

There’s another knock, so you set down the book and sprint to your bedroom to take up what Mary has dubbed your “Masher Hammer.” You make it back to your apartment door just in time for a third series of knocks. When you look out the peephole, however, it’s clear that whoever’s on the other side is blocking the viewer.

Gripping your hammer tight—ready for swing mode—you unlatch your door and open it.

You’re met with the sight of a Jack O’Lantern. 

No—

Not a Jack O’Lantern … some guy with a carved pumpkin on his head.

“Ta-d—Jesus Christ, Suey … put Masher down,” says a muffled voice.

“Mary?”

Mary lifts the pumpkin—a real pumpkin, not a plastic basket from the dollar store—a little off his head enough for you to make out his face. You lower your swinging arm.

“Why is there a pumpkin on your head? What are you doing here?” 

He spreads his arms out and does jazz hands. “Mischief Night!” 

When you just stand there squinting at him, he finally takes the pumpkin fully off his head. His hair is squashed, and he’s only wearing some light makeup around his eyes and on his lips.

“So, you gonna let me in, or … should I duck?”

“Oh, right,” you say as you step back.

As Mary suanters in, you can see his eyes sweep to the couch where you’ve made a nest of blankets and pillows—your book lying face down, and the open bag chips positioned at an optimal angle on the coffee table.

“That looks nice.” He sidles up to you to squeeze your tits through your hoodie. “Almost makes me want to call it a night and get cozy in those blankets … I could crush those chips and lick them off you before I eat you out.”

His hand slides down to your crotch.

You’re trying to take him seriously, but he’s holding a pumpkin under his arm. You snap at his face.

“Mary—focus. What the hell?”

He gives you a put out look, exaggeratedly pushing out his bottom lip—but it’s soon replaced with a wicked grin.

“Mischief Night! Do you wanna go to a weird-ass art party?”

“An art party?” you ask dubiously.

“No, not what you’re thinking.”

He sets down the carved pumpkin on your table and walks to your fridge, rummaging around before pulling out the pisswater beer he keeps around.

“Think of it as a teen-movie house party—but on steroids and no one there got laid in high school. With, you know: art.”

“That’s … very specific.”

He walks back over to you, cradling the beer in one hand, and puts the other on your shoulder.

“We are under no obligation to participate in the orgy.”

You don’t think he’s joking.

He gives you a once over. “It’s also a—hmm—masquerade, so we gotta get you outfitted.”

Your mind darts.

“I only have those stupid headband cat ears my friend got me as a joke.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You’re gonna go as me.”

It had been a fun little party of two as you’d put on a YouTube Halloween playlist from your phone. Mary’d given you a dramatic mohawk with his precious airplane glue, then fished around in the pink makeup bag with hearts (that you’d put his stash in as a joke and he’d kept) to give you his iconic look—blood and all.

There was no way you were going to fit in his skinny jeans, but you’d been able to pair one of his well-worn tees (that you hadn’t already stolen) with your favorite denim skirt. Mary had taken off one of his studded belts to wrap around you—it’d needed a couple of safety pins to act as extensions, but Mary had assured you that that just made the style more authentic. Upon Mary’s request, you’d put on your ripped fishnets, and you had your own worn Docs to complete the look.

“Do I get to be a sex-crazed jerk all night?” you’d asked as you’d admired yourself in the corroded full-length you had propped up by the bathroom.

“You say that as if that’s something new and different for you—fuck ow,” said Mary as you’d tapped his balls.

“So where is this place?” you ask as Mary and you head to the train. 

It’s in the old factory district, which means it’s a ways away, but still subway accessible.

“It’s actually in a converted co-op. I think they started out as squatters—unclear—but now it’s above board as a residence and shit. I used to know a guy who lived there for a while—they had sectioned off areas with screens—and he had a corner so he slept in a hammock. Most of the space is for their art, though. What a fucking life to live.”

You look at him, incredulous. “Mare. You live in a 2 bedroom with 4 other dudes.”

He scoffs at you. “We also have a couch. It’s a whole ‘nother level.”

You just hum at him.

When you finally get there—after a few mis-turns in this silent neighborhood full of abandoned brick factories—you’re surprised (despite Mary’s description) to see that the place is lit. There’s a guy standing at the entrance to the parking lot (that slopes dangerously toward the river) checking attendees; it becomes clear that not only is he checking for 21+, but for alcohol and toilet paper. Those without either have to “donate” $10.

“Oh—” says Mary right before it’s about to be your turn. “I’m not Mary tonight.”

“What should I call, then? The ‘Great Pumpkin’?”

“Just not Mary,” he hisses as you shore up to the “bouncer.”

The guy is not in any kind of costume—just grey sweats and a sports team hat. He’s sitting on a bar stool, and he has a little flashlight he’s using to check IDs.

“Hey, guys!” he says cheerily. “Welcome to Magical Mischief Mystery at the Factory. IDs? Ah! TP and suds? Cool, cool.”

He checks your IDs, then looks at you, then your IDs … then at Mary’s pumpkin face, then at you.

“OH MY GOD,” he starts chortling and slips off the stool to grab Mary’s arm. “Mary, you old bastard—I haven’t seen you since Dusty left to get hitched.”

You take a deep breath and—in your best screamo voice—you say, “I’m fucking Mary Goore,” (not a lie) “and he’s ‘Late for Dinner’.”

The pumpkin head turns to you. You can feel Mary’s unamused gaze.

The bouncer starts wheezing so hard that you’re afraid he might expire from laughing.

“Fuck, fuck,” gasps the dude. He shakes his head, eyes watery from mirth, and waves the two of you through.

“I hate you,” says Mary.

“I didn’t call you ‘Mary’, though,” you quip as you slip your arm through his.

“Why do I have to carry all the shit? Here. Pull your fucking weight.”

Mary hands you the toilet paper roll he heisted from your bathroom.

“Are we going to TP something?” you ask as you take the roll from him.

“Heh. No, it’s purely functional. This many people? It’s so the bathrooms don’t run out.”

The two of you enter with another mass of people, traveling through the miasma of secondhand smoke from the smokers. You cough, but Mary inhales deep, sighing. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you gape as you look around.

You and Mary stand on an open floor—which is what 5 or so floors look out onto all the way up. The place is crowded, but not jam packed. There’s a makeshift kitchen area where a dude in a bare chest and suspenders is accepting the toilet paper and libations. Above him is a white sheet that’s stretched out, on which an Art Film is being projected. The film has no sound because in the far corner there’s a DJ spinning, and a group of people are “dancing” to his jams. Mary was right: it’s like some kind of frat party for the artsy set. Because of the theme, most everyone is in a mask of some sort, and people—or groups of people—are making out in corners in various states of undress. 

Mary grabs two beers, then leads you to a staircase—there’s a freight elevator by it, but it’s got cheesy Halloween “do not enter” tape blocking it.

“The first year too many people loaded into it, and it dropped 3 floors before the emergency brakes kicked in,” says Mary as he notices where you’re looking.

In a loft on the second floor you and Mary watch a woman—nude and covered in white paint—become the canvas to her girlfriend’s landscape painting.

In what’s clearly a shared bedroom, you and Mary peruse some really great paintings and sketches from what must be a number of the co-op residents.

“You should have told me to bring cash,” you say.

“We can always come back. I know a guy.”

You imagine Mary’s probably winking at you.

On the third floor there’s an inexplicable open-air kitchen attached to a bathroom. In it there’s a dude doling out beer from a keg.

“What’s this,” Mary asks him.

“It’s my homemade IPA, dude! Pumpkin for the season!”

He hands Mary a business card.

“We have a small space in the boonies, but we’re trying to get a brewery up and running in the city. Red tape though, man.”

“I fucking hear that.” Mary takes a sip. “Good shit, dude.”

The guy high-fives Mary.

“One for your girl?”

Mary hands you the solo cup, and you take a sip. You were expecting something grassy and hoppy—but the pumpkin actually balances it out nicely without it itself being cloyingly sweet. When you nod, Mary just lets you have his and indicates to the brewer to pump another cup.

The two of you enter what you think might usually be a studio space, but instead there’s a burlesque performance going on. There are some people making out, but Mary and you watch, rapt, praising the skill of the performers to each other.

The fourth floor has the least amount of people. Someone is doing a reading in one corner, and across the way there’s some sort of performance art going on. A woman stands in a white shift and gauze. Every time a dude who looks like a Nazgul rings a bell, she contorts herself to a different pose with a dancer’s ease.

You roll your eyes, but Mary begs your patience—watching solemnly as she continues.

“What is it?” you ask when the set is clearly over.

“Did you not feel it?”

“Uh …”

Even through the pumpkin you can feel his eyes on you.

“She’s a dancing monkey. Bound and constrained, only ever allowed to perform at the whim of her faceless master.”

“Mary …”

“No—don’t scoff. That was meant for you. It’s an allegory for the patriarchy, and I for one found it quite moving.”

You guess you can see it now that Mary’s pointed it out to you. He takes off the pumpkin, and you hold it while he goes over to talk to the woman. You shift uncomfortably as they engage, and she grabs his hands, shaking them profusely. Mary suddenly points over at you, and the woman waves and motions you over.

“Oh my god, look at you!” she squeals. She turns back to Mary. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it—she looks just like you.”

“I liked your patriarchal allegory,” you say.

Mary twists his mouth at you, but the woman just presses her hands to her chest.

“Thank you so much. I’m testing it out here as a protest piece. A bunch of us are going to travel to different cities and perform outside of big corporations.” She grabs Mary’s wrist. “Your boyfriend is wonderful. His song about—”

“—my band’s song—”

“—the nature of performative gender roles is one of my favs.”

You have no idea which song she’s talking about, but Mary looks pleased. So you’re pleased. You wrap your arm around his waist.

“He is pretty great.”

She lifts her veil to chug the glass of water Nazgul hands her.

“It was so nice to meet you person to person, Mary. I’m going to find the ladies before my next performance.”

“Love your work, Lizzy. I’ll put you on the list for our shows. Show up anytime!”

She bows and shuffles backwards as Mary leads you away.

“You have no idea what song she’s talking about do you?”

“I—” you sputter. “Uh. Dead Things?”

Mary looks at you indulgently.

“I’ll let you think about it.”

It turns out that the 5th floor is off limits to party goers, so Mary—back in his Jack O’Lantern—and you wander down to ground level to acquire more beer and to join the crowd of dancers. At some point the two of you take a break to pee, then hydrate as you add your own dialogue to the film on loop above you.

Back on the dance floor, there’s some skanking, some goth writhing, and some line dancing as the DJ spins his own set and sprinkles in some crowd requests. At this point in the night, most of the attendees have already made passes through the upper floors and are now all on the dance floor. Mary does some goth stomping (his pumpkin abandoned and now being passed around), and you do a silly skank until you slip on a slick spot and fall on your ass. After that, Mary pulls you close and grinds against you, his thigh between yours, both of you buzzed from multiple trips to the bar.

“Do you wanna find a corner?” he whispers into your ear.

In any other situation you’d probably say no … but—for all the crowd is packed—this is clearly a private party, one whose hosts don’t frown upon a little bit of lechery. You guess he wasn’t kidding about the orgy, after all.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

It takes a little investigation, but Mary and you find a room that seems to have been either designated or usurped as the makeout room. There’s a writhing mass in one corner, and the bed is covered in rolling bodies. There’re some breathy invitations—and a hand or two lightly caresses your calf as you walk by—but no one insists on participation further than that. 

Mary yanks a pillow from the bed and tosses it to the floor. He pulls you down so that you’re both on your knees, his mouth capturing yours and his hands alighting everywhere. A hand of his sneaks down your skirt, and yours slithers down his jeans—the roving fingers of you each more a prelude than anything, stoking you both up to what’s next.

“Can I fuck you?” huffs Mary.

“Kinda drunk,” you say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No—just not gonna be very useful,” you giggle.

Because you wore the fishnets you’re not wearing underwear, so all Mary has to do is rip a hole in the crotch area—they’re not even good fishnets, so it’s not like there’s a liner to contend with. He grunts at your wetness.

“You sure?”

“Fuck me, Mary.”

He fumbles with his dick, finally managing to sink it into you. It’s a very awkward fuck—you’re lolling all about the place, and Mary isn’t being particularly steady.

At one point a light turns on only for a Sorry! to squeal out as it turns off again.

You try to swallow your laugh, but your jiggling belly can’t hide your reaction, and soon Mary is laughing too.

“Fuck … shut up … fuck,” he giggles. “I’m trying to get off here.”

You’re just catapulted into further fits, and before long Mary’s soft cock is slipping out of you as he joins you in snickering.

“Crap. I might be too drunk for this too.”

The two of you lay like that for a bit, a feedback loop of laughter, until your belly muscles ache.

“Fuck. Take me home, Suey.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say. 

After some readjusting, you both stumble out of the room. The crowd has thinned, but that’s not to say the dance party isn’t still going strong.

“We should get a cab,” you say.

“Cash?” Mary asks as you guys shuffle out of the building.

“App,” you say as you hold up your phone to poke at your cab app. “My card s’on file.”

“Fancy.”

“S’for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Like staying too late at a factory party.”

There’s a comedy of errors when the cab can’t find you and cancels, and you have to rebook—only to have the same cab automatically cancel your order again. Mary calls the number for dispatch, and they direct you out to a main street. The cab that picks you up is the same cab that voided your reservation twice, and he yells at you for giving him the wrong address.

You let Mary argue with him (content to doze on his shoulder)—the conclusion seeming to be that while you put in the correct address, the app didn’t like it and spit out a close, but different, pickup address.

By the end of the trip, however, the cabbie and Mary seem to be old friends. He lingers even after the driver validates your card, talking with the guy about where he’s from, until you tug on his arm.

“Sleepy,” you grumble into him.

The cab driver laughs.

“We are beholden to our women, yes?”

“Happily,” says Mary as he wraps an arm around you.

“Have a good night,” says the cabbie, and Mary just raps on the car, waving as it pulls away.

 “What a cool dude,” he says as the two of you shuffle toward your building.

“Mhm,” you mumble.

“Jesus, you’re useless when you’re drunk.”

There’s a lot of fumbling and stumbling, but you both finally make it into your apartment. Somehow Mary gets you into the shower, which you don’t even realize until it turns on, and you shriek when the cold water smacks you in the face before it has the chance to warm up.

“Why am I still in my clothes?!” you whine.

Mary pokes his head in.

“You fucking serious? You almost bit off my fingers when I tried to undress you!”

“I’m more than just sex!” you yell.

“Just fucking wash your face.”

“Kay.”

You fall asleep sitting in the shower, waking only when the water turns cold. It seems to have had a sobering effect, because you definitely feel more clear headed than when you entered—it’s not as funny to be slightly sober and peeling off your cold, wet clothes. Usually you give your teeth the full experience, but tonight (this morning?), you just give them a quick brush.

For all he seemed soberer of you two, Mary doesn’t seem to have fared much better. He managed to get his shirt off, but he’s lying on your bedroom floor—curled in a ball—still in his unbuckled jeans. It would be amusing—and maybe after sleep it will be—if you weren’t so wrecked. It’s a struggle tugging off his jeans, and he semi-wakes halfway through and starts to shiver.

“Wha—?”

He looks at you blearily.

“Help me get your pants off, Mare bear.”

He blinks down at his legs, then sort of squirms his legs to help you wiggle him out of the black denim. Luckily—disorientated as he is—he’s able to assist you in getting him into your bed; he conks out again the minute you trundle him under the covers. The night outside is lightening, and you know there’s no way you can work tomorrow. Today.

Whatever.

You shuffle into your living room and start up your laptop, blinking rapidly as it boots up. When it finally loads, you send off a missive to your supervisor about potential food poisoning you’ve contracted, but how you’ll check your email later this afternoon. You preemptively down some ibuprofen and sneak some of Mary’s Pedialyte.

Mary seems dead to the world when you climb into your bed, but he’s rolling over and wrapped around you as soon as you’re settled, huffing into your neck.

“Took the morning off,” you mumble.

He hums.

You’re in a good doze when he speaks, jarring you back awake.

“Had fun?”

“Yeah, Mare. Now, shh.”

He mumbles something into your neck, but it’s too incoherent and you’re too knackered to decipher it. You just relax into his koala embrace and let sleep take you.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[aurelacs]

Ten of Wands

An Ezra/F!OC Red Dead Redemption AU

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

CONTENT: smut smut smut finally there is smut i promise it’s in there, unprotected sex, once again i stand firmly in the camp that ezra is god’s #1 pussy eater, consent is sexy, this is the final chapter

A/N: Yeah this one went way longer than I intended. We have reached the conclusion of this little ditty, but don’t forget I still plan on an epilogue after this! Thank you everyone so much for reading. 

This is set in the Red Dead Redemption universe, however there’s no spoilers for either game, and you don’t need to have prior knowledge of the games to understand the fic. I’m just using RDR for the setting and the time period (1899). Hope you enjoy!

chapter list | masterlist | read on AO3

V. The Lovers

Dawn rose as Ezra and Annie sped away from Strawberry, Ezra pushing the limits on how fast his old war horse could go. Annie kept her arms wrapped tight around him. Her cheek pressed so hard into his back she thought she might sink into his spine. They didn’t stop riding until they were surrounded by trees high enough to block out most of the rising sun, close to where Annie killed her first deer. It was there that Ezra had set up camp amongst the craggy, moss covered rocks. Lucille was hitched to a tree that stood next to what Annie could only assume was her tent. When she looked inside, she saw her bedroll and her clothes already laid out, like she had never left. Ezra took notice.

“I wasn’t sure why you were gone for a spell; whether it was because you wanted to leave or someone took you, so I kept your tent up just in case you decided to make your way back. If you had left. Usually bounty hunters aren’t so clandestine in their pursuits, so you can see why I thought you might have just gone.” His words caught in his throat like he wanted to say more, but his body wouldn’t let him.

“Thank you, Ezra. Really.”

He smiled, a shy, contained one where he ducked his head to try and hide the blush that was making its way along his cheeks. As he started the fire, he assured her that it was safe. That he tested the spot they were in three times over to make sure that the smoke of the fire couldn’t be seen over the treetops, and that the light from it couldn’t be seen from the roads. He wanted to make sure she was safe, and she felt it. Annie slept, in peace, undisturbed, until the next morning as Ezra dutifully kept watch.

When Annie left her tent, Ezra was still awake, propped up on a tree with a rifle in his lap. He smiled up at her and greeted her with a good morning that dripped with honey. A tin can sat by his side, half full of what looked like brown sludge.

“Coffee’s shit. But it works,” he laughed.  He got up from his post and sat himself back down next to Annie as she tried to make a meal with what little provisions Ezra had left. The sleeves of their shirts brushed as Annie worked. She could feel Ezra’s eyes on her, following the curves of her face and settling on her jaw. 

“How long before you realized the hunters took me?” 

“Well, I went to Armadillo to make sure at the very least you were okay, and when I went into the general store, I did not see a woman who barely knows the backend of a shotgun from the front trying to rob anyone.” 

Annie shoved him on his shoulder, hard enough that the momentum sent him tumbling on his side in a fit of laughter. “When are you gonna let me live that down,” she chuckled. 

“I dunno. Maybe when you’ve earned it.” Ezra settled back up and focused his gaze on the small fire. “Maybe when you’ve grown past the skittish thing I first met back in Valentine. Wasn’t even sure if I was looking for the right woman at one point, on account of the fact that you let them take you without a fuss. That’s not the bird I’ve grown to know.”

“I figured they caught me fair and square.”

Ezra raised an eyebrow. “Very much not the bird I know.” 

Annie quietly mulled over her breakfast, not wanting to dignify him with a response despite its resounding truth. She didn’t know why she struggled to tell him why she let them take him, either. The words that came up her throat fell silently from her tongue. She decided to let the matter rest, and watched as Ezra voraciously ate his way through their meal. A pang of guilt rang through her as she assumed the possibility that he hadn’t properly eaten since she was taken. 

“The MacFarlane Ranch lies before Armadillo,” Ezra said, mouth full of beans, “but we will have to stop in town first before  getting you hired there.”

“And why’s that?”

“I have a friend that can procure you some papers to keep the hunters off your trail. It’ll also probably take us the rest of the day to get there so it’ll give us the chance to rest up some more.”

He urged Annie to finish eating so they could travel the roads without the burden of the growing desert sun, or possibly running into more bounty hunters or lawmen. They walked their horses through the dense forest until reaching a main road, the sun still trying to rise. The scenery still entranced Annie; how the biome seemed to change with each mile. She watched as the forest turned into rolling fields of wheat along the Great Plains. As they crossed a river, Ezra leaned back towards her.

“Welcome to New Austin, little bird.”

Riding further, the green that was supplied by the nearby river faded into the sandy desert Annie saw in her dreams. Armadillo was still a way off, but seeing it, hearing the sound of her horse’s steps change, filled her with a sense of peace. The sun had barely risen and already the heat bore down on them. Annie felt the temptation of just removing the work shirt she had on and letting the sun and everyone else see her nearly naked except for a sheer undershirt. She strained to see if Ezra felt any effect of the desert heat. When she looked up, she saw that he had removed his light overcoat, and was wearing just a cotton shirt, a couple buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display his tanned skin. Annie felt her mouth water for the first time in hours. She felt sweat ripple down her spine and they pressed on. 

Ezra wasn’t kidding when he had said that the MacFarlane Ranch was like a small town. The two only rode through the main road, but the ranch seemed to stretch on for miles. Immediately on their right was a large, faded house with a red roof that Annie assumed belonged to the family. A little past it was a grouping of small houses that belonged to the workers, and behind those was an area for the horses. Some of the workers nodded at them as they rode past. Ezra assured her they were almost to Armadillo. 

As they rode through the ranch, Ezra slowed to let Annie match his stride, and he began to tell her about the area, detailing the two towns and the areas surrounding it. They made their way down a road carved from a large cliff in an area he said was called “Hennigan’s Stead.” Along the trail were people who chose to make camp, and they all waved or nodded at the couple. The area being so populated worried Annie. He assured her that New Austin was more respectful of “outlaw ways” than West Elizabeth or New Hanover. 

“Most of the patrons of New Austin have bounties of their own, birdie. Our whereabouts are of an unknown variety here.” 

Annie tried to fight back tears as she and Ezra rode under the understated sign that simply read ‘ARMADILLO.’ It felt like a burden off her back, a weight so heavy that as it lifted she thought she might float away. Ezra directed her to the saloon at the very end of the town’s main and only road. She kept close to Ezra as he walked in. The population was less dense and diverse than Blackwater. It seemed to consist of mostly working people, cowboys and ranchers probably from the Ranch. Jaunty, upbeat music played from the piano in the corner and there were a few people dancing in the empty space between the bar and the tables scattered around the room. Ezra ushered them to the bar where he put down five dollars, enough for a stay at the hotel upstairs and drinks. 

“Promise me it won’t end up like last time,” Annie said as he told her the man he was meeting was in the saloon.

Ezra winked at her. “If the gentleman gives me what I require, there’ll be no need for quarrel.” He walked into a back room to the right of the swinging doors 

Annie sat at the bar and downed a shot of whiskey. Even the poor shelter from the faded, wooden building helped cool her down. She took a glance outside to check on her and Ezra’s horses, hitched at the side of the saloon next to a water trough. The events of Ezra’s prior shady dealings had her on edge, and she took another shot to calm her bouncing leg. No one seemed to pay her any mind. As she looked down the bar, she saw the faces of a couple other patrons just like her: tired, overheated, trying to pass the time. It was hard to keep her head down with the bartender routinely coming over to offer her more to drink, or other patrons bumping in to her to get closer to the piano. Every muscle in her body unclenched as Ezra took the seat at the bar next to her. He ordered a shot for himself and slid the presumed papers across the counter over to her.

“You probably won’t need them to get a job down at the ranch, but if hunters ever try and steal you up again, you can whip these out and say ‘I’m not Annie Cobb.’” He took a shot and slammed it down. “And they will have nothing to prove you otherwise. Congratulations, little bird.” 

They let themselves wind down, too exhausted from the heat to consider making their way back to MacFarlane’s. Ezra himself sounded unsure as he suggested it. With the finish line in sight, they chose to relax and use up the money Ezra had put on their tab. Day fell into night and the saloon soon filled up further than Annie thought possible. The music continued to play. Annie couldn’t remember if it had ever stopped.

“Let’s dance,” she said, her gaze fixated on the group of people square dancing in the middle of the floor. 

“I didn’t see you as the dancing type.” 

Annie stood and held out her hand for Ezra to take. She guided him to the makeshift dance floor, finding a rhythm that didn’t match what was being played. He stood by her, laughing at how out of time she was, and at how she ignored that everyone else was following an old square dance. After three shots, she felt it unnecessary to care how she looked, but after enough coaxing from Ezra, she took the time to learn the dance everyone else was doing. It involved swinging each other around the room. The idea excited Annie. When she thought she had enough of a grasp on it, she joined back in, letting the arms of strangers guide her around. It was thrilling. It felt freeing to be swept up in the joy of others. Her smile grew wider as Ezra eventually joined in. 

The music slowed tempo, and this time Ezra offered his hand to Annie. She folded into him, letting his hand settle right above her waist. He pushed their bodies closer together so their chests were touching and began to sway them to the beat. It gave her a chance to let her heart settle from racing, or so she thought. Goosebumps ran down her spine as she felt Ezra begin to rub his thumb up and down her back. They swayed there in silence, let the softness of the moment speak for itself. 

“They were going to hurt you.” Annie said it after a couple minutes. 

“Who?”

“The bounty hunters,” she whispered it low, so those around them couldn’t hear. “They told me to come quietly or they’d have killed you.” 

“I very well could have handled them, birdie.” She couldn’t stop thinking about how good his calloused hand felt in hers, or how the one on her waist seemed to engulf it. 

“With you fast asleep and a gun pointed to your head? I don’t think so.”

Ezra spun her in time with the music before returning her to his arms. “Why would that matter to you? My living or dying? I have spent my life as an outlaw, I might as well have gone out protecting someone. Doing something law-abiding with my time for once.”

“Don’t you get it, Ezra?” The alcohol and heat played tricks on her mind, made her more brave than she thought she needed to be to say anything. “I care about you. Greatly. More than I care to admit.” 

The two of them hadn’t stopped dancing. There was nothing but a distinct silence between them. Embarrassment took over her, and she wanted to hide, run into a random room in the saloon and not leave until morning rose and Ezra was gone. 

“If you don’t feel the same, I’d appreciate it if you would let go of me.” 

Ezra dipped her, one strong hand splayed across her back to keep her balanced, their noses almost touching. “Don’t be ridiculous, little bird. Why do you think I spent almost a month looking for you?” 

The music seemed to grow louder with each spin they made, Ezra holding her a little tighter with each flourish of their steps. Annie buried her face into the crook of his neck. His shoulder absorbed most of the joyous laughter that erupted from her body. She made it to Armadillo. He loved her. The candlelight chandelier shining down upon them felt like a blessing from God. 

“Kiss me.”

“Excuse me, birdie?” Ezra’s smirk could have lit up the whole room. The nickname set her heart ablaze as the whiskey coursed through her. Annie couldn’t stop looking at his lips and the way his top lip arched into a gentle bow. She reached her hand up, tempted to brush her thumb along his bottom lip, but opting to trace the scar that danced across his cheek. The rest of her fingers curved gently under his jaw.

“I said ‘kiss me,’ Ezra.” She stopped their dancing in the middle of the saloon to bring each other in to focus, her hand still on his cheek.

Ezra’s smirk grew into a smile, the glimmer in his eyes reminiscent of the one he had all the way back in Valentine. The low light of the saloon shined around him like a halo and his beauty overwhelmed her. This man who went out on a limb to help her, to save her, to not once mention what she had done. Who wasn’t afraid to say he knew her. He made her feel safe for the first time in so long, and she didn’t know what to do with this feeling. It hit her like a bolt of lightning when he smiled and leaned in.

He kissed her. Quick and chaste in front of what felt like the entirety of Armadillo. It happened so fast, it didn’t give her any time to react to it until his lips were already gone, a ghost across her mouth. The delivery, the circumstance, felt so insufficient for what Annie had been anticipating that it almost made her scream. As she opened her mouth to protest, Ezra took her hand from his cheek and guided her past the bar to the stairs. When Annie realized where Ezra was taking her, her hands began to tremble. A nervous ache crept into her stomach. She fought back the urge to yell at him, chastise him for wasting the one opportunity they might have had where she finally felt okay. Their room was at the very end of the landing, and the mix of elation and dread grew with each passing step until finally they had made their way inside and Ezra closed the door. He paused, noting the look on Annie’s face. 

“Are you alright? I hope this is okay. I wanted to afford us some privacy. I think it’s the least you deserve.”

Annie nodded, almost unable to look him in the eyes. 

“Do you still want me to kiss you?” A touch of concern leaked in his voice. Ezra had kept his distance, a couple steps away from where Annie stood with her hands folded in front of her. She looked up at him pleading, almost begging.

“Yes.”

Ezra wasted no time closing the space between them, their bodies molded together as though they were carved from the same stone. He took her hand in his and traced his thumb down her middle finger. He brought the hand to his lips and gave it a soft kiss, the air from his nostrils cascading down her knuckles. He placed the hand on his shoulder. Annie mirrored his action and moved her hands down a little lower so they laid on his chest. She took comfort in the feeling of his breathing. Through her palm, she could feel his heart racing. Ezra cupped her face in his hands and drew her close, their lips so close to touching that the feeling made Annie’s start to itch.

“My bird,” he whispered, before bringing her in for a kiss. 

This kiss lit every one of Annie’s nerves on fire until the pleasure nearly veered into actual pain. It had been so long since she was kissed, since she wanted to be kissed, that she already had to hold back a moan. It felt like taking her first drink of water. To hold him in her hands, to feel his calloused fingers caress her cheeks, to just be kissing him without fear: it overwhelmed her. Made small tears fall from her eyes and collect at the bridge of Ezra’s thumbs. 

Hesitantly, Ezra brushed them away. “Should we stop?”

Annie shook her head ‘no’ and pulled Ezra impossibly closer, running a hand up the back of his head to tangle in his unruly hair. There was a passion behind it that Annie could never remember feeling; an urgency she forgot could ever exist. When Ezra lightly dragged his tongue across her bottom lip, she moaned. A quiet noise that got caught in the back of her throat and made her cheeks flare in their warmth. She ran her hands down his trunk and back up again, stopping at the top button of his shirt.

“I am all yours.” Ezra’s hands moved and settled at her waist to give her room as she undid each of the buttons on his shirt, showing remarkable restraint. His skin was burning hot, slightly flushed from the alcohol and the attention he was receiving. It felt impossible not to stare. Annie felt the urge to stop. She wanted to lay him on the bed and drink him in for a week. Nothing explicit, just tracing her lips down his skin, counting every scar and freckle until the world inevitably ends. She knew he would oblige. Instead she brushed the shirt off of his shoulders and held him close again. She kissed him where his jaw met his neck, relished in the small sigh Ezra let out; peppering kisses all over his face until finally moving back to his lips. Annie mirrored his action and traced her tongue along his bottom lip until it elicited a moan that she felt reverberate in the back of her throat. Her hands moved from one spot on his body to the next, unable to get comfortable with just one soft patch of him. Taking his wrist, not separating from the kiss, Annie pulled Ezra forward, moving herself backwards toward the bed until it came into contact with the back of her knees, and she sat. Eyes level with the waistband of his pants and the growing bulge beneath them. As she went to unbutton them, Ezra stopped her, his hands gingerly removing hers. 

“Let me focus on you, birdie,” he said. He kissed her forehead and told her to move back onto the bed so her head lined up with the headboard. Ezra straddled her waist and leaned in for another kiss, this time more desperate, more urgent than the last. There was more tongue, a sense of neediness that Annie had never sensed from him before. Annie matched his pace, holding onto him as though removing his lips from hers was a death sentence. The room was so far from the commotion downstairs that the only sound in their small room was the chorus of moans they brought forth from one another. She gripped onto his shoulders, digging her nails in hard enough she knew they would leave marks. She could feel the heat growing between her legs. 

Ezra cradled the back of her head with one hand while the other deftly undid the buttons on her shirt. He worked his way up and down her torso, planting open mouth kisses and love bites everywhere he could find. Annie’s back arched as he dragged his teeth down her ribs, and he took the chance to do it over and over until it left her breathless. His hand slid beneath her undershirt, a finger teasing the underside of her right breast as he watched her for permission. All in his hand. He lightly rolled the nipple between his fingers and Annie cried out, far louder that she was intending, and she watched Ezra smirk from between her fluttering lashes. She grew even louder as Ezra’s tongue began to dance around her other nipple, the sensation flooding down to her core. He coaxed off her undershirt, Annie grateful for the cool air that brushed against her heated skin. Ezra continued his way down her body, lighting a fire with each kiss he planted. 

“Is this alright,” he asked, voice gritty with want, and he toyed with the button of her jeans. Annie nodded. He pushed them off of her, making sure his hands came into contact with every bit of her legs as they came down. Replacing his hand with his lips, he kissed his way back up her legs, slowly becoming more rough the closer he got to her apex. Ezra nipped and sucked at Annie’s inner thighs until she begged him to stop from the overstimulation. He responded by kissing his way to her core, ghosting his nose over her lips until her hips bucked, urging him to push forward. 

Ezra ran a thumb down her slit, already wet from his prolonged teasing. His tongue followed a similar path, up and down, avoiding her clit until she reached a point where she was starting to soak the bed beneath her. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, pulled her closer, and dove in. He moaned at the scent of her, nuzzled his nose onto her clit as his tongue sank into her. His hands rested on her hips, adding pressure every time they threatened to buck again. Annie, her eyes tightened shut for the most part, dared to open them and glance at Ezra. She nearly came from the sight. His eyes were darkened by a lust and hunger she had never seen from him before, his nose was shiny from her slick. She reached down to tug at his hair and he moaned against her.

“I thought I would have to bring down heaven itself to taste you,” he said as he came up for air for a moment and kissed her inner thigh. All Annie could do was moan and sink further into the bed. Ezra made his way back down, tracing another finger along her slit, and slowly sliding it between her folds. Annie hummed with pleasure as he began to slowly thrust it inside her. He curved it and slowly massaged the area until he knew he found her spot. It took everything Annie had to not kick him off of her to try and bring herself some relief. He slowly coaxed in another finger, working his tongue on her clit and continuing to fuck her with his fingers. It was like he was purposefully teasing her more, trying to keep her as close to orgasm as possible without actually making her come. Every time she thought she was about to, Ezra would change his pace, or adjust his hand, leaving her unfulfilled and close to exhaustion. Even though night had fallen, the desert remained heated, and Annie’s skin gleamed with sweat. 

“Ezra, please,” she panted. When Ezra looked up at her, she could’ve sworn he looked drunk.

“What’s wrong, birdie?” As he talked, he dragged slow circles around her clit. 

“Please let me come.” 

He huffed against her thigh in disappointment. “If that’s what my bird wants,” he said, his tone taunting and full of need. “How do you want it?”

“What do you mean?” Ezra crawled his way up towards her and kissed her, his tongue dragging along hers, making sure she tasted herself. 

“How do you want to come? I can keep playing with you down here,” he ran his finger between her slit again, “or we can get to the real fun stuff.” Ezra took Annie’s hand in his and guided it to his center where his cock was so hard she thought he might come from the contact alone. He sighed at the small release. It made her dizzy, thinking that she caused this. 

“I want you.” The speed at which she said it almost embarrassed her. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ezra smiled against her lips. He moved and pressed hot, fevered kisses along her jaw and down her neck. Annie watched in awe as he leaned up to take off his pants and underwear, her eyes trailing down his soft, scarred torso to the lush curls that swept down his navel to the length between his legs. The bed sank as he knelt over her, his body close enough to hers that she could feel the heat radiating from him. 

There was a tension in the air. A hesitation in Ezra’s actions that confused her while he hovered over her, unmoving. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Are you sure this is alright?” He brushed a strand of hair that had fallen to the middle of her face. The sincerity of his statement shone in the candlelit room, a glint of caution in his eyes that Annie appreciated, but the fire he had lit beneath her made her grow impatient. She dragged her nails down his chest, watching as the goosebumps followed down his skin. She took him in his hand and smeared the small amount of precome around his head. Guiding him to her entrance, Ezra raised his eyebrows, silently telling her he got the hint. He pushed in slowly, carefully, letting her adjust to every part of her. Annie relished in how he stretched her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had sex. Before she killed her husband, she had been managing to hold him off for a couple months. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it. A moan arose from her throat, a low mewl that encouraged Ezra to proceed. 

She rose her hips up to meet his, legs lazily wrapping around his hips as he began to thrust into her. It was hard for her to contain her moans with him filling her up so perfectly. Ezra leaned his head down so that his mouth was next to her ear. The combination of his own moans and his words of adoration made her mind fuzzy. Calling her things her husband never called her, saying things her husband never said: beautiful, mine, perfect, celestial. Ezra cradled the back of her head in one of his hands.

“I have been thinking of this far longer than I’d like to admit,” he whispered, picking up the pace a little. “Been dreaming about you, and your pearlescent smile, and how your hair smells, and the feeling of you around me.” He softly bit on Annie’s shoulder. His voice, praising her, loving her, laced with lust brought her close to orgasm again. Her hips found his rhythm and matched him, causing him to throw his head back. “Fuck. My sweet bird.” 

Ezra leaned back and propped one of Annie’s legs over his shoulder, allowing him to reach deeper. She knew she wouldn’t be able to last long from there as the angle meant that he could hit her spot over and over. Her left hand ran through his hair while the other snakes down between their bodies and began to rub at her clit. The pleasure built as Ezra continued to thrust into her, suck marks into her skin, whisper praise in her ear, until she saw white. 

He brought her lips to his and swallowed her cries of pleasure, his hips stuttering as he followed soon behind. In that moment, the world could have ended and Annie would have laid there in utter contentment. Ezra rolled off of her with a sigh. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled them together so they were face to face. The night had finally cooled, and she was grateful for his warmth.Annie could do was let out a breathless please before Ezra took it in his hand, gently kneading it 

Annie’s mouth moved, trying to find the correct syllables to properly convey how she felt. It was bliss. A slice of heaven she never thought she would have. She wanted to tell Ezra she loved him, let the words vibrate in her throat and watch his smile grow again, perhaps have him again, in the reverie they created. The sentiment fell apart, Annie still too breathless to get her point across. It didn’t matter to Ezra, who had been watching her the whole time. He still smiled, and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss softer than she expected.  

“You have a big day tomorrow, little bird. You should get some rest.” Ezra climbed out of the bed to blow out the candles surrounding them. When he returned, he pulled the quilt over them and molded himself to the curves of her body, tucking her head underneath his chin.  

Hopefully, I will be long gone by the time you read this. 

Annie wanted to burn the letter the second she read it. A crushing sadness gave way to a blazing anger that translated in the heavy steps she took as she descended out of the saloon. In the letter was ten dollars, enough for her to buy some provisions and a stagecoach to the ranch if she didn’t feel like making the trip on horseback. She figured the day was early enough, and the distance short enough, that she would be able to make it to the ranch before it got too hot again. Her heart couldn’t help but sink when she approached Lucille and didn’t see Ezra’s horse beside her. She grew mad at herself. What was she expecting? For him to stay with her? She knew he was one of those “once an outlaw, always an outlaw” types. Ones who had been caught up in the lifestyle for so long that getting them to leave would have been impossible. It still stung.

At one point, I did consider settling down alongside you, but I decided that the MacFarlane Ranch was not a place best suited for the likes of those like me. I thought it best to leave you, and therefore leave you untethered to the past you are so close to escaping.  Also, there are apparently five bounties on my head, and staying with you would only cause more trouble that you don’t deserve. 

All the trouble he went through to help her. The time spent simply getting her to this point. It almost felt like a waste. Did he think she wouldn’t do the same for him? Surely he could have made his own papers as well. The man in Valentine said the MacFarlane’s were always hiring. Ezra said he wouldn’t have minded dying protecting someone. Doing something “law-abiding.” He could have protected her on the ranch. Somehow. By that point, she would have done anything to keep him close by.

I hope, for your sake, our paths don’t cross again. To keep you safe. I know you’ll be fine. You were strong when I met you, and you’re even stronger now. 

It wasn’t hard to find the right path to the ranch, even if the same stretch of sand went on further than she could have comprehended. There was constant traffic that appeared to be coming and going, especially in the morning. Annie made way for the few carriages that made their way down Hennigan’s Stead, each filled with specific produce from the ranch. Before this, long before she married her husband, she wanted to be a teacher. A small hope in the back of her mind blossomed at the idea that maybe the ranch’s population was vibrant enough to necessitate one. She wanted to push it out, acknowledging that nearly every dream she had didn’t come to fruition. 

She hated to say it. 

She hoped to see Ezra again. 

The ranch was bustling as Annie finally reached it. More wagons traveled down the main road that housed the family home. A group of cowboys rode out towards Stillwater Creek. She jumped down from Lucille and took her lead, trying to find someone in charge. Everyone pointed her over to the horse stables and told her to ask for a man named Amos. 

“Where you from?” The question startled her as a man approached her from behind. 

“Tumbleweed.” It was a larger town way out past Armadillo. Ezra told her it would be the safer choice to say if they asked. He worried that Valentine was too far for anyone to be traveling there for a job. He wanted to keep her safe. 

“What’s your name.”

“Annie.”

He reached out his hand for her to shake and she took it obligingly. He introduced himself as Amos and she immediately told him she was looking for a job. 

“You good with a gun?”

“Yessir.”

Amos eyed her up and down cautiously. She knew she wasn’t exactly dressed the part, but with the money Ezra gave her, and the money she was bound to make from the ranch, she figured she’d be well integrated in no time. “You got a horse already, so that makes my life a little easier. How’s about we start you off with nightly patrols and see how you do from there.”

Annie adjusted the rifle slung on her shoulder. “I’ll take whatever you can give me.” 

They shook hands, and silently agreed on a deal.

Good luck, my darling Annie Bird.

Tag List: @immundusspiritu @borderlinedindjarin @aforces

[calamitousrpgarchive]

THE DEATH HUNT IS ON

The North, South, East and West rooms divide in ways that none expected; bring death in a manner that’s pointing in everyone else’s direction. A race against time that puts all in the wake of the Reaper’s scythe. Where tensions rise, creatures; mortal and immortal are forced to solve riddles and puzzles as though they aren’t decades old enemies with blood on their minds. 

Within the Laundry Room in the East. A Mer; Queen Aviana Zander lies dead, mutilated for all to see; a prop that assists with the task of escaping the room that begins to flood the closed space from leaking machines; rigged to drown the room and all those standing in it. A code to answer the murderer of the monarch clearer to some than it is others. Lylia Barnett, Lilian Deumos and Azagi despite their differences, tackle the message; solve the order of which the machines need to be switched off, leave on the broken one to allow the wall to shift; lead to a staircase that take them upwards and out of the room...

Meanwhile, North, in the Bar/Dining Room, a sorcerer; renowned Necromancer Zederrin sits still at a table, left carvings to hint at his killer; so some assume. But someone - or something, has laid waste to the powerful magician and in his death lies answers that are overlooked; things staring them in the face that panic and chaos cover all too well. Because poisonous smoke fills the room with speed Iyzk Vissar, Aiden Kinsey,  and Haylee Dubois all attempt to decipher the morse code carved into the table, put together it’s message to open the found safe... inside; a wormhole; endless... leads further into the depths of the hotel, and they crawl through in hopes of escaping the smoke and finding an exit...

Upstairs, on the Southside of the hotel, in one of the more recluse of Bedrooms, a horror scene is recreated where Enoch; a Fallen Angel hangs, back muscles spread like bloodied wings where the real ones should be. Claw marks split skin like butter at the front and open up organs to visible view, most dangle from designated cages and spill browning blood onto the floor. With the combined efforts of Zyler Fane, Giselle Stoneheart, Darcy Darkwood, and Luella Edwards, they reorganise the dice; insert the missing ones scattered amongst the room; read it; trigger the completed mechanism and from the far side of the room; the magical lock on the window is released, a ladder is found on the side of the building; at height, their only option is to climb...

In the West Basement, where heat brings down the wallpaper, the creatures battles flames to find an exit to their room around the dead Court Offical; Xantho Vale. Cryptic messages cloud their minds and the fires are unforgiving to those taking too long... it’s not obvious to the ones trying to solve it: Morgana Maddox, Ezekiel “Zeki” Amari, Evanora Bile, Harley Xhanthi all fight against time to get answers; the message rings clear; but not evident in visuals; a sound that is only heard when a sense is turned off; eyes like oil; to see darkness like a demon allows those in the room - the ones not panicked to listen amongst the roaring of flames for whispered message: you cannot see the door, but it is there...

Where they make themselves blind, there’s an opening in jagged basement walls where they can walk through, tackle staircase away from the fire and elsewhere...

AND IT ALL LEADS TO ONE PLACE

In waves, the survivors are forced upwards; to the roof of Elysium Circus; if they were not so worn, injured and hungry, they might have even appreciated the view. 

They can almost see all of Calamity beneath ash and smoke; through foggy vision and see all sides of the State and its divide. 

But like everything that night, it’s not the most breath-taking sight that meets monstrous eyes. Not like the large stretch of chimney that plays canvas to a new kind of dark artwork; fingers, same as the ones in the very first lockbox are nailed into the bricks; a particular pattern; four of them in fact that form the alchemic symbols that represent far more than anyone knew...

Because if anyone translated them instead; they’d have known to never speak the hexes in each room aloud. And every single one of them did...

It’s not a puzzle anymore; there’s no trickery at play; no final boss that the injured have to stand-off to because they’ve already lost. 

All that’s left is to decide who loses the most. 

And to remember that some found the answer on a rag long before they knew the question or situation posed... one sacrifice to save the masses ... or so the concise version goes... 

Whilst all four hexes have been spoken aloud, activated by the one who set the traps to begin with, formed of severed fingers; the bloodied handiwork already complete, there’s gaps in the completed symbols; four finger sized ones in each hexed symbol. 

Funny those puzzle pieces were provided to everyone at the beginning too... only, who’s got control of them? One finger went into each room; every group to decide which of the four hexes are to be completed to allow them to leave Elysium Circus in one piece... And those murders they walked past; ignored in some cases give them the answers to who might deserve to be cursed. 

Because they must decide to complete one of the four hexes; each attached to one side of the State of Calamity; each more detrimental to some species than others...

If they don’t... well... what do you think? 

Better figure out who deserves to be maimed; what each hex and curse enacts upon Calamity in the last fight of puzzles and all creatures have to agree on it; four rooms with different thoughts about who’s part of the group responsible, but they’ve only got four fingers to complete one of the curses

Unless of course... they want to sacrifice their own fingers to complete more...

MAKE A DECISION; SACRIFICE ONE FOR THE MASSES OR SACRIFICE NONE AND LOSE THEM ALL.

ADMIN NOTE: This is the penultimate part of the Halloween event! The conclusion is up to you from here! But any more drops will just be the result of the decision(s) you make guys! You made it. YOU LIVED. You’re on the Elysium roof and with the fingers each group has from the lobby you must decide which of the hexes/curses you will bring upon Calamity; oops.

All you hard effort and brain juice has brought you here and now, from what you have gathered, discovered and figured you must pit it amongst yourselves who’ll be blamed for the oncoming suffering. Which will it fall on, the East, the North, the South or the West. They don’t all react like you might think they do, so pick wisely...

If nobody picks. You’ll all suffer. 

As per usual, any questions about the craziness, please let us know & we’ll fill you in! If you genuinely want to do more than one, please be aware you’ll have to sacrifice characters fingers... no, you cannot reattach these appendages this time around. Even with magic. 

It’ll officially conclude Sunday November 8th 18:00EST/23:00GMT, you may of course continue all threads!

THANK YOU ALL FOR BEING SO AWESOME AND MAKING HALLOWEEN A RIDE!

[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

Sunshine

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x OC (Evelyn “Evie” Blaker)

Warnings: None

A/N: For the first time since I started this whole writing adventure, my posting schedule has caught up with my writing and I’m currently working on part 8, with a possible part 9.  The end is in sight, y’all.

Reminder:  I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit.  I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tags:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @beskars​ , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito​ , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale  

[PART 1]  [PART 2]  [PART 3]  [PART 4]  [PART 5]  [PART 6]  [PART 7]

Part 8 

Beg for Forgiveness

The great thing about telling people you aren’t available for a whole week was that no one will come looking for you when you want to be alone.  That meant that Evie could stay home and let herself cry without having to pretend everything was okay around her co-workers or anyone else.  It also meant she could ignore her phone and keep it turned off.  As a person who wore her emotions on her sleeves, she just wanted time to work through this without interruption.

There was a part of her that hated that she, a woman in her late thirties, was crying over a man like a simpering college co-ed. That she was feeling so broken hearted over Maxwell Lord of all people, a man she wasn’t even dating!  At least not dating in the traditional sense.  And they had only known each other the better part of three months.

Her brain kept screaming at her that he called her a whore, a bitch in heat.  He had been unnecessarily vicious to her, even manhandled her to the point that she was bruised.  Her fingers brushed her upper arm and she could feel the tears forming again.  She ought to hate him with her whole being.

But she didn’t.

Yes, it had only be about three months, but she felt everything so deeply and rather quickly, too.  And she had thought he felt it as well based on how he acted most of the time.  She always found herself thinking that everything about what they did together felt right to her, like she was supposed to be laying next to him, talking about their day.  That when she had been at the zoo, she couldn’t help but think a gorgeous hand carved wooden lion would have made a perfect addition to his desk. Those little things people who care for one another do for each other.

She dated periodically over the years and had a few serious relationships. Her last one ended when she found him in bed with a woman she never met before.  That relationship had been almost four years and yet the sadness she felt now was miles beyond what she had felt then.  It’s why she let herself have these long moments in bed and let herself cry.  

She laid in bed for hours before she forced herself up and into the shower.  As she let the warm water cascade over her exhausted body, she forced the last words out of Maxwell’s mouth from her mind.  She’d allow herself another day to mull over this before she formed a game plan. Although, she couldn’t be sure what that game plan was quite yet.

---***---

You get a taste of the high life and then just go running around, throwing yourself at people like some common whore?!”

“I saw you throwing yourself at Eric!  Rubbing up against him like some bitch in heat!”

The stubble along Maxwell’s jaw and cheeks was itchy, but the whiskey he had been drinking continuously since Thursday numbed him to any sensation but his self-hatred as his words continued to echo in his brain.  It was Sunday morning and he had been trying for almost three days to get ahold of Evie, but her phone went directly to voicemail and she never answered her texts.

He had been out of his mind with worry but the folio on his desk told him she was safe at home and exactly where that home was.  He stared at it, almost as if he could, through some weird psychic connection, will Evie to call him.  He knew that wasn’t possible, of course and he had sat on the information since Friday.  

Maxwell debated with himself on whether he should go to see her or not, but every time he thought he should, he held back.  For the first time in a long time, he was scared.  Scared that she’d hate him, but a small part of him was scared that she would be willing to forgive him because he felt unworthy of her love no matter how badly he craved it.

He pulled himself out of the chair in his study and wandered into the kitchen.  Marnie had left him something to eat, but he had no appetite.  Instead, he stood there, staring aimless out the window while leaning against the counter.  Things felt off-kilter since she left and if he was being deeply honest with himself, it probably was before she entered his world.  Instead, she had been this force that seemed to just pull everything together and it had been so impactful over the last few months that if she never came back, he wasn’t sure what his life was going to look like without her.

Looking at the clock, he realized that if he was going to do something, he had to decide now.  Stop being a damn chicken shit and go see her, that voice inside his head screamed at him.  He pushed himself off the counter and went upstairs to shower.  If he was going to see Evie, he wasn’t going to smell like a bar or look like death.

She deserved better.

---***---

Evie sighed as she stood in her kitchen, the fridge wide open. Nothing stood out to her and she wasn’t very hungry anyway.  With a groan, she closed the door and wandered into the living room.  From the large windows, she could see her dog, George, running around the yard, chasing the birds and she smiled briefly.  

She debated getting him from the kennel early, not wanting to talk with the chatty lady who owns it, but she needed his puppy love right now.  He had been excited to see her, as always, and he snuggled against her as she laid in bed crying the last two days.  But the beautiful fall day was too much, and he bounced out of the doggie door to do his patrol around the yard, leaving Evie alone inside.

She still felt restless and she wandered through the house, not really looking at anything.  Her home was on the outskirts of the city, located on the Hudson River, and she called it her haven for nearly a decade now.  It was a small, two-bedroom clapboard home with large windows and all its original woodwork meticulously restored by Evie and her father.

But today, this cozy space felt less of a haven and more like a cage. As she continued to pace, she debated joining George outside and doing some raking, hoping the physical exhaustion would overwhelm the emotional.  But before she could do anything, she watched as George paused and began barking, running towards the side fence.

Just as the dog began his vocalizations, she heard a car door slam outside.  Knowing that no one knew she was home yet, she walked to the hall closet and dragged out her trusty baseball bat.  As she turned around, a knock sounded on the door and she stopped, confused.  What burglar knocks on the door?  When she heard the knock again, she walked over to look out the side window.  Her jaw dropped when she saw Maxwell standing on her porch.

He was here.

And she was relieved.

She yanked open the door and stood there gawking at him, the surprised look on her face hard to hide.  Prim and proper suit-wearing Maxwell Lord was standing on her porch wearing jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt.  She had never seen him so casual and she stayed with him for four days.  He was clean shaven, though, and later she would be a little sad not to see his beard once she learned of it.  She could see hints of exhaustion around his eyes, his laugh lines deeper than usual.

He stood there, looking sheepish and unsure of himself as Evie looked at him.  But he smartly kept his mouth shut and patiently waited for her to tell him to go or to stay. Despite everything, there was nothing particularly awkward about their silence and after a beat, Evie jump and opened the screen door, waving him in.  He saw the bat in her hands as he stepped inside and raised an eyebrow when he looked at her face.

“I’m a single woman living on my own.”  She shrugged before propping it against the wall to be put back later.

“I’m glad you have it.”  That deep voice she loved so much seemed to seep through her and Evie felt a little shiver skitter across her skin.  She closed the door behind him as he stood in her living room, looking around.  It was quaint, filled with books and photos of friends and family.  He noted she loved textile art as he continued to take it all in.  Everything about it felt warm and inviting, making Maxwell feel like he could sit in here, next to her, forever.  He then spotted George through the window and smiled.

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”  He walked closer to the window.  George had gone back to his patrols after the weird man disappeared.  As they looked out, they watched him as he stood, staring through the fence as a boat lazily passed by on the river.  “Why didn’t you bring him with you?  I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Yeah, that’s my baby.”  She walked up beside him and tapped on the window.  The dog jerked his head up and looked towards the house, his curled tail wagging.  “I didn’t want to impose, not everyone likes dogs in their personal spaces.  Besides, he has a best friend at the kennel, and I felt they could use some time together.”

“What is he?”

“The shelter said he was a shar-pei mix.  But he’s pure-bred dumbass most days.”  They watched as he turned towards the house, running straight into a tree. They both started to laugh, and the dog backed up and walked around before bounding across the yard and in through the doggie door.  

George ran up immediately to Maxwell and began sniffing him, the tail still wagging.  He bent down to pet the dog and was rewarded with several licks to the face.  He laughed and kept petting George before the dog decided he needed a nap and ran to the bedroom.

“I’m assuming you’re here to talk.”  Evie’s voice was low, and Maxwell grew serious again as he stood up.  He towered over her and something about it sent little quivers to her belly.  He nodded and she nodded back before waving at him to follow her into the kitchen.

He sat at the table and watched as she moved comfortably through the space, putting together drinks and food before setting them down.  She sat across from him and he could see how worn she was, and it cut through his heart, compounding his guilt and sadness even more.  She didn’t deserve that, and he didn’t deserve her.  They sat there for a moment; hands wrapped around steaming mugs of tea. She spoked first.

“Why would you even think that let alone say it?”  Evie sat back as she crossed her arms and looked at him.  She saw him wince and his head dropped lower as his shoulders curled in.  She was surprised to see him so. . . beaten down.  This man, who exuded power and confidence, sat across from her looking and sounding worn out.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You got that right.”  She sipped her tea as he nodded.  He looked up and she could see how haunted his eyes were, her heart clenching because she knew that same look was in her eyes, too.  His body language told her that he was sorry, but she needed to hear it from his mouth.  He sighed deeply.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me for hurting you.”  His eyes flickered down to the bruise on her arm, exposed thanks to her short-sleeved shirt.  “I acted like a jackass and treated you terribly.  You didn’t deserve it.  And I’m sorry.  I’m so fucking sorry, Evie.  I’m so fucking sorry.”

The rawness of his voice carried the wetness of tears and she could see him looking up at the ceiling, trying to will them away.  She could feel a lump growing in her own throat at the scene. Before she could say anything else, he kept going.

“I don’t know why I did it, why I felt so jealous.  But the idea of you being with someone else when I want you all to myself gets me twisted inside. I’m pretty sure I love you, Evie.”  Her jaw dropped and she nearly did the same thing with her mug had it not been for the table.  He rushed on.  “I know that’s no excuse for the way I behaved!  I’m not excusing that!  But I had to tell you.  I needed you to hear it.  I don’t expect you to love me back, which would probably kill me, but I really need for you to know that I’m sorry, that I love you, and that I want you in my life.”

Maxwell looked down at his hands and noticed they were shaking, although he wasn’t sure which of the eight hundred emotions running through him was causing it.  He clasped them together, hoping to still them as the silence from Evie dragged on. It was so quiet; he could hear George snoring in the bedroom and the clock in the living room ticking away. He so desperately wanted to look up at Evie, but something told him to keep looking down until she said something.

Evie stared at the blond hairs on the top of Maxwell’s head, almost glimmering in the afternoon sun.  She was sure he could hear her heart hammering in her chest.  He loved her.  He loved her.  He loved her.  It was like her brain stopped processing everything after he said those words and her heart clenched painfully in her chest.  He fucking loved her.

She slowly got up from the table and walked around to him, getting on her knees.  His head was still bowed, and his eyes closed, as if bracing himself for bad news. When she placed her hands on his, he still didn’t open them.  She had never seen him so emotional and it crept into her heart.

“Max.  I love you, too.”

[zafaria]

The After-life

every good intention is interpolation, a line we drew in the array, clinging to the faces, clinging to the shapes in the silence // study in joy, study in grief working with the aftermath of the events in dragonspyre // read it on ao3

There was an oak coat hanger by the door, with a tall knobby top and three spokes sticking out at right angles from each other. The one side without the spoke went up against the wall. The piece stood as tall as its owner, and it was perfect. It was regal, deep wood with swirling grain, art nouveau flourish and curves, and, it so happened, that in the days of its use, three spokes was exactly the number needed for everyone to have a spot for their things.

The spoke closest to the hallway was hung with a golden key on a ring, the only one on the lonesome hoop. Sometimes he’d leave his shoes under it, lined up toe to toe as he stood in his kitchen with the narrow countertops and boiled a kettle on a burner covered in piping. The spoke next to it would have, in the past, held another key ring and a black staff as short as a cane would be propped up against the legs of the coathanger. And the one closest to the door would have a cloak on it. She hung her cloak there and took her shoes off as soon as she could upon entering because she never wanted to drag the dirt from gardening throughout the house. 

They’d visit, they’d say for an hour, but it dragged into two and three and sometimes four. Sylvia would ask about the shriveling little garden in the back, and whether the tea was ever picked from the garden, but it never was. He bought it from the Bazaar. It was always imported, from some unimportant and unheard of place; the Aeriel Jungle or Cloudburst Forest. They didn’t know where these places were, and settled for imagining little farm beds of tea leaves growing in a space between the trees where the sunlight broke through the roof of the forest. That was good enough. They’d imagine some orange flowers and bright rocks and critters when they tasted the spice in the tea.

His brother always listened attentively in these conversations, but it was clear he didn’t know much about gardening, or growing one’s own tea plants, or even different tea varieties. He didn’t really take to testing different flavors and always did the same thing with the tea Cyrus made for him: two sugar cubes, a spoonful of honey, and a quarter-cup of milk, whether the tea was minty, spicy, lavender, or already dizzyingly sweet.

He would keep the low table in front of the sofa clear for all the fixings to be laid out back then. Now, it was covered over in books and newspaper clippings. He hadn’t had the time to keep up with his collections and sift through them all. They just languished and waited for him, year after year, covering over the coffee table. There wasn’t any need for it anyways, there were never any guests, no shared tea, no need for fixings. Sometimes Cyrus’s orthrus Harry would get onto the table, but quickly found it to be unnavigable with the stacks of books and hopped off after leaving a little pile of drool on a page. He’d turn one of his posy-red heads to Cyrus and bark a shrill cry like he was proud of what he had done. Cyrus would pat him on both heads and continue working at his desk.

Sometimes he wondered if he should ever have tried to start tea up with some others, if there were other professors or former students he could try catching up with but, no, that was their thing together. He longed for the days where he had little incentive to clean up his squat little two-story house, shoved in between others and narrowed down. He wondered if other students looked at him and knew this was the kind of house he might have kept, or if they even wondered at all. Sometimes the professors would invite the more accomplished students for tea, to show them gardens or loan them rare books and then gush about those very texts. Cyrus never invited students for holiday feasts like Balestrom, never hung around his office after classes as long as Falmea, never tried to recommend his more gifted students books from his own personal collection. He packed up at the end of every day of classes and left. And he wondered if that ever seemed to bother any of the students, or if they were so naive they never did pick up why he hadn’t. 

A few of the older myth and storm students and one of the theurgists were riding around Golem Court one day in a giant pumpkin they had carved out and enchanted as a carriage for them all; it ended up looking a bit like an overburdened wagon with oversized toddlers clinging to it. They raced up and down the street for fun, laughing, wild, boisterous and loud, too many of them clinging to the giant gourd, catching angry glares from the adults sweeping up at their porches. They giggled and giggled and nearly flopped over when they caught the toes of their feet on the sidewalk, and they paced back and forth up and down the street with skinned knees and rosy cheeks and wide, toothy grins. 

And then they saw him.

They saw him hobble over to the post-box, the flag partially raised, as is it had been full, really full, for a long while but no one checked on it and it got tired of raising the little red widget. And then they saw him take a stack, almost as big as the ones for all the exams he’d bring into them everyday, from that little mailbox with the rust clinging on the edges, and they wondered for a moment if professors just got a lot of mail or if they were just too busy to check for it often or something else of the sort. And while they wondered about the nature of professors and mail, Cyrus in his lemon yellow robes and a pair of plan brown sandals hobbled back to the door and closed it. And the light in the front windows went out.

The house sat in stark greyness; the bricks, the shingles, the window panes with the drawn and heavy curtains, all grey, all muted, all unassuming. 

Those students, in the way that students usually do, knew that there was something deeply wrong happening. But it was an implacable, intangible wrong. They would watch Cyrus carefully in the classroom and as he came and went and how he walked and how tall he stood and whether he handed exams back with more force or fearsomeness or fatigue than the last time. Every little thing, they would pick it apart for clues. They looked even to the other students, even to the ones who slunk silently in their seats in the back, hoping, probing, maybe they knew something. It filled their lunchtime chatter in the commons, the kind of chatter that was ever-present, scheduled even, but had to die down and turned into hushes and whispers whenever others walked by. For the sake of preserving whatever dignity or grief their professor was struggling with.

And Cyrus knew but also didn’t quite know this was what was happening. He hadn’t seen the students that day on the street, but he saw them watching more peerlessly, eyes wider, fewer people nodding off and more contemplative faces. He knew that these weren’t about the lessons though, no one's grades were changing, and there was a difference in their eyes and their posture and even the way they fidgeted when they listened to what he was saying and when they listened to everything else about the room in those moments. 

Of course, he also saw one of his students, prosperous, quiet, and just as grief-stricken as him, sitting in the back. Sometimes she slept, or, at least, pretended to. She used to doze off, the way someone does when they get lost in a daydream and then tired by way of imagining. She instead never seemed like she wanted to be looked at. She kept her head down because she was tired. Tired of being. And Cyrus knew why, and also, didn’t really know why.

The classroom, despite his lecturing, was always so still in those moments when he saw his students, her, slinking into their seats, like breath that was being held in, like the wind rushing in through the windows and taking all the sound out through the two double doors. Sometimes he thought he saw them wobble or heard them creak. He thought he’d see her in the back of the classroom lift her head a little, or maybe the wind rustle her hair. He looked at the windows to see if he had left the open, but they never were. He wondered if this was the same feeling the students had when they had to hush their conversations about him in the Commons as the other professors and respectable adults walked by. If this was the same feeling that the younger wizard had when she clambored out of bed every day or tried to sleep finally at night, amidst haunts and fright.

That stillness followed him back to the house, although a bit quieter, more relieved, the wind gone for the night and nothing but stale dust in the air. People had said that pets sometimes knew grief, and even loud little Harry would rush up to him, but stop short and stare in a wincing, disappointed way at Cyrus’s shoes. Harry turned corner and returned back to the living room and his favorite coffee table and wormed his way under it, while Cyrus moved phantom-like through to the kitchen to start dinner for the night.

One night he did his routine, came into the house with his head in a mire and hanging low, watched as Harry hopped off to the table again, and floated back through the long, narrow hallway with the tattered green runner and creaking floorboards. He found himself in his kitchen. He always did. And many times before he would wash his hands in the sink before starting dinner, let the water run a little longer as he thought. He’d bend down, pull open the cupboard under the sink, check to see his tea kettle was still there as the water above it continued running. Then he’d close the door again. Maybe tea wouldn’t ever be ready again.

The next day was a holiday, as Professor Balstrom had some telegraphing business to attend to and Professor Falmea needed time to work on an exchange program. Ravenwood was moving on, growing, weblike, and Cyrus was still there, teaching in his usual way and hoping that the students never noticed, or at least never cared, that he kept assigning them work that was more and more droning and brainless than the last time; that his lessons from before with rigor and sly questionings of “Are you sure?” and “Is that right?” weren’t missed, or even noticed as missing.

The students, they do notice these things. They were thankful for the easier work, but worried about the Myth Professor, their Myth Professor. After their calculated observations over the course of a few days, and rigorous planning during those hushed lunches, they finally had time during the holiday to begin their work. One of the older students, the same one that slumped in the back of the classroom, had a nice, if old, barnhouse with a square iron stove that had a large, flat top the size of a bed, and smoothed out and light pine cabinets ringing all the way around the main room. She saw her chance to do, well, something, anything. She invited everyone from her class over. She had been gone a while, out on some errands or something important, but they never got to talk to her about these things, just observe her pale, drooping face afterwards. She moved so swiftly through worlds, there was never a stable postbox to reach her at. So she relished in the ability to finally be among friends, not people who grabbed her wrists to drag her to dark crevices, or reach for her guts to pull out, but people who used their hands to knead dough and pick vegetables from the garden and hold perfect apples up to the sun, who used their hands to hold and hug and hope. And they would make fine guests, a light of their own, surrounding the large woodblock island in her kitchen, doing all those things: kneading and sorting vegetables, and holding, and hoping. Like a beacon, like a great altar, the kitchen was where one of the oldest rituals could be done: cooking.

And it was a ritual, of sorts. It was an unspoken community, the people who cared enough for the professor to rise early and come to a foreign house that stood all big and vacant and dusty, and make themselves at home in that open, echoey place. Their chatter filled the wide and lofty spaces of the old house, their voices almost as yellow and light as the sun coming through the windowpanes. They had wicker baskets of eggs white and brown and splotchy and smooth, bags of flour and sugar sitting at the ends of the counter in buckets, and little brown-bottles of vanilla extract. Somewhere around there on that island, by the sink, there was also a jar of Marleymite, and some of the other foods more subjective to taste. They emitted a warmth hotter than the oven.

So they wiped down their hands, the more than a dozen standing around the kitchen, forming a line at the sink like they would have to when younger, taking turns passing the soap holder back to take a dollop of it, then give it to the next person as they stepped forward to the running water. And the first person went to the flour with a big glass mixing bowl. They grabbed the little iron shovel scoop from one of the drawers and started filling in the bowl with the flour, like someone frantic but determined filling a sandbag before a sea storm. And then a hand reached from the side and pushed the eggs in front of the person scooping flour, and they looked up to the girl who had passed the eggs, and they both smiled at each other and laughed. The whole scene was a little thing, absurd and momentous. Strategic and chaotic and clustered and free and loud but unified in the silent language of dedication, of work. Strange. It was all very strange indeed. The older student’s time at the school hadn’t been anything but strange either. It was fitting in a hodge-podge, freakish way.

Within an hour, they pulled out wooden trays from the oven that had full loaves of bread with some seeds speckled on them. And they were perfect; they were kind of round, a little lopsided and flat on the left, with a darkened crust and a little char on the bottom and some flour and sesame seeds balanced on top. And they were just perfect. Someone else popped a pan into the oven as soon as the bread left, and someone else tossed lettuce and peppers and tomatoes in a big dish then hurriedly poured a bottle of vinegar and olive oil on the whole thing. Behind them, someone snagged one of the full, yet unused peppers as he reached around the salad chef, and bit into it with a satisfied crunch. They talked about the garden and the girl who owned the house drew them over to the window to see it, plucked of anything devourable but still tangled with green vines and wide, unfazed leaves. 

When they were done, they loaded everything into baskets and draped old blankets on their shoulders. They set out into Wizard City once more, crawling their way through the late summer heat through the Shopping District and towards Golem Court. They moved at an admirable pace for a handful of students with skinny arms overburdened by ten pounds of food each with their pets bobbling along beside them and sometimes between their feet.

They knew exactly which house they were going to.

And they got there and stood, in something part cluster and something part line, trying to fit on the stoop of the doorstep, and then giving up and spilling onto the walkway. And they sat there for a moment, looking all around at each other, sucking in a deep breath. The wizard, the girl in a purple robe and white stockings, the one who owned the house and the sorrow all the same, knocked at the door. It was silent and silent and silent, no scurrying or creaking of anyone moving across the floorboards inside. They wondered if they had maybe just missed Cyrus, right until the moment the door popped open a wedge and his face looked out onto them.

“Hi, Professor Drake. I know...things have been tough. We thought we, well, you see...we know, and we’re, we’re very sorry for, for what happened, and because it’s holiday, we had some time to get some stuff together for you to show our thanks…”

The students behind her cradled the baskets nervously and pulled at the old blankets on their shoulders. Even though she held her head up, interested, stiff, while the other students bobbled theirs and scuffed their boots, she couldn’t have been more afraid. She was the most scared of all of them.

Cyrus peered back. He wasn’t upset they bothered him on his off day; he wasn’t even really worried how they knew which door to knock at. He wasn’t even upset at his student before him, who may or may not have been why his brother died. He never wanted to think too deeply on it anyways. His brother just died. He just did. And that was it, and sometimes not knowing why was all the better. Sometimes it was best to pretend like he really didn’t remember any Malistaire other than his thoughtful, peaceful, literature-loving brother; and he tried to find a place in his mind where that brother could stay awake forever. And he wished he could carve out a little space for his younger, sleepier prodigy too, before she became like Malistaire, something empty and craven and driven to ends for things she didn’t want to be.

He looked at their feet and all the little pets running about them; an egg, a hydra, a cerberus scratching behind one of his ears, a fat happy piggle resting on the ground. Harry peeked out from around the corner and let out a yip when he saw the other critters.

Cyrus was only curious how much food they had made, and had they really done it all just that morning? It was only one o’clock. The thought of his students waking up so early, even his tired and grief-stricken one, just to orchestrate all of that was almost enough to make him cry. He swallowed hard and looked back to them.

And then, he did cry. He started in, a shaky, weak, and quiet “...thank you,” that fell apart at the end as his eyes watered. And some of the students looked away or down, and the girl at the front, now with wet eyes too, curled her lip a little and gave a tiny nod. Cyrus wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. 

“So, are you leaving this all here, for me?” he said, looking between all the baskets. “It seems like a lot and I can’t keep it all.”

The students looked between each other. As if deciding who would say what. Two people started to speak at the same time, both voices predicting each other.

“We--”

“We…” they glanced at each other and one held his mouth open a moment. The other smiled back and finished the thought for them. “We wanted to see if maybe we could sit with you? Well, for one, everything we made actually looks really good. Second is that, you know, we just can’t go a single day in our lives without spending time listening to Professor Drake,” he said, drawing out the can’t in a joking way. He knew the entire idea was odd, a long shot, but he tried to lighten up the place, make the air less suffocating, less hushed and held in.

“Oh…”

“No, uh, to be honest, we noticed you seem...grumpier than usual and worried about you. We...want to know how you’re doing, if that’s okay?”

“Well.”

They waited and shuffled their feet a moment. Cyrus thought back about his house, his coffee table, how unprepared his house was for guests.

“You made everything yourselves?” he asked.

“Yes!” they said in proud unison.

“You grew everything?”

“Yeah, I have a nice farm going, lots of different things this year...” the one in the front said, falling off, thinking of those vibrant, lively, hopeful things.

Maybe the only good place to eat was in the garden. They were clearly prepared for a picnic, since they had blankets. But he thought of his garden, and the state of disrepair that that too had fallen into, and let out a lengthy, deep breath that was not quite loud enough to be a sigh.

They sensed the tension, and they could see just from the little wedge of the door that was open, that there were stacks of things and the lights were off and the floors dusty. 

“It’s okay, you should see our dorms,” someone said.

They all smiled a little, sheepish smile.

“Oh, well you went through all this work. Alright. But please stay just on the bottom floor,” he instructed. They all nodded and let out some quiet “okay”s.

They trodded through the house with their baskets, following in a line, like ducklings being led around, and they tiptoed behind Cyrus’s sure steps like they were treading on sacred and holy ground. The one student from the front picked up some of the pets. She held her breath. She tried not to stare at the back of Cyrus’s head and imagine what sweltering pain he must’ve felt in his brain, the rubber-bands strung around his heart, the crushing weight on his lungs. She wondered if he was ever as tired as she was. No, more so. That was his brother, not mine.

And she made it through the longest journey she had ever taken, through the darkest tunnel she knew, in that house where she felt so unwelcomed not because of Cyrus, but because of transgression. Maybe being here is a transgression all it’s own, she thought.

They set up a patchwork of blankets in the back that covered nearly the entire yard, and the little overgrown garden under the window sat up against the house, at the head of it. And some of the students sat precipitously near it, including the girl in the purple robes, and they sat in such a way that their hands fell over the edges of the blankets and brushed the overgrown grass and laid at their sides there. They began divvying out food, everyone pulling a large, round roll of bread with flour on their hands. 

Cyrus couldn’t help but notice occasionally between timid bites of the role that the two students nearest the garden would turn and look over their shoulders. Their arms would rustle behind them for a moment, out of sight, then they’d brush their hands off and take another bite when they noticed he was watching them. When the one finally shifted and leaned forward to grab the big salad-bowl as it was being passed towards them, he finally saw what they were up to. A little pile of weeds sat behind them, out of view.

He pointed to the garden and shook his head a little as he leaned it to the side. “You don’t have to do that.”

They looked at him with blank eyes. They’d been caught, but they weren’t exactly trying to hide what they  were up to. They didn’t even mean it with intent; they saw weeds, they pulled. She’d gotten use to that, seeing problems, and then just fixing, wordlessly.

“I know it’s a mess,” he continued, “but it’s not your job; you’re guests, it’s everyone’s day off.”

They continued with their blank looks. They didn’t even look like they were breathing, they were so still.

“Sorry.”

“It’s...it’s fine. It’s fine.” He didn’t know why it had bothered him so much. Yes, they were his guests, but something more made him hesitant to see them move anything from the garden. They weren’t Sylvia. That was it. Only two pairs of hands ever worked on that garden, and maybe he wanted to keep it like that.

But how foolish he thought that was, at the same time. Why keep an overgrown garden in honor of someone? Didn’t that show that he actually didn’t care about the memories there, since their time together had been tending to the garden, helping things grow. Helping.

And now it was an overgrown tangle with thistles and prickly things and unpleasant things vying for space, climbing over one another. Little smothering death after little smothering death. Nothing new in years, no color other than a widespread sagey green, no butterflies or rabbits or small, complex communities snuggled between the leaves.

Helping. That was all this was, he thought, the students helping. He was sure one of the students he recognized as a life wizard would have been old enough to have Sylvia for a few years. He wondered if she existed the same way in her memory too.

“Sorry,” he said back. “Sylvia used to help me with it.” As if that somehow would make it crystal clear to them all. He let the words sit for a minute, then thought maybe he had misspoke. It was when he opened his mouth again to try and add something, what exactly he did not know, when the theurgist offered her thoughts.

“That’s nice. She tended to all the gardens in the school yard too. Did she ever spend her free time doing anything other than caring for plants? She spent all her time at work caring for students, and then all her time outside of it caring for plants. And sometimes students too.”

He paused. He swallowed hard. He cried again. Someone remembered his sister-in-law just like he had. In that little moment, in those few words, she was alive again; a perfect image of her, just as she had been, kneeling by a stone planter-bed, patting soil, holding a little brown rabbit or waving at a student across the courtyard with her glasses slipping down her short, turned nose.

He regained himself. She did. She did do some things outside of gardening. She had tea. He would never forget that they all had tea together. And so he told them that, and they all nodded little polite nods, and waited a moment.

“I had Professor Drake, uhm, your brother for many years. But I never did find out, I guess, before everything; someone said he wrote poetry. Is that true?” the boy asked.

“Yes. Yes!” He said emphatically. The words were full, they were a cry, but of the ancient sort, summoning something back to life, to wholeness. Cyrus started laughing. “Yes he did, and he wasn’t too bad at it!” And in that moment too, Malistaire, his perceptive and empathetic brother was alive as well. And they spent the afternoon asking questions about Sylvia and Malistaire, and how they met, which the theurgist knew well, for Sylvia was always gushing over her husband, and the necromancers knew little of, since Malistaire had always gotten so wayward and sidetracked with all his stories about their adventures whenever anyone asked how they met. And they asked about Cyrus too.

He answered. He gardened, obviously, though not of late. And he painted sometimes too, but he had also put the brush down for a while. The students gave mystified gasps of “really?” as if they never imagined their teacher having fun, and certainly not in his current state. 

“Really,” he said. He stood and waved them up. “Come on, I can show you all. And I can show you some of my brother’s poems too.”

So they went back into that house, that now felt bigger; the stacks of papers everywhere weren’t junk, but archives, some less important and some jewels. They could tell which were which. Old student papers were probably among the less important items, but in the drawers or the very bottom layers of things, or the few pieces left neatly uncovered on his desk, all the photos and letters and poems and old packets from the seeds planted in the garden years ago. Those were the precious jewels of Cyrus’s entire life. He would hold a photo of them together carefully in his hand, and the students would gather around and look, in fascination, at a time when their professors were all only a decade older than themselves. And the girl in the purple didn’t quite make it into the semi-circle and peered cautiously over one of her friend’s heads; then moved to the bathroom without anyone noticing.

In there, she wiped her eyes and ran the water cold to keep the redness of her cheeks down. The photo, Cyrus’s stories, all let her know she had destroyed nothing. That he was sincere, his brother, his real brother, had been dead for a long time by the time she ran into Malistaire. And if she had or hadn’t destroyed him, she hadn’t really destroyed anything at all. Which perhaps was worse. To travel all that way and through all those places for all those people, to end a man who was so miserable and so lonely and small and weak at his end, that it was all just unnecessary. 

She thought of Cyrus then, at that moment, at the end of his brother’s life. She thought of how he stood tall, proud, maybe of her, maybe that his brother could finally rest, but sad and weeping. Full of anguish and resolution that bit at each other’s edges, that refused to coexist. She looked at the bathroom counter around her. It was cluttered with dirty handtowels, soaps out of their dishes, a crinkled toothpaste tube, and soap slime from all the places the bars had been left out.

The bathroom was small. She grabbed one of the few clean hand towels and wet a corner of it, then started to scrape the soap residue away. And she didn’t know exactly where everything laid out on the counter went, but tried by putting the toothbrush and the toothpaste upright in a cup, and neatly set the bottle of eyedrops in the corner and then added cotton swabs upright to the cup with the toothbrush and toothpaste. She stacked the dirty towels from the counter on the floor together. She thought of Cyrus being the only person there for Malistaire when he died, gently placing him into the open bed of a tomb, as she pried the soap up from the counter and laid it to rest in the soap dish. She rinsed her hands one last time of it, then walked out to rejoin her friends.

Cyrus was just finishing showing them the photo and telling stories around it. He placed it on top of one of the stacks, although haphazardly as he began to turn towards something else. The stack teetered. The life student was there, and while Cyrus was turned and walking away, she moved the photo from the top, lifted all of the papers in her hands at once, gave them a quick tap on the table, and pressed them into line with her palms flat, the edges pressing back into her brown palms as she straightened them up. She placed the photo back on top, delicately, keeping her fingers from touching the surface. The photo was centered on the papers. Then she went through the rest of the papers on the coffee table, making little piles in rapid speed, so there were only three stacks of things next to each other and the rest of the coffee table was visible. The students straggled behind Cyrus, picking up their pets and keeping them from the rest of the house, not knowing what precious things might be housed in them.

He led them over to a wall where a landscape hung. He admired it for a second, then turned to them and let them know he had painted it, once, when he was almost their age.

“Whoa,” they said.

“Yes. It’s the Grand Chasm. Beautiful place. I haven’t been there since, but I do miss it.” He delved into a little history of the place, pointing at the pillars and bricks of the buildings in the landscape as he talked, and the world was rebuilt for him as he told the story. They all nodded enthusiastically, and even the girl in the purple nodded, although a little more wistfully, lost.

When it early evening and the sun was not setting but was slinking lower in the sky, the students filed out of the house, pets in hand again, and he stood by the door and waved them off with Harry drooling and wagging his tail, sitting at his feet with interest as the figures of the students got smaller and smaller. The girl in the purple at the back turned with her round piggle cradled in her arm, and waved with a single motion, her arm skyward, her palm open and flat, honest, her face solemn.

And he waved back at her, wrist loose, hand held at his chest, face solemn. When they were gone, he closed the door, and took that hand to his chest. The pain was back, like it hadn’t been in months. He couldn’t fathom how joy could be followed so closely in step by grief.

And he thought of these things for a little while, as he cleaned up the house and tried to shove all the many dishes of leftovers into his fridge, and left some scraps on a plate on the floor for Harry and scratched Harry behind his ears. And he continued to think of these things, until he passed by his coffee table again, and saw the photo of him and his brother and his sister-in-law. Then, he realized that the coffee table was visible again. And the photo was at the top of the pile, proudly displayed.

Those students, he thought.

And he went to the bathroom to take a shower before bed, and after he did so and dressed he stood over the mirror a minute. Cyrus noticed the counter was clean too. The soap was tucked into the soap dish. And all he could think, again, was those students. He went to sit at his desk and organize some more papers. Maybe he would try to find his lecture plan a few days early. He opened a drawer and found an old packet of seeds, the top of it ripped open, the torn edge rolled down over the rest of the packet to keep the seeds in. The label was faded, but he could see from the image that they were seeds for tomatoes, red, round, and resilient. He unfurled the pack and peeked inside. They looked like they might still grow. And then he shuffled in his drawer more and found a pressed packet of bean seeds, sunflower seeds, seeds for oxeye daisies and old pressings of some from a previous garden he had grown. He thought of planting them in the past, taking his finger and poking gently at the dirt to make a little space for them, and how Sylvia just crouched down, took her index finger, and jabbed it into the dirt confidently, like she knew exactly where each seed needed to be without measuring the soil depth or spacing. And she did. He thought about the little pile of weeds the students had snuck out of the garden. It’s worth a shot, he thought, as he grabbed a sticky note and began to sketch a layout for some new plants. He had the day off tomorrow. He could finish pulling weeds, like those students had started.

Those students. They were meek, and they tried. Most of them didn’t know grief like he did yet. Maybe setting papers straight and plucking weeds and making lunch felt significant for them to do. He thought of his student, who had been there, who spoke at the front door at first, but not after, he realized. Who lived with grief, a different kind. Just as much as those students couldn’t get to him past his grief, he didn’t know how to get to her. And maybe none of the other students knew about that or how to get to her either.

It struck him. Sometimes she said in passing she’d be around during long weekends or holiday breaks and would finally try to catch up on her missing work. Lydia mentioned her having an older sister once during the downtime before a meeting, but she never spoke of her sister herself. And she was never seen outside of class, or lunch that day, or occasionally scurrying to the Headmaster’s tower, or running her hasty speechless errands to the Shopping District, efficient, unwavering, in matters of minutes. She was never with anyone, he thought. Not here and not in all those places Ambrose sent her to. She was alone. She was totally alone.

And he was also alone. He was alone, in his bed, his covers pulled up and his hands resting gently across the top, curled over the hem of the sheets. In that indominatrable darkness, he realized that although the other students did little things like pluck weeds and cook lunch, and they didn’t know how little it was in the scheme of things, surely she knew how absolutely finitismal those things were. And yet, she did them anyways. She made room from her overburdening grief, pushed the crushing guilt back long enough, carved out a little moment in time, to flour the breadboard and coordinate her kitchen, and tend to her garden, and right the soap and pinch the weeds out of the garden. After seeing the worlds, and death, and fire; and an eternal sadness for the place he called home after she saw what it was in the Grand Chasm, after she met the ghosts of students who looked just like her, who died to things bigger than themselves that they never wanted to be a part of.

That last bit got him choked up again. He and his brother had never been very interested in the war. Sylvia had been a good tactician, but also certainly wasn’t interested. That’s why they moved to Ravenwood. And they all were accepted as professors, and had many great students, and gardens and photos, and paintings, and tea; and despite sickness and madness, which now maybe he was falling prone to, they survived the war and the initial heartbreak and had had their happy ending, if only for a few decades that seemed all too quick and distant now.

He was starting to lull sleep after fighting back tears all day. 

He hoped that girl in the purple robes got that too.

[slashthedice]

Had this prompt in my head. Normal girl from Dallas, living her best life. One day, she finds herself in a bar, people listening to country music, drinking, dancing, having fun... the sound of a chainsaw catches her attention. The door of the bar is swiftly destroyed, a hunky man swinging a chainsaw around. Another man comes in, talking about revenge on the bar owner, laughing maniacally... the hunky man notices you, and your heart starts beating faster. Maybe Bubba Sawyer x reader NSFW? :3

Yes please! ♥(ﾉ´∀`)  I am so here for this.This one ended up being quite a bit longer than originally intended so uhhh I’m splitting it up. Second part will ideally be finished and posted later this week and will contain the NSFW bits. Might end up crossposting this one to ao3 as well. Soundtrack for this one is this which I was introduced to by @slashers-hell (＾ω＾)

It had been a wild night. None of your friends had been available to go out, but that hadn’t stopped you. You were young and looking for action, excitement, something to spice up the humdrum of everyday life. You found yourself at a small bar that you didn’t typically visit.

It was late, certainly later than you had planned to be out by yourself. Last call was breathing down your neck, and you could tell that the cantankerous proprietor and acting bartender was chomping at the bit to kick those of you still finishing your drinks out. Any minute he would tell you to settle your tabs and clear out.

You looked around the small bar, better able to take it in now that your inebriation had dulled to a slight buzz. It was all old wood panelling and aged furniture. A haze of cigarette smoke seemed to hang in the dimly lit space despite the numerous No Smoking signs posted on the walls and doors. A single light above the jukebox flickered on and off as the machine spun out the mellowed jazzy sound of a guitar that hung in the air thicker than the smoke.

The remaining patrons of the establishment were a motley crew, each varying levels of drunken and haggard, and each sure to be sporting a fierce hangover in the coming hours. You found that you were the youngest person left in the bar, and the one that fit in the least. You were a young woman looking for a good time and rounding out her night of bar crawling, not a hardened alcoholic looking for an escape amongst strangers.

The space had gone through quite the shift over the course of only a couple hours. When you had rolled up to the bar, the gravel parking lot had been packed with cars. Those populating the building were a mix of regulars and people drawn in by the flickering of the near ancient sign illuminated by neon letters. You recalled thinking that they had to be breaking some sort of fire code when you had forced your way into the middle of the mass of bodies dancing to the twangy notes of some southern songstress on the dancefloor. You had danced and laughed and drank, making new friends for the night with the girls exchanging drunken compliments in the bathroom as they did more harm than good while trying to fix their makeup in the tarnished, cracked mirror.

Your fleeting friends had long since disappeared into the night, and now you sat alone at one end of the dingy bar with one hand propping up your chin and the other wrapped around the once cold glass of a half-finished beer mug. Your arms and legs felt heavy, and your skin was coated in a layer of dust and dirt adhered by your own cooled sweat. You didn’t dare even glance towards any reflective surface, sure that what had once been an alluring smokey eye now gave you the appearance of a raccoon and that your hair was a tangled mess. You knew that you should settle up and head home, the softness and warmth of your bed calling to your exhausted body, but you couldn’t bring yourself to motion the barkeep over.

The relative quiet stillness of the bar was shattered by what sounded like a chainsaw revving outside the door. Around you, the barflies all looked up. You weren’t familiar with the area, but you had a feeling that chainsaws weren’t an average occurrence at this time of night.

“What the hell is all that racket?” The gruffness of the bartender’s voice cut through the roar of the unexpected saw.

He rounded the bar, brushing by you and making a beeline for the door. The thump of his boots covered both the din of the mechanical growl and the already drowned out lilt of music. All the patrons were silent, watching with curiosity and confusion as the old man went to confront whoever was disturbing the tenuous peace that can only be found at the end of a long night. The chainsaw had only gotten louder as the moments rolled on, and as the proprietor drew closer to the door it sounded like whoever was wielding the dangerous implement was basically already inside.

You watched the old man’s sure steps falter as he neared the door. The initial rage he had felt must have died when he realized the implications of facing an unknown person with a potentially deadly weapon. He hesitated, hand reaching for the knob but frozen mid air. The bar itself seemed to hold its breath with anxious anticipation of what would happen next.

Then the door exploded.

A shower of wood and splinters flew through the air, pelting the old man and startling everyone. Someone dropped a glass, but the sound of it shattering was masked by the roaring buzz of a chainsaw that echoed through your head and vibrated through your body. Everything seemed to be in slow motion as you watched him fall to the ground and debris fly through the air.

The man that stepped through the ruins of the door was massive, easily nearing six and a half feet tall. He loomed over the now terrified old bartender with the chainsaw you had heard prior raised above his head. He appeared to be wearing some kind of mask. There was little time to consider him further before a smaller man scampered in behind him. This new man seemed jittery, twitchy and somehow scared you more than the one with the literal chainsaw.

The chainsaw ground to a halt, and the bar was suddenly almost unnervingly quiet. You, along with the other patrons, were frozen with shock as this all played out before you. The small man stood over the old man, tittering excitedly and pointing what appeared to be a bent metal coat hanger at the prone male.

“Do you remember me?” He seemed to struggle with the words, stuttering slightly. “You kicked me out after taking my money. I was just trying to listen to music, man!”

The bartender seemed to remember his prior rage, though he seemed much less intimidating on the floor. “Yeah, I remember you! You almost broke my damn jukebox!”

“Music is my life, man, and you were disrespecting it!”

The old man began to attempt to struggle to his feet. “I’ll kick you out again! You and whatever the hell that is,” he growled, jerking his chin in the direction of the mountain of a man that now cradled the chainsaw with a surprising amount of delicacy.

Faster than your eye could follow, the jittery man pulled a ball-peen hammer out of thin air and with a loud crack! he brought it down hard on the other man’s balding head. With this single violent action, the entire bar erupted with activity. You sucked in a harsh gasp, hardly able to grasp what exactly you bore witness to. The men a little ways down the bar from you shot to their feet, moving to assist the man that was now under attack. This prompted the grinding growl of whirring teeth as the chainsaw was coaxed back to life.

“Get ‘em, Leatherface!” The rat-like man howled, shaking the bloodied hammer in the direction of the bar.

You were on your feet and running for the back before your mind could catch up with your instincts. You sprinted towards the cramped hallway that housed the bathrooms and what you had assumed was a back door. It was mere seconds before you heard screaming and the horrible wet sound of flesh being carved through. You whimpered as you threw yourself at the back entrance, becoming more and more desperate as you realized that it wasn’t budging.

To your horror, as you examined the door, you found a thick padlock sealing it shut. You pulled uselessly on it, knowing that it was futile but not knowing what else you could hope to do. The screaming quieted to moaning, which died into silence in the main bar room. Your struggles with the lock grew more desperate, but were still just as ineffective.

“Where’s the girl? Go get the girl!”

Your heart was in your throat when you heard those words from the strange man. An affirmative noise came from the other man. You were crying then, though you tried to quiet your sobs. The lock was going nowhere and your only option was to hide.

You ducked into the bathroom, cursing the way your boots slipped against the smooth tile. You ran to the last stall in the row, closing the door behind you, locking it, and balancing on the edge of the toilet seat with your knees pulled up to your chest. You knew it was silly, that the large man with the chainsaw would find you easily and hack you to bits, but you were scared, still slightly intoxicated, and completely out of ideas.

You heard the bathroom door slam open and had to stifle a whimper with your trembling hands. The chainsaw was turned off, and the only sound was his heavy footsteps on the dirty tile. There was a loud bang! as the door to the first stall was thrown open. The same happened with the second, then the third, and then you could see his boots underneath the door in front of you.

He pushed lightly on the door, probably expecting it to swing open as easily as the others had. When it didn’t budge, he pounded against it with a single meaty fist. The flimsy lock did not stand a chance. You yelped and tried to push yourself even further back, coming dangerously close to tumbling into the toilet bowl.

As the stall door slammed against the wall, you got a good look at the large man for the first time that night. The fluorescent bathroom lights haloed his bulky form. He was dressed up in a nice black suit, white button up shirt soaked with sweat and dust from his destruction of the front door. You realized with a sick jolt that what you had thought was a halloween mask of some sort appeared to be a second face worn over top of his own, a human face.

He pulled back on the cord of the chainsaw and it made a grinding sound but did not start. You knew that you had reached the end of the line. If he could get the mechanical tool going, you would become quickly and intimately acquainted with the acute pain that the whirring metal teeth of the saw could cause. As a last ditch effort, you did the only thing you could think of.

“Stop that!” You said as sternly as you could, trying to look as confident as a person cowering on a toilet was capable of.

He looked at you with more than a little confusion, but he didn’t pull the ripcord again. You took this as a good sign. You swallowed thickly, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins and fear tingling across your nerves.

“What’s your name?” Your voice sounded tremulous in your ears.

He looked around in a way that almost seemed nervous. He half shrugged and fiddled with the chainsaw. It seemed like he wanted to answer your question, but that he couldn’t find the words.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m [Y/N],” you continued, not wanting him to get upset.

He lowered the bloodied chainsaw a little further, and hope swelled in your chest. He babbled something that was near incomprehensible, but the more optimistic part of your brain translated it as a repetition of your name. You smiled and nodded with more force than was necessary.

He seemed conflicted, shifting his weight and glancing back and forth between you and the door. When he was looking at you, you could feel his deep walnut colored eyes travel over you. He seemed particularly appreciative of your bare legs beneath your denim shorts when you slowly lowered them to the ground to steady yourself, as that was where his hesitant gaze lingered the longest.

Finally, he seemed to decide what to do with you. He dropped to his knees in front of you, motioning for you to stay where you were with one upheld hand. He yammered and babbled at you, and while you couldn’t understand what exactly he was trying to say, you could surmise his general intent and stayed put. Even kneeling, he was nearly eye-level with you as you sat on the edge of the toilet seat.

Maybe it was the alcohol still left in your system or maybe you were finally losing your mind, but at this proximity you could make out some of his features beneath the stolen face and you found yourself admiring what you saw. He had wide, dark eyes that followed your every move and searched your face. You could just see the shape of his mouth through the hole in the mask. Every time he babbled at you, you were granted a glimpse of misshapen and misaligned teeth. However, his lips were full and plump, glistening where his pink tongue darted out to lick nervously.

You watched him peel off his black gloves. His hands were much like the rest of him, meaty and strong. His fingers were short and stubby, but nearly as thick as two of your own. You nearly slapped yourself when you caught your mind wandering to how those fingers would feel against and inside you. All you could hope was that he wouldn’t notice the way your face suddenly reddened. You needn’t have worried, as he was focused on his new task. He dragged those same fingers you were admiring across the bloodied guide bar, collecting the cooling red substance on their tips.

When he reached towards you with his now blood-soaked hands you fought against all of your instincts that screamed for you to recoil. You could not suppress, however, the shuddering breath that left you when you felt the odd sticky warmth of blood smeared across your face. You wanted to grasp his wrist, to stop him, but he looked at you with such focus and intensity that you did not. Once your cheeks, forehead, and chin were sufficiently covered, he collected more of the macabre paint and spread it over your neck and chest. You whined in protest when he smeared the crimson over your shirt, surely ruining it, but he cut off your complaints with a huffed noise of warning.

Once he was done, he took a moment to sit back on his heels and admire his work. You were sure that you were now just a bloodied mess of gore and viscera. He nodded slightly before standing and lifting the chainsaw once more. You watched with confusion as he fumbled with it for a moment before yanking on the ripcord. You screamed then, sure that after all the hope and whatever had just happened, he was going to kill you anyway. He yelled too, waving the tool above his head before swinging it back and forth.

The whirring teeth never found you. He destroyed the wooden stall doors and broke the porcelain tiles. Your screams quieted as you watched the swathe of destruction he cleaved through the space. You realized he had no intention of hurting you, but that he was making a show of it for someone, probably the other man out front. Finally, when he was content with the scope of his demolition, he let the motor sputter and die. Then there was silence with the exception of his labored breathing.

He made a series of hurried motions which you somehow understood to mean “play dead”. Your intention was to slump back against the back of the toilet and go limp, but before you could do that one of his muscled arms found your waist and he was hoisting you over his shoulder. You nearly shrieked at the sudden motion, but remembered just in time that you were supposed to be dead. You let yourself go slack, arms dangling down his back as your knees pressed into his chest and his shoulder dug into your midsection.

He carried you from the bathroom and back into the bar. If he bumped your pliant form into a doorway or two, or if the steadying hand on your thigh was just a bit higher than you suspected was necessary, you didn’t say anything. You squeezed your eyes shut so that you would not have to see the carnage that you were sure was spread across the dancefloor. Your willful blindness did little to prevent the assault of the scent of copper from invading your senses, you could all but taste the blood on your tongue.

“Bubba!” So that was his name. “You got her?”

You felt the man– Bubba– nod.

“I got mine too! Let’s get ‘em in the truck.”

You kept your eyes clamped shut and your extremities limp for the entirety of the process. You were laid gently on the hard surface of what you surmised was the bed of a truck, followed quickly by a number of heavy thuds and disgusting squishing noises. You felt the vehicle shift under the added weight. Idly you wondered how they planned to dispose of the bodies. That was what you assumed they were planning, to hide the evidence of their crimes.

Blood pooled as it spilled from the multitude of wounds on the corpses, spreading to where Bubba had placed you. The warmth of it seeped into your clothing and hair, you fought the urge to gag. Someone patted your leg comfortingly before a tarp was thrown over the grizzly scene in the back of the truck, trapping you in with the smell of death. You were too afraid to open your eyes even when the engine started and two doors slammed shut.

The vehicle jolted forward, across the gravel of the parking lot and out onto the open road. You did not think to pay attention to the direction you were travelling or the number of times the truck turned. For the most part, your mind was blank. There was only one thought repeating itself in your head:

This was not the kind of excitement you had been looking for when you left your home earlier that evening.

Part 2

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 6: The Rescue

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya’s first real job as a vampire’s assistant means venturing into a den of criminals. Lily’s girlfriend is more than she seems.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Maricruz Espinoza was born somewhere around the shifting borders of Texas and Mexico in the year 1901. Her madre moved Mari and her three younger brothers to New York to live with their extended family following the death of their father. Prohibition was ratified and her cousins found her work in the rum-running business.

They worked for a man who only went by a title: The Baron.

Somewhere else in New York City, maybe while Mari was sitting down with her brothers and a home-cooked meal, the Council was being formed of six of the city’s most powerful and influential vampires at the same time. They laid down laws — pacts by which every Council member and those within their Clan were to follow… or else. But every system just starting out has flaws. Like during Prohibition; where the mass disagreement with the law gave way to speakeasies, rum runners, and corruption. In the newly formed vampire community of New York it wasn’t as easy to keep track of those being Turned.

She doesn’t remember how it happened. Probably one of The Baron’s men got her. Maybe a newbie who couldn’t control their impulses. But she remembers passing out — the pain — and waking up feeling like she’d gone forty days and forty nights in the desert.

But with no brand to keep her safe.

It’s a startling story; the kind that makes history buffs drool and gothic groupies stare in awe through their red color-contacts. But Nadya couldn’t care less. There’s only one thing on her mind.

“Does Lily know?”

Mari’s snorted laughter is just barely above a whisper. “I could ask you the same.”

“What, that I like going to costume bars?” She does her best to hide the folder from plain sight but it’s not enough. Mari isn’t impressed.

“I could smell the Council’s claim all over you the moment we met,” her nose crinkles, “with that… stench of self-importance; of power. And you wouldn’t be here without knowing the secret so how about we cut the crap and get to the part where you and I agree to keep this from Lily for as long as possible?”

Maricruz holds out her hand to shake. Something they didn’t do when they first met at the apartment and she gets why when she takes it. The coolness of her touch; same as Adrian’s, same as Kamilah’s. Once you know the trademarks of a vampire they get easier to recognize.

Why do you care so much, she wants to ask — but doesn’t. They may both be walking into a den of wolves but at least Mari is a dog in this metaphor. Making friends won’t be on the agenda.

Mari exits the coat closet first. Gives a quick look on either side before gesturing for Nadya to follow behind her.

“What if the guard told —”

“Don’t assume things you don’t know.” Hisses the vampire in reply.

Nadya frowns. “Isn’t it better to be prepared?”

“Look,” she rounds on Nadya, “this isn’t one of Lily’s Blood Suckers games. Vampires are fucking weird — and this guy’s about as weird as they come. The ones you’ve met have probably kept up with the times. That’s not the case with El Baron here. Just follow my lead.”

While she watches Mari’s rapidly receding back Nadya sticks her tongue out for good measure. Sometimes even the little victories matter.

At the end of the hall is another door with faint music and dim lighting filtering through the bottom gap. Mari reaches out for the knob but it opens unbidden. The sudden light makes Nadya wince — her eyes take a moment to adjust.

There’s no time to ask Mari if The Shrike looks anything like its forefathers. Walls lined in red brick are decorated with the heads of various trophy animals — ranging in rarity from a common stag to what looks like (but can’t possibly be, could it?) a hippopotamus with its mouth frozen open. Ready to take a bite.

The deep cherry lacquer on the wooden floors make every polished step heard — a cacophony trying to overtake the man playing a vintage piano in the back corner. Beside the piano man a bartop begins, the same wood as the rest of the place, with the old-timey feel of an unlived nostalgia Nadya gets when she sees old movies. Only this isn’t a prop — the generous layer of dust on dozens of the bottles lining the reflective back wall prove that well enough.

A few men smoking fat cigars near the entrance pause their conversation to watch Maricruz and Nadya enter. Their eyes are dark; shadowed. Indulgence and arousal bead on their upper lips.

One catches her gaze and winks; pulls back his lips in a smarmy grin to reveal yellowed teeth as tobacco smoke pours from his maw like a burst dam. Nadya hastily rushes to catch up with the hem of Mari’s dress. His amused laugh is charred and guttural.

Mari leans up against the bartop and belongs. They both do on the outside but Mari — she acts like it. Names long-forgotten smuggled gains for them to drink and doesn’t take the bartender’s grimness for a ‘no.’

She hands Nadya a tumbler of honey-colored alcohol with a cube of clear ice in the middle. Nudges her to partake silently while downing her own. The booze carves a long path down her throat and settles uncomfortably. Makes the room suddenly seem a touch warmer — which only makes the chill venting in that much worse on her bare arms.

“You’re shit at this.” Mari mutters.

Nadya accepts an unspoken challenge then. Places her glass back down and gestures for a refill — which burns possibly more the second time around. But the deed is done and Mari looks a combination of impressed and exasperated.

Probably not what Lily had in mind when she suggested her roommate and possible-girlfriend get to know one another better. But life is full of surprises.

Nadya mimics her companion; leans back against the bar with her elbows on the edge. Still keeps the envelope clutched so tight it might puncture. They survey The Shrike’s inhabitants together.

“So, which one?” Nadya whispers. She’s got her eyes on a man with a beard to rival Santa and a monocle. He looks stately enough to be in charge.

“Hm? Oh,” Mari shakes her head, “The Baron isn’t up here. If he was it’d be a sign for us to high-tail it out.”

Before Nadya can question her Mari’s blue curls bounce — she jerks her head towards a set of stairs at the back of one of the brick walls. There the lamps are dimmer still; barely casting a glow on the golden railing descending into the dark.

“Down there?” Nadya asks.

“Yup. El Baron rarely comes up from the Pit. Likes the fighting too much.”

“Of course he does.” Because why would things ever be easy for me is her unspoken complaint. She steels herself and tosses her hair over her shoulder. Ready to enter.

Then Mari grabs her by the arm.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Nadya breaks free after a quick struggle. “My job.”

“You’re a human going into the Pit. You’re gonna get eaten alive down there. Literally.”

“Adrian said —”

Mari barks a laugh that settles in Nadya’s stomach at an awkward angle. “‘Adrian said,’” she mocks, “no matter what he said there’s no way you’re leaving this place alive without sticking by me. He’s probably already looking at new applicants.”

Mari may be right — Nadya knows she wouldn’t have even gotten in the doorway without her help. But she’s still a Clanless vampire in a Clan den and from everything Adrian’s told her there’s nothing good coming out of something like that. And… and she trusts Adrian. He wouldn’t send her to her death. Not when he went through so much to save her life.

He wouldn’t.

“Maricruz,” Nadya keeps her voice low, feels the fuzziness of strong alcohol at the edges of her words, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I came here to do one thing and, I’m sorry, but I can’t back down now. Not with how much is at stake.”

It makes the vampire shake her head in disappointment. “Like you could possibly know…”

“I know the Clans and your kind have their issues,” Nadya continues, “but I’d like to think getting to the bottom of the Feral crisis would benefit everyone.”

Whatever Mari was ready to say dies in her eyes as she takes in Nadya’s words. She silently mouths ‘Feral crisis?’ but nothing more. There’s a sudden consternation in her brow. Whatever it is, Nadya doesn’t know, but she does take her opening to slip out of Mari’s immediate space — heads towards the stairs to the Pit.

“Thank you again,” she’s sincere, too, “maybe we’ll catch up like Lily wanted. When I’ve done my job.”

Despite everything inside her screaming against it, Nadya turns and descends into the Pit.

Oh yeah, that’s definitely The Baron. She didn’t expect him to look precisely like the love child of the Monopoly man and the Godfather but some stereotypes just can’t be overcome.

There’s a brawl out in the middle of the floor. A couple men in a no-holds-barred brawl while onlookers jeer and trade bills with every punch and fumble. Others keep to sofas and stools littered around the walls. Nadya nudges her way through a pair of tall twins to catch sight of the fighters — and she quickly wishes she hadn’t.

One’s eye isn’t just purple, it’s bulging and crying a little blood and looks like it might’ve gotten skewered by one of the little metal shivs inside an audience member’s martini glass. One man’s suspender straps hang limp and broken around his waist near a large gash in his side. The other favors his ribs slightly and it only takes one look to understand why; she’s only ever seen internal bleeding on television but if it’s anything like real life it looks like that.

There’s a crash and a whooping cheer from a flapper on a man’s lap; Nadya and the crowd hastily step aside as a broken bottle neck-end rolls into the fighter’s fray.

They both dive for it at inhuman speeds. Red eyes and fangs may be not unlike show props but these aren’t fakers — these are vampires through and through. The one with both good eyes claims his prize; turns with the brown glass glinting in the light of the overhead chandelier.

She turns away, eyes squeezed shut, and the crowd erupts into applause.

“Can’t say I’m surprised a little treat like you ain’t got the stomach for violence. Begs the question of what you’re doin’ seekin’ it out, though.”

His mobster accent is almost farcical. If she wasn’t so near hurling up her lunch at the smell of blood she’d laugh. But when Nadya raises her head and looks into the bright red eyes of an oily patron laughter is the last thing on her mind.

The watchers have started to disperse; give Mister Oily a wide berth to reach out and slide his arm around Nadya’s waist. She struggles for freedom but this vampire isn’t like Maricruz; there’s no questioning whether he’s friend or foe. His nails threaten to tear the fabric of her dress; dig in hard enough to make her wince.

“O-Ow. Let go of me. Now.”

His grin widens. “Hey now — don’t be like that. We could have fun, you and me.”

“Yeah,” she rolls her eyes, “I doubt it.”

But her wriggling attempts at freedom seem to only excite the vampire more. He’s close enough that she can smell the whiskey on his breath. Whiskey and the same smell coming from the fighting ring.

“Seriously. Let go.” She tries again. “You do not wanna piss off the guy I work for.”

“And who would that be?” barks a gruff, angry voice from across the Pit.

Nadya feels sweat bead down her spine in a thick drop. If the callout was good for one thing it was getting the vampire’s slippery hands off her — but at what cost.

She takes a moment; steels herself against the look of sudden fear on the creep’s face before she turns bodily to face The Baron in his large booth.

The Pit is silent. The only breath — hers.

Before she can open her mouth The Baron’s beady glare darts up to the vampire behind her.

“I’m guessing you didn’t bring your own tart tonight, Arnold?”

Arnold? Nadya mouths in disbelief, but Arnold definitely isn’t as funny as his name.

“Nah, boss. Was busy finishin’ that Litchfield job.”

“That’s what I thought.” The Baron’s head turns to look around the Pit. The fact she can’t see his neck makes him look almost animatronic.

“So whose whore is she, then?!”

Whispers and mutterings travel between the vampires in a breeze. One looks ready to say something but his friend holds him back.

Her first instinct is to be extremely offended — but there’s no Kamilah, no Adrian to protect her this time — so she stays silent. Feels the presence of Arnold back off into the shadows to leave her in the proverbial spotlight.

The Baron doesn’t seem pleased he’s met with silence. His scowl deepens and he turns a similar shade of purple to his pinstriped suit. Then he levels on her.

“Well go on, kitten,” said not with seduction, but building ire, “go back to your master.”

Just before panic sets in, she recalls Adrian’s final words before dropping her off at the subway station.

“You’ll want to be brave and stand your ground. But those aren’t mutual, Nadya,” and his knuckles went white from his grip on the steering wheel, “you have to treat a Council member with respect even if they don’t deserve it. We all hate The Baron but that doesn’t mean we can treat him however we want. Bow as you approach him and announce who you are. Lies won’t do anyone any good, least of all you.”

Being brave and standing her ground aren’t mutual; that’s what he’d said. This must be what he meant.

Nadya’s careful not to step in the pools of drying blood on the concrete floor while she approaches. A pair of larger vampires step closer as if to stop her but she doesn’t falter — keeps walking with her head held high.

The Baron holds up a hand littered with golden rings. “Let her come. I wanna see who told this hussy she had a pair of balls over tits.”

In front of his seat Nadya offers the shortest and most curt of bows she can muster. If Adrian hadn’t mentioned it specifically she wouldn’t even have bothered. Not like the pig deserved it. But the display makes The Baron shake with a haughty laugh.

“At least she knows her place!”

A flapper beside him flashes a brief fanged smile. “Think you can get her on her knees? I’d like to see that.”

“Now there’s an idea.” He looks Nadya up and down with hunger and greed. “Hear that, hussy? Why don’t’cha get on your knees? Rouge ‘em up a bit.”

She swallows down whiskey-tinged bile and offers the envelope instead.

“I’m here on behalf of the Council. You’ve been served.” Thank you, Law and Order.

All eyes fall on The Baron. His upper lip curls; he swiftly snatches the envelope from between them. When he catches sight of the wax seal he his anger bloats him further.

“Adrian fucking Raines; how am I not surprised…” The Baron rips the flimsy seal — practically yanks the papers out to give them a good look.

This part she wishes she’d discussed with Adrian. Did she need to bow before leaving? Could she just take off? Was Maricruz still upstairs waiting to see if the shrieks of her untimely demise would pierce through The Shrike?

The Baron gives the contents of the summons several derogatory huffs and snorts; clenches the packet in his fist as though it were as thin as tissue. Whatever superiority he looked upon Nadya with first is now gone — replaced by loathing, spite. A desire to see pain and revel in it the same way they had with the brawlers.

“Too much of a pussy to come here himself, eh?” And because it takes Nadya a moment to realize he’s addressing her, he barks: “Speak! Fucking bloodbag.”

Hot frustration bursts in her gut. “Like you would have let him in? I’m not that stupid, and neither is he. But you’re bound to the summons now, Baron, there’s no getting out of it.”

His chest puffs up. “You come into my territory, speak to me like that… Of all the cockamamie insults Raines could pay me this is by far the worst.”

With nothing but a gesture from The Baron, Nadya doesn’t even have time to blink before she’s held in place by a vampire on each arm.

“Hey!”

“‘Hey!’” parrots the same flapper. The rest of the Pit laughs at the display.

“Pathetic,” The Baron sneers, “Raines couldn’t even send a pretty twat to wet my whistle. Still… now comes the question of what to do with you.”

Nadya struggles in vain. “Dude, if you —”

The Baron jerks to a stand and causes a collective gasp around the room. He jabs the packet in his fist at her with a bellowing roar of rage. “How dare you speak to me with that kind of disrespect! What kinda whore do you think you are?!”

“I’m not a whore!”

The word cracks in Nadya’s throat as The Baron backhands her with his clenched fist. Sends her head snapping aside and a dizzying pain to shoot through her body.

“I’ve had about enough’a your lip!” To his men, “Lock the whore up in the Cellar. Maybe a few decades down there can teach her some manners!”

“A whore’s a whores a whore.” mocks the flapper; though one brazen look from The Baron has her silent as the grave.

The vampires begin to drag Nadya — still struggling — towards a door at the darkest part of the Pit. Heart racing words choked up in her lungs fear stifling her every breath she looks around, almost on the cusp of begging for help, but the only thing she sees are dozens of pairs of bright red eyes and malicious sneering grins.

There is no help.

“You can’t—can’t do this,” she shouts back to The Baron. Tries to dig her heels into the floor and feels one snap off. There’s a blur on her right and she watches with disgust as Arnold sucks on the heel stem lewdly. “Adrian knows I’m here! He won’t let you do this!”

“Is that so, toots?” His rage quelled, The Baron resumes his seat and throws his arms around the back of the sofa. Two flappers curl up against him and flash Nadya twin hisses.

She hates to sound like a cliche but the words tumble from her unbidden. “You’re not gonna get away with this!”

One of the vampires nearly yanks her arm from its socket to get the Cellar door open. The darkness calls to her, cold and villainous. Holy crap.

“Pretty sure I already have. Who’s up for another brawl, ey?!”

The vampires of the Pit cheer. Nadya bursts into tears.

There’s nothing she can give them in trade and begging for her life just seems so… pathetic. Like somehow she’s supposed to be stronger than this just because she’s a part of Adrian’s Clan. Or because she belongs to them, more like.

The Cellar is a long row of rusty cells on both sides. Some are empty. Some have captives — vampire or mortal, she can’t rightly tell — thrusting themselves out through the bars; spurred onward by the thought of freedom. They pass one where a figure with their back turned to the door stays huddled on the ground; motionless — lifeless, thinks Nadya, and she tries to break free of their hold one last time to no avail.

“Lookie here, we gotcha a neighbor.”

Nadya looks up when she realizes they aren’t talking to her. They’ve stopped in front of an occupied cell.

A man — no, not with those eyes, a vampire — stands in the middle of the cramped space. While some of the others they had passed were wearing worn rags or clothes that didn’t quite fit with the time, this man’s rust-red leather jacket and tight jeans could very well get him on the cover of a magazine. His devilish gaze is half obscured by his mop of dark hair.

Despite the dire nature of her situation Nadya can’t help but feel like she’s being imprisoned next to a pop star.

One of her jailers nudges the other; frustrated. “Why’s he sayin’ nothin’?”

“Probably too hungry,” the thug grunts a laugh, “ey, Jaxxie? You too hungry to think right?”

But ‘Jaxxie’ keeps his vow of silence. Nadya’s heart breaks for him.

The thuggish one grunts at his friend. “Maybe cellin’ him next to a human will drive him crazy faster.”

With a rusty squeal the empty cell door to their right gives way. Nadya’s never thought of herself as claustrophobic and isn’t looking forward to revisiting the idea.

She stumbles as she’s shoved inside. Expects to hear the slam of the cell door. But instead one of the vampires looms in the doorway; transfixed.

“Oi, you comin’?” The other vampire sounds distant. Likely eager to get back to watching the fights.

“Yeah yeah,” replies his friend in a dazed tone. The longer he stares the more Nadya wishes she had been locked up with ‘Jaxxie.’ “Just wanna have a taste. Dun’ care what the Boss said — she’s awful pretty.”

“How are you a literal cartoon henchman?” Nadya spits — literally spits — and watches with brief satisfaction as it lands just shy of his eye. The vampire recoils — then snarls with fangs bared.

“Oh that’s it, I’m gonna bleed your whore neck out!”

With a cry — so much for her flash of courage — Nadya squeezes her eyes shut and prepares for the pain. She’s not spent much time considering what having her throat ripped out might feel like — so when there’s nothing but the tingle of her nerves dialed to eleven she’s almost glad death wasn’t as awful as they said.

Then a solid thud shocks her into looking where the vampire lies face-down on the concrete cell floor.

The broken-off end of a billiards cue sticks out of his back.

After she scrambles to the back wall Nadya watches the vampire’s death unfold. His skin withering, sucking in on itself and going dark, veiny gray. Then like snow under the sun he begins to wilt; flecks gathering into the air and dispersing. When she realizes he’s turning to ash Nadya sucks in a breath and holds it; cheeks puffed and nose plugged, to keep any from getting into her lungs.

The cue collapses onto the ground; the perfect (if unlikely) weapon for this particular evil.

A brief echo of footsteps spur her to action; Nadya grasps the cue and holds the jagged end out like she knows what to do with it. In theory, yes — execution however might prove to be a bit more difficult. Doesn’t stop her from trying.

She should feel relief when Maricruz appears in front of the bars with the other half of the cue dangling in one hand and a long tube in the other. But adrenaline and probably the closest she’s ever come to sheer unadulterated terror keep her on edge.

“Ma—Mari…?”

Mari eyes the sharp wood. “I’d like to see you try, chica.”

The vampiress offers her a helping hand to stand. Nadya takes it warily; wavers before practically going limp in her arms. Mari holds her up — displeased.

“Alright, I appreciate the attraction but I’m really more into geeks.”

With a strangled laugh Nadya manages to stabilize herself against the cell bars. Mari nods as if satisfied with her effort. Then, in a blur, she’s five feet away and forcing a ring of old metal keys through the bars of the cell beside Nadya’s.

“Took you long enough, Espinoza.” Grunts a deep voice on the other side of the wall. The keys jingle as they’re sorted.

Mari shrugs. Obviously nonplussed by the frustration of her companion.

“Well you weren’t the one on the ground looking like a snack.”

“You only say that because you’re attracted to her type.”

“What, women? That’s lesbophobic, Jax.”

“Yup, that’s me; your big ol’ lesbophobic boss.”

She watches as the man in leather — Jaxxie, no, Jax — twists the right key and kicks the door open with a deeply rooted sense of satisfaction. Mari offers him what Nadya previously thought was a tube, but the sparse torchlight of the Dungeon catches on the steel blade of a sword as he unsheathes it.

“Holycrap...”

Jax swings the sheath strap over his chest and looks between the women.

“You know her?”

Mari looks for a moment as though she’s debating introductions. Finally she nods. “Yeah. She’s uh… well unfortunately she works for Adrian Raines.”

If he was previously disinterested Jax’s expressive growl of anger says it all. Makes Nadya feel weak in the knees again.

“And you rescued one of the Clan’s cattle… why, Espinoza?” He rounds on Mari who, to her credit, doesn’t flinch, move, or blink.

“She’s dating my roommate.”

Both Jax and Mari look at Nadya in surprise. She swallows down her racing heart and leans on the cue for support. “What, she didn’t tell you that before? She’s dating my very human roommate, Lily.”

“She mentioned an interest… but not that she was human.” Silent words are exchanged between the vampires, but Mari doesn’t intend to let it last.

“Come on. We need to get going, like, five minutes ago. You can give me a real thank you when we’re back at the Shad —”

Maricruz cuts herself off. Both of them exchange glances and focus on Nadya.

It’s frankly frustrating as all get out.

“Listen,” she wearily gestures between them, “I don’t care. Like really — I couldn’t care less right now. Just… please help me get out of here. That’s all I’m focused on.” Then she fixates on Mari with a pleading look. “Just help me get back to Lil’.”

Maricruz definitely doesn’t seem the type to ask for permission but there’s little else the look she gives Jax could mean. And it makes her stomach drop when he seems to actually be considering leaving her behind. But, after taking in the state of her, he looks at the very least pitying.

“Yeah, alright. Lets get her up. Here, help me with her arm.”

It takes no great effort on the part of both vampires but every last drop of energy Nadya has to hold onto them during the escape. Later she plans on asking them exactly how they got out — what hidden sewage ducts they must have wormed their ways through — but that would be much much later.

“Thanks for giving me your boots.”

“Borrow. I let you borrow my boots. Next time don’t break a fucking heel so you don’t end up limping all the way through an escape.”

Nadya wiggles her toes in the roomy leather and nods. Hugs herself tighter against the night chill while Mari watches her with attitude and a cock in her hip.

“You can take them back on your next date with Lil’.”

Mari takes a moment of quiet thought; when she speaks she can’t help but be hesitant. “You’re not gonna…?”

“Tell her?”

Mari nods.

The breeze brushes Nadya’s hair in her eyes. She quickly pushes it back. “If you like her, whatever. If you hurt her, though, or get her involved in business like The Baron’s, or whatever samurai-dude’s up to —”

“Jax. His name is Jax.”

Right, Jax. He’d left them once they reached the inner city — but not without a promise to Maricruz that they weren’t finished talking. Nadya even felt a little bad for her.

Her point stands. “You keep Lily out of this. At least until I find a way to ease her into it.”

“Why you?” Mari challenges, but it’s halfhearted and without much threat behind it. “Whatever. See you around, chica.”

Mari’s not gotten two steps away before Nadya calls out to her, fumbling around her costume dress frantically.

“Hey, think you could, uh…” She gestures awkwardly to the door.

“What,” then, with raised eyebrows, “you want me to break the door lock?”

“Well my keys are at work and Lily isn’t answering the comm.” Yes, she should probably head back to the office, to Adrian, but first — a shower.

A shadow crosses over Mari’s face. The same sort of vampiric darkness that Nadya’s been forced to endure so many times tonight — it makes her cringe. “What? She’s probably asleep.”

“She had an Underwatcher tournament tonight. That’s why we didn’t go out.”

“Maybe it’s over?”

The looks they exchange carry Mari’s worry to Nadya almost telepathically. Her grip tightens on her half of the wooden cue.

It takes everything inside her to force down her building exhaustion — to follow Maricruz through the busted complex door and up the back stairwell two steps at a time. Her vampire speed wins out as she pushes open the door to her and Lily’s floor.

She’s only just made it onto the landing when Maricruz screams.

“LILY!”

Nadya rushes to the open door of the apartment and clings to the threshold — the edges of her vision going fuzzy. Mari’s on her knees over something on the kitchen tile.

Nadya’s senses have become all too familiar with the smell of blood after tonight’s trip to The Shrike. She violently heaves on instinct when the salted iron tinge assaults her nose.

“Lily, baby, come on — come on open your eyes for me — Lily! Lily! Fuckshit LILY OPEN YOUR EYES!”

Numb, Nadya watches; her world contracting into sharp clarity at the sight of Lily’s crumpled body lying in a pool of her own blood.

[alleiradayne]

Rocket Queen

Summary: Sam, Gabriel, and Natalie find themselves stranded in a hunter’s cabin after a severe snowstorm and sub-zero temperatures. Square Filled: Cock warming Warnings/Tags: Fluff, anger, threat of dying, smut, double penetration, fluids, subtle wing kink, cock warming, threesome, polyamory Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester/Gabriel/Natalie Murphy Word Count: 3,786 A/N:  For @spnkinkbingo. Yeah I sorta ship Sabriel a bit. Song: Rocket Queen by Guns N’ Roses

Natalie shivered with chattering teeth as she sat by the tiny fire stove, three blankets draped over her shoulders and fully dressed in her hat, boots, gloves, and winter coat. The hunter’s cabin had lost power four hours earlier. And it had taken the three of them that long to dry out enough wood for a fire. A small fire, at that, so tiny in the little stove it hardly heated a three-foot space around it.

The forecast had completely missed the storm. Sub-zero temperatures had settled in after three feet of snow had dumped on their hideout, and at mid-day, the power had gone out. Sam had controlled his panic in every way but for his pacing. And Gabriel left little to the imagination.

“Welp, I gotta say, this really sucks for you guys.”

Natalie rolled her eyes so hard, she felt they might fall out of her head. “You could help. Heat the house or… I don’t know, teleport us out of here?”

“You know I can’t do any of that right now,” Gabriel drawled, “no grace left for a good long while thanks to Mr. Genius’s need to rescue everyone,” he added as he jammed his thumb at Sam. “Not like I can teleport anywhere near this place, anyhow.”

They would never hear the end of that. “Why not?” Sam asked with an exasperated sigh.

Gabriel shook his head again. “Of course, neither of you noticed, it’s not crawling all over your wings,” he said as he climbed from his chair. “Twenty square miles of runes carved into these woods keep angels from teleporting in or out. And I am not exactly a professional woodsman, so I’m not about to guide anyone on foot, either.”

Natalie slumped into her lap, dejected. “Why isn't there a back-up generator? Or solar panels?”

Sam’s flat stare chastised her better than his words ever did.

“Sorry, jeez, I was just asking,” she mumbled under breath.

“The stove will eventually warm the house up,” Sam started, whether to reassure her or himself, Natalie was unsure. “It just might take a few hours.”

She looked from Sam to Gabriel, then back. “What should we do until then? It's fucking freezing in here.”

Sam hugged himself, layered in his coat, gloves, and hat the same as she. “I don't know,” he stuttered through chattering teeth. “I mean, we eventually need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “except we risk passing out with how cold it is. We should dig the truck out and try to leave.”

“The entire trail is covered in snow,” Gabriel reminded them with a flip of his hand. He wore no gloves or hat, not even a coat. His white shirt shone bright, stark against his black slacks and dress shoes.

“What… are you the angel of negativity today?” Natalie retorted. “Seriously, unless you’re coming up with ideas to help, shut your yap.”

No one spoke for several minutes as Natalie yanked the blanket tighter around her shoulders and curled in closer to the stove. Sam continued to pace in the middle of the cabin, but when he spotted Gabriel’s inquisitive smirk, he eyed him with a sideways stare.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked with a cautious air.

With a shrug and a quirk of his brow, Gabriel said, “This… is gonna sound awful. But I’ve got an idea.”

Numb fingertips tingled under the heat of her breath as Natalie tried to warm her hands in her gloves. Another glance between Gabriel and Sam settled her stare on the floor between them both. Silent seconds ticked by, each one longer than the last, until sudden understanding rent a gasp from her throat.

“No, Gabe,” she stated. “No way.”

“Look, guys, I'm just trying to come up with something,” he said as he raised his hands. “I don't need to keep warm. I'm fine. It's you two that are in big trouble here, and it's the only way I can help.”

When Natalie looked to Sam, she found his knotted brow and intense hazel stare. “What?”

“Body warmth,” Natalie stated. “He wants us to share body warmth.”

For a moment, Sam glared first Gabriel, then herself. But then he shrugged and crossed the room to sit beside Natalie near the stove. “He’s not wrong,” he said as he sat beside her. “Here, toss those blankets over me—”

“Ah, that's… not what I meant,” Gabriel interrupted. “Eventually, like Nat said, you two will need to get some sleep. The bed is,” he paused as he regarded the bed on the far side of the cabin, “way the fuck over there.”

“So?” Sam asked as he sidled in close and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. When Natalie tossed the blanket over him, he pulled it closed in front of her. “We’ll warm up here, then head to bed when we’re comfortable.”

“Uh, yeah, and then freeze to death,” Gabriel stated. “You need my help.”

“What?” Sam gaped.

Natalie scratched the back of her head. “Really had to spell it out for you, huh?”

“Sh,” Sam hissed, “And, no. There’s no way all three of us will fit in that bed anyway.”

“We would if we were huddled really close for warmth,” Gabriel insisted. “I don't want the two of you to get hurt. I'm just trying to help.”

“Yeah, and it's encroaching on something personal, Gabe. You and I are one thing, but Natalie and I are… look it's just not gonna happen.”

The sting in Natalie’s cheeks radiated across her nose. “Are you… being possessive of me, Sam?”

“No,” Sam spat.

She looked to Gabriel, surprise coloring her tone. “Are you being possessive of Gabe?”

“What?” Sam stammered. “No, I have…” he fell silent as he looked between the two of them, his face growing redder by the second.

“Sam, what’s--” Natalie began as she slipped a hand over his thigh. Despite all the layers between them, Sam shuddered as she found the source of his frustration. When she looked him in the eye, his wordless plea screamed for help.

Holy shit.

“Gabe?” Natalie chimed as she turned to him.

“Yes, Natalie?” Gabriel sang.

“Would you like to share the bed with us?” she asked.

He grinned at that. “I would enjoy that.”

When she turned back to Sam, she found his embarrassed face, cheeks and eyes and nose so pink. “Would you mind if Gabriel shared the bed with us?”

Sam’s hazel glare flicked to Gabriel, who raised a brow and quirked half a smile on his pretty lips, then looked back to her. “Only if you’re okay with it”

Of course, he would defer to her. “That’s not what I’m asking, Sam. I want to know if you would mind your archangel boyfriend cuddling all close to your girlfriend.”

“I…” Sam started but fell silent. At his feet he stared for several seconds before he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Gabriel asked. “You’ve wanted to do that? Is that what I heard?”

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed as he stood, blanket thrown from his shoulders, but his anger fled the moment it flared. “I’ve wanted to ask. For a while now. I just… I was scared. I don’t even know how--”

Oh, Christ. “It’s called a threesome, Samwise, and I’m sad you didn’t ask sooner,” Natalie stated.

“What?”

Their confusion echoed in the tiny cabin, both men gaping at Natalie as if she had cursed them. “Seriously? Neither of you thought I might want in on your… whatever it is?”

Sam blushed whenever Natalie said anything remotely close to an innuendo. But Gabriel? She had never seen even a hint of pink on his cheeks. In fact, he flirted with her endlessly, but she thought he had only intended to tease her. And maybe get a rise out of Sam in the process. When she recalled those embarrassing moments, they began to make sense, examined under a new light. Gabriel had wanted the same thing. And so, he, too, blushed a shade of red to match Sam.

When she stood and walked to the bed, both men watched, unmoving. “You know,” she started, “if we boil some snow down in the stove and fill up our water bottles, we could put them in the bed, too. That'll help.”

Gabriel looked to Sam as he asked, “May I?” with a tilt of his head toward Natalie.

Sam returned to his seat by the stove, and rested his chin in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “Sure,” he mused, “But you better ask her first. Sure as hell isn’t my place to give permission.”

A shiver ran down her spine as Gabriel's less than angelic smirk crooked his lips. Son of a bitch. An angel. She was about to fuck an angel. Not just any angel, but an archangel. Gabriel crossed the space between them in two steps, and without warning, enveloped her with arms and wings as his lips pressed to hers.

Everything about him contrasted to Sam. While Gabriel still towered over her, he was nowhere near as tall as Sam. And good lord, his wings. She had not considered those, forgotten until they shielded her from the world, warm and softer than sin. Feathers on her cheek rushed a wave of arousal between her thighs, knees week with want, and the tension in her back eased in his warm embrace.

But then the cold returned as gloved hands parted Gabriel’s wings. Sam pressed in behind her, and when she pulled back from the angel, he said, “Not very fun for me if I can’t see what’s going on.”

Again, Gabriel smirked. “I figured that would get you off your ass,” he said. “Now, what do we do with her?”

“Natalie?” Sam whispered into her ear, his hands roaming to her hips.

“S-Sam?” she stuttered, her hands buried in Gabriel’s hair.

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

The heat of his breath on her skin extracted a moan from her as she said, “I want you both.”

Sam kicked his boots aside as he unbuttoned her pants. “At the same time?”

She could hardly keep up. “Yes,” she sighed into Gabriel’s lips. “Just like this.”

Gabriel groaned as she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, released with a lewd pop. “Damn, Natalie,” he muttered, “I always wondered what it was you and Sam did for fun. Never thought this would be on your list.”

“Gabe?”

“Yes?”

Natalie shoved him to the bed. “Shut up and strip.”

Without another word, Gabriel did as she ordered, first his shirt as his boots thumped to the floor. When he tried to remove his pants, Natalie batted his hands away and slipped her fingers in at the waist.

“You humans and your control,” Gabriel jested with a wink.

Sam snorted from behind her. “You better let her have it, or she’ll take it from you.”

“Is that so?” he asked as he wriggled from his pants and she pulled, the hard length of his cock laying against his stomach. “I might want to see that.”

“You might if you keep at it,” Sam jested as he wrenched her pants down to her ankles, the freezing cold air of the cabin shocking her skin in a wave of gooseflesh. With her back arched, she rolled her hips to give Sam a perfect view of her sopping cunt, and he moaned. “Ready and willing, as always.”

“Of course,” she cooed as she grabbed Gabriel’s cock at the base. With a coy smirk, she winked at him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your boyfriend.”

Sam hummed in approval as his firm grasp spread her, and the warmth of his tongue enveloped her flesh. She angled the tip of Gabriel’s cock to her mouth, and another moan fell from her parted lips as Gabriel squirmed beneath her. “Suck it,” he hissed, “quit teasing me.”

Between Gabriel’s insistent words, his throbbing cock in her hand, and Sam’s expert tongue, Natalie wondered if she were dreaming. As she reached with her tongue, the sharp salt of Gabriel’s skin consumed her senses. But what truly floored her was the moment she sealed her lips around the swollen head and Gabriel whimpered. Not a desperate moan or a pleased sigh or an anxious groan. No, Gabriel damn near wept as Natalie sucked him into the back of her throat.

A surprised moan of her own hummed through her nose, and Sam must have understood, for he spoke. “Gabe’s a sucker for a good blowjob.”

Natalie withdrew him from her mouth and said, “Lucky for him I like giving them.”

A delighted grin spread Gabriel’s lips. “Do you two argue about oral? Both of you love giving…”

As she closed her lips around his cock again, Natalie paused, a mental image interrupting her entire thought process. Sam, on his knees, sucking Gabriel’s cock. She was about to say something again when Sam spoke in her stead. “Natalie’s a champion sixty-nine partner.”

Gabriel choked out another whimper, whether at Sam’s statement or the bob of her head, she could not be sure. But she was determined to suck him into a wordless stupor, one hand stroking his shaft, the other between his cheeks and teasing his tight hole as her tongue swirled around his cock. She kept her eyes glued to his—not an easy feat with Sam ravaging her from behind—and each time his mouth opened to speak, her fingers pressed, slipped inside him, and hooked. And each time, Gabriel moaned unbidden, uncontrolled, all words forgotten.

Freezing air met her wet skin as Sam parted from her, his fingers spreading her arousal from her cunt to her ass. “Ready, Talie?”

The clack of his belt buckle on the wood floor prepared her just in time. The firm, thick head of Sam’s cock pressed to her cunt and slipped inside with ease. But he didn’t remain long. After a few long strokes, Sam withdrew, then lined up with her ass. “Talie?”

Gabriel’s cock fell from her lips as she cried out, “Wait!” Haphazardly, she kicked free of her boots and pants, then tore the remaining layers off in a flurry of fabric and limbs. Then she crawled atop Gabriel, straddled his hips, and stroked him. Pitched forward, Gabriel reached behind her, snapped apart her bra, and tore it from her chest. Greedy hands grabbed her tits with a firm squeeze and fingertips teased taut nipples, stiffened by the cold cabin air and Gabriel’s touch.

The heat of Sam’s body enveloped her from behind, a massive hand grasping her ass. Gabriel cried out in shock, and a beat later, Natalie knew why; Sam had grabbed his cock and lined it up with her cunt. And Gabriel, bless his angel heart, responded with an unbidden roll of his hips. In one smooth stroke, he sheathed himself inside her, his thick cock spreading her nearly as well as Sam.

The mattress shifted as Sam knelt behind her, and Natalie braced herself, hands planted on Gabriel’s chest. “Talie,” Sam repeated, “I need to hear you say it.”

“Fuck me, Sam,” she breathed, eyes wide and locked with Gabriel’s. The angel wrapped his arms around her, grabbed her cheeks, and spread her. “Do it.”

Gabriel rolled his hips as he sighed, “Keep those pretty blue eyes opened, Talie. Sam’s a big boy, so you’ll—”

Her lips planted on his, swallowing his words and drawing another moan from him. Then the firm tip of Sam’s cock pressed to her asshole, and slowly, her muscles relaxed. Inch by inch, he eased into her, and as his pelvis met her backside, her world shattered. Wings enveloped the three of them, shielded once more from the cold. Not that Natalie noticed it anymore. Quite the opposite, lust heated every inch of her skin, so entwined with her lover and his boyfriend she couldn’t tell where one body started and the other ended. So filled, she thought only of them as she writhed in Gabriel’s arms, desperate for more.

Gabriel withdrew first, and as Natalie sucked in a breath against his lips, Sam gasped. “Shit, Gabe,” he sighed, “I can… I can feel you. Fuck, that’s amazing.”

Holy hell. She had not anticipated that. When Gabriel slipped back in, Sam withdrew, and all three of them moaned a song so lascivious, Natalie cried out in overstimulation. Though she so thoroughly felt every sensation—every touch, every stroke, every beat of their racing hearts—she could hardly believe any of it was real. She had never felt anything nearly so thrilling. Her wonder vanished when Gabriel set their pace, and Sam followed suit, steady thrusts alternating their strokes.

Sam earned himself another long, high moan from them both as he snapped his hips into Natalie as deep as he could and leaned over her shoulder. His massive hand cupped Gabriel’s cheek as their lips met, and Natalie watched with wide eyes. Though intense, their touch remained tender, and she understood; Sam kissed as though he worshipped his partner. And earlier, she had learned Gabriel kissed with great care, acutely aware of his strength.

When they parted, Natalie ogled the reverence with which they stared at one another. That gaze, so familiar on Sam’s face, mirrored in Gabriel’s, and a part of her envied that shared devotion. Her jealousy lasted a mere second, for in the next heartbeat they turned to gaze upon her with the same veneration.

“Sorry,” Gabriel muttered with another boyish blush. “I shouldn’t hog him.”

Natalie bucked her hips, and both men grunted with her gasp as they slipped deeper into her. “Next time,” she started, “you can have him all to yourself and I’ll just… watch.”

Gabriel rolled his hips, a seemingly involuntary spasm at her suggestion. “Fuck, Sam, you are a lucky man.”

Slow, measured strokes set their pace once more as Sam thrust. “You do realize you’re balls deep in her, too, right?”

A pleased hum sang through his nose as Gabriel wrapped his arms around her tighter, his thrusts matching Sam’s. “Oh, I do,” he sighed, “I know I’m even luckier than you.”

“Good,” Sam stated as he righted himself. “Why don’t we let Natalie know how much we appreciate that?”

The golden brown of Gabriel’s eyes met hers as a smile crooked the corner of his mouth. “I think we owe it to her,” he whispered before he placed another firm kiss on her lips.

Her hands sought leverage and found it in his hair, long brown locks not unlike Sam’s, soft between her fingers. Each of their alternating strokes marked their place between Natalie’s breathless gasps. She forgot about the cabin, the storm, the power outage. If it had not been for that perfect sequence of accidents, their tryst might have never come to pass. How perfect for them, then, that wendigo hunted near a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm with shoddy electrical service?

“Fuck, Natalie, I’m gonna come,” Sam growled, thrusting faster and hips slapping against her backside.

Natalie moaned into Gabriel’s lips, still pressed to hers, and Gabriel responded with speed, hips pounding his cock into her cunt. When Sam’s pace stuttered, the swell of his erection culminated in a long, low growl as he collapsed to her, his chest flush with her back. Gabriel thrust relentlessly as Sam moaned, whimpers and groans clipped short as his own thrusts slowed to halt. Each throb of his cock filled her, pushed her ever so close to her own end.

Gabriel’s lips tore from hers as he spoke. “I can tell you’re close, Natalie,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I felt you quivering on my cock as Sam came. Tell me what you need.”

She writhed in his arms, “I… just fuck me, Gabe,” she stuttered, “fuck me and come inside me.”

Gabriel moaned in approval as his hips returned to thrusting, short, quick snaps that slapped against her thighs. Lost amidst the sensations, Natalie nearly drowned in the wake of Gabriel’s lust, but when Sam rose to part from her, she shouted, “Stop!”

Both men froze, Gabriel’s eyes wide and staring into hers. When neither of them spoke, she said, “Heal him.”

“What?”

She grasped Gabriel by the jaw and smiled. “You know exactly what I mean. Heal him. I want him to stay inside me.”

“That’s not how it wo—”

A flex of her cunt clipped his words short. “You expect me to believe that you, Gabriel, an angel who lived with sex workers for years, never figured out how to keep an erection after coming?”

He grinned a wicked smile as he looked over her shoulder to Sam. “You okay with that, babe?”

She loosened her grip on Gabriel’s face when she looked to Sam as he spoke. “Better do what she wants, Gabs.”

He gave no warning before the trickle of warmth flowed through her. Sam’s gasp of shock echoed hers as that warmth radiated between them, then settled in his cock. His flesh firmed and lengthened inside her, and Natalie cried out at the sudden fullness.

Gabriel wasted no time in returning to his pace. “Seems like everyone enjoyed that.”

“Son of a bitch, Gabe, that feels so good,” Natalie moaned, “now, make me come.”

From behind, Sam groaned as the sting of his fingernails bit into her ass and spread her. “Oh, that looks so hot.”

It might have been Sam’s voice. But the thought of him parting her lips and watching as Gabriel pounded his cock into her cunt shoved Natalie so violently over the edge, she screamed. That spark ignited wildfire in her veins, the release of her orgasm consuming her entire body. Each thrust extricated the utmost pleasure from her, aftershocks of her orgasm following every stroke. Gabriel had seen her to her end in expert fashion. When she collapsed atop him, Gabriel wrapped her in his arms, and Sam helped her to the bed, laying on her side.

“Easy,” Sam muttered. “I’ll get you a—”

“No,” she demanded as she grasped his wrist. “Just get the blankets over us.”

Sam did as he was told and grabbed the blankets from the foot of the bed. A smooth throw covered the three of them, and Natalie curled in close to Gabriel, legs entwined and cock still deep in her cunt. And Sam enveloped her from behind, cock still buried in her ass.

“When I suggested sharing body warmth, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Natalie looked first to Sam, then Gabriel. “I doubt that.”

“I’m serious!” Gabriel squawked. “I just wanted to keep you two from getting hurt.”

Sam wrapped an arm around her, first to pull her closer to him, then to reach Gabriel. With delicate fingertips, he drew lazy circles on his chest as he said, “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

Gabriel remained silent for a moment before he responded. “Okay, fine, I might have thought of it. Once. For a minute. Like, maybe one thing would lead to another,” he rambled, then focused on Natalie. “But you read me like an open book.”

“She’s good at that,” Sam sighed as he smoothed the skin of his chest to his back, then drifted to Gabriel’s ass. “Speaking of which, any thoughts on what to do about…” He rolled his hips for a stroke of his cock in her ass.

“Good question,” Natalie started with a breathless sigh. “Give me half an hour?”

“I could… you know, do what I did to Sam,” Gabriel offered. “That takes next to no grace at all.”

Natalie quirked a brow at that. “Oh, I’m enjoying this,” she started. “Besides, I’m keeping the both of you warm.”

The sound of Sam’s pleased sigh mingled with Gabriel’s soft moan as he said, “Good point. Half an hour it is. What do you want to do then?”

Natalie laughed as she spoke.

“I already told you. Next time, I’m watching.”

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ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN KINK BINGO MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[diningpageantry]

Sharing

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/41375339

Chapter 7/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 3502

Summary: A shared moment of intimacy is granted to Mr. Pitch and Sir Snow through Mr. Pitch's recovery period.

Doctor Wellbelove and Agatha take an afternoon railway back home the next day.

I wave them off, promising Agatha I’ll write to her and Penelope before winter falls. The rain from days ago starts up again, leaving puddles for their carriage to splash into as the sound of clomping hooves clashing with water. Under the shelter of the overhang, I watch as they slowly trail off until all that remains of them is the road they’d taken, waving around trees and the deep greens of late summer.

Before making my way back inside and inevitably back to Mr. Pitch’s room, I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly through my nose, contemplating my emotions briefly. There’s a mild temptation trying to tug me towards Ebb’s house in hopes of unloading my mind, but I don’t feel like getting wet would be beneficial to me overall. Catching my death doesn’t sound appealing.

Therefore, I dismiss the idea and step back into the comfort of the manor. I make my way around, collecting lunch and a few books for Mr. Pitch and I  before walking up and knocking lightly at his bedroom door. A soft, sleepy rumble of “Come in” beckons me inside.

Lying amongst extra blankets with his leg propped up in the air, I find Mr. Pitch comfortably rising from his nap while still fully dressed in the night clothes he’d fallen asleep in evening before. His lips pull when he sees me, leading me to believe that he is still a bit loopy on the drugs Doctor Wellbelove had left for him to ease the pain.

“Ah, you’ve brought me lunch,” he hums, nose wrinkling right at his too-high bridge. “Come come, sit with me.”

There’s an odd appeal about Mr. Pitch being medicated; he’s more carefree. The absolute gentlest state I’ve seen this man in has been this past morning as he got portioned out small bits of opium. It calms his nerves and softens his edges, making him smile up at me like I’m the most important man in the world.

Is it an abuse of situational luck? I wouldn’t say so, given I’m not throwing myself at him like a dog in heat. Instead, I’m taming my growing knowledge of my platonic warmth towards him as I force myself into somewhat of an exposure therapy. The more I’m around him, the more my interest in him calms when we interact.

At moments like these, when he’s not trying to nip at my throat, I can settle in my skin beside him and read aloud or entertain him with a game of checkers. It’s not difficult to get him to interact, and frankly that’s the richest gift of all.

As I go to sit in the chair at the bedside, I feel the peculiar sensation of being touched. With the raising of my eyes, I peer over to see that I am being touched, or rather my sleeve is being tugged, by Mr. Pitch.

I look up at him, noticing that he’s staring at me quizzically as I hover over the seat of the chair. Before I can sneak in a word of confusion, he slips his own demand past me. “I had meant for you to sit on the bed.”

Flabbergasted, I glance between him and the open sheet of empty bed beside him. Surely, I shouldn’t be allowed to join him. “You must be joking. Are you?”

“Snow, am I one to crack such jokes?” he raises his brows, an intoxicated smile still sparkling on his face. Given by his expression, I shouldn’t take his offer and risk an inappropriate closeness, but it’s oh-so irresistible.

There’s a sinking conclusion that I must be absolutely out of my mind, for I’m sliding off my jacket and shoes and settling them atop the chair’s seat before climbing in beside him.

He must be somewhat mental, because there’s an unmistakable hum pouring from his throat whilst he watches me lounge out. In the silence of the moment, his head rolls to the side that faces me as his hands pick apart his bread into bite sized pieces. “What did you bring to read to me today?” he asks, eyeing up the small stack of books I’d carried in my arms.

I scan over the pile, listing off the titles before settling back down and studying his movements. Even in his drugged state, he concentrates just enough to gather pieces of bread, meat, and cheese from his platter and eat them one by one. It’s a childish system, but I decide against ridiculing at this time. That’s something best left for a sober mocking.

He tells me to read the poetry, attention turned towards his hands as I reach for the book. Yet, upon my return to an upright beside him, I feel the brush of a forehead settling on my shoulder. He stays, maintaining shut eyes and a slowly chewing jaw.

I freeze, breath clogged back in my throat as he simply relaxes further into me. I’m only pushed back into reality when he mutters out a quiet string of words. “Why aren’t you reading?”

Why aren’t I reading?

The cover glides in my hands, falling open to the first pages as I clear my throat and begin to read. My voice doesn’t raise beyond our private bubble of space, canopied by his bed and encased between the blanket on top of us. Within an hour, he’s back asleep, somewhat pressed up to me as he snores like an animal.

It’s quite funny, truly. Such an elegant man, but when under a mild sedative, he’s a child again.

Given my brief moment of freedom from Mr. Pitch's every whim, I make the active decision to trade out the poetry for a novel to read until he rises. It isn't until hours later and just past tea time that I feel the shift of his waking body.

His head lifts from the drool pile he’d left settled onto my shoulder, groaning in a mixture of disgust and pain. I’d assume this means his drugs wore thin, leaving him back to his original state. Despite this, he doesn’t rush to kick me out from his close-company. Instead, he draws himself upright and peers over me as he typically would and clears his throat. “Water,” he demands, voice cracking and crumbling from sleep and little use.

I immediately nod, turning to the small pitcher kept beside his bed and pouring it into a glass cup. He nods as a “thank you”, taking the water and tossing it back eagerly. A little dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt as he gulps and exhales, handing it back. He doesn't say word until after the exchange is over, but I hadn’t been anticipating one either. Not that I'd want a genuine moment of thankfulness from him.

“How long have I been out?” he grumbles his typical, bitter comment as his eyes cast down in disdain for his outfit. Still untouched as the same clothes he's worn since last night.

Out of impulse, I shrug as I keep watch over him. “A few hours.” My voice is purely one of gentle kindness, something of which I doubt he fully deserves. Curse me and my hidden intentions of normalcy.

It draws his attention, eyes raking over me judgmentally before his attention drifts away without the anticipated snarky remark. Instead, he settles back into his seat and analyzes me, making me feel like I’m an uncovered crime scene or a fine piece of art. He always seems to make me feel so distant and untouchable.

It’s a long while that we sit like this, him looking at me and me staring back as if I’m a caged animal watching its new owner. It’s unnerving, knowing that he could open me with just a gentle crack to my head. Out will spill my secrets, coating us like an extra blanket on his gothic bed.

“Tell me, Snow,” he says at last, skull resting back against the headboard and settling there comfortably amongst the carved gargoyles and licking, wooden flames. His hair sticks out at all angles, left untouched after his slumber. It's endearing. “Why is it that nobody knows your story?”

“Pardon?” My head draws back, eyes narrowing as I stare.

He shrugs in such a graceful way. It’s absolutely unfair. His shoulders drag up, pulling towards his jaw before slacking elegantly back at his sides. “You heard me quite clearly, Snow. I’m curious about you--everybody who’s anybody is curious about you.”

There’s nothing anybody needs to know about me. “What do you want to know?” I crumble, fingertips dragging along the edge of the book’s spine as he keeps his eyes locked on me. It sends chills up my spine and makes me want to tell him everything there is to my history. The nunnery, Lord David’s calling upon me. The lies and the unsaid truths of my nature. All the morbid stories everyone seeks, yet nobody's graced to hear.

“Where did you come from? Why do you eat so quickly?” his voice grows soft and gentle. A feather over a piano key, trying to tempt a note from me.

I should, theoretically, toss myself out the closest window. It’d be much more beneficial, and will most likely result in a positive outcome  as opposed to what Mr. Pitch wishes to elicit from me. The cruelest part of all is that I tell him. I’m too weak as to not to. Listening to the honey-sweetness of his voice makes me want to give him the world.

“I was orphaned,” I breathe, unable to raise my voice higher. “Left for dead, wrapped in a blanket and set in a basket on the streets with only a slip of paper holding my name. The nunnery took me in and raised me until I was nearly five, then Lord David went to fetch for me. Nobody ever told me why he picked me in particular, but it was me he wanted . Up until that point in my life, I was constantly starved...”

“Is that all?”

I shake my head, eyes downcasted as I squirm. He doesn’t even have to touch me to make me experience the weight of being smothered. Perhaps it’s the room, although it’s more than likely the truth that’s strangling me. “No,” I utter, “Lord David never kept me well when I was younger. There was long nights of lessons with few and far meals between. He raised me telling me I would provide a great fighter, in case the wealth was challenged. I was always told to never tell a soul where I’m from, either. It always made me feel like I was in trouble; like it was my fault.”

“Why was that?” It feels as though Mr. Pitch is the spy, coaxing answers from me. Now, I’m noticing he’s drawn closer, sitting in nearly breathing distance.

“Because I choose to follow what he says. He says someone may have to defend the name once he’s at proper power, and that he’ll be to weak to do it once the time is right. Therefore, he needs me to carry the illusion that I’m meant for this. That I'm not hidden swine. That I'm meant to be here…” I feel a hand on mine, and I flinch before registering that it’s Mr Pitch’s. He goes to pull it back, but I close mine around his, risking a glance into his eyes. “Don’t tell anybody--I beg of you. It could destroy me and make me more ostracized than I already am. Everyone believes I’m much like the other followers of Lord David, coming from wealthy families that left them to train and grow stronger. If… it they know I’m not…”

His hand squeezes mine, making me exhale and stare at him in utter panic as his other hand raises to rest upon my cheek. As if it’d make it better.

It doesn’t.

“I’ll never tell a soul,” he says gently. “You have my word.”

The constricting walls start disappearing entirely, my focus closing in on Mr. Pitch and his all-consuming presence. It’s as if he’s enveloping me, taking over the room around us and just existing as my barrier.

In a moment of weakness, I try to urge my curiosities out of him.

“What happened to your mother?” I whisper, staring at him wide-eyed and weak in his arms.

I somewhat fantasize him snapping my neck, as he easily could, yet he surprises me by running his thumb against the skin of my cheek. For a fleeting second, I wonder if I’m drugged and the view of him with such a sheep’s wool-soft smile is a hallucination. “Hadn’t anyone ever told you?”

I take a few deep breaths, shaking my head in a silent response as his thumb continues to drag against my skin. In a moment’s miracle, his hand drops from my face and settles back onto the pillow.

“Someone attacked,” he says quietly. “Came early evening, right after I’d finished my day’s classes and took a break to play around in the flower. She was in her study, overlooking the garden. I… don’t quite remember much beyond slashing pain, the stark blueness of the sky and waking up to mum not being there anymore. All I’ve been told is she threw herself between the attacker and I, and she hadn’t survived.”

I purse my lips, watching his eyes drop and feeling my own mind claw back to reality while his sinks away. I don’t have much to do, besides attempt a similar comfort.

My hand drops to his good knee, sliding up to rest on his mid tight. He tenses at first, and I contemplate pulling back, but he draws his leg out closer towards me after a second. It makes my heart patter faster, throat restricting as I catch his eyes.

“Was the killer ever caught?”

He appears shocked, shaking his head as if I’d said something irrational given the situation. “What? I… no. Never.”

“Then we have to catch them,” I whisper, urging closer. “I’ll help--I have to. You know my secret, and now I have to pay you back.”

“You surely do not have to,” he utters back, face contorting in confusion. “I have no reason to share this pain with you, and you have no reason to seek to solve a decades old crime.”

I scan his face, shifting a bit in my spot as my hand remains set on his thigh. “I wish to,” I add. “It’s unfair. I’m not rather fond of the unfair.” It’s not a lie; far from it. If it’s right, it’s what I should be doing with wishes for friendship aside. Yet, if it draws me closer to him, if it keeps me at such a distance as we’ve been for days, then I’ll solve all the crimes in England for him.

His jaw goes a bit slack, eyes darting back to my hand and up towards me. “Do you really wish to help me?”

“I’ll do anything.” I lean closer, feeling his breath on my cheek as he stares at me. “I’ll tear up half the country to solve this for you.”

“You are far too kind, Sir Snow.”

“And you're not too evil, Mr. Pitch.”

His tongue lets out and I watch it’s pink trail, swiping against his lip as my heart races out of my chest cavity. I’m positive that he’s tempting a quick word, but a knock at the bedroom door sends us flying apart. I scramble out of bed, jolting to a standing position and straightening out my shirt where it’s tucked in. He raises his blanket up further, pushing his hair back as he tries to smoothly call for the unknown person to enter.

In pops a servant, carrying a food tray. “Master Grimm stated that he’d assumed both of you would not be joining for dinner, given Master Pitch’s state, so I come to bring the food,” they say quickly, as if it's rehearsed, as they offer it out to me. I take with a nod, thanking it. The servant avoids eye contact with both of us, rushing out quickly and leaving me to stand somewhat awkwardly, a platter of food in my hands.

We exchange a glance, me standing and staring as he sits on the far opposite side of his bed. I nearly go to sit somewhere else, but he keeps the space beside him empty as an invitation that I can’t quite refuse.

In silence, we sit to eat side-by-side, nearly like we’d been doing such for years. It’s inescapably intimate; a couple’s dinner in a couple’s bed, if an illustration seeked fit to capture the moment. In the depths of my mind, I ponder what it'd be like to have a couple's dinner.

I clean up after us, leaving the tray outside the room and finding the instructions for Mr. Pitch's nighttime dose of the pain reliever. I settle beside him on the bed, filling his cup with the required amount of drops before he sips it down. His nose scrunches before he exhales and relaxes slightly, eyes trailing me as I reach out to grab my shoes and jacket to retire off to bed.

He stops me with a cleared throat and side-casted glance. “Sir Snow…” he begins. “Don’t find me rude, but… I did feel quite a bit calmer with you in the room. Of course, I would defend myself if I weren’t injured, but-”

“Do you wish me to stay in the room once more?”

“Until I’m sure I’m safe,” he adds, head bobbing once in a nod. Of course, I won’t refuse.

I leave my shoes and jacket, going to collect my blanket for the sofa as he stares. It leaves me unnerved and sends me spinning back to face him. He cuts in, once again, before I can. “My bed… is quite large…”

I shock, narrowing my eyes at him as I shift from foot to foot. “Mr. Pitch, are you not afraid of someone seeing us? Two men laying beside each other, is that not something to arouse suspicion?”

His hand dismissively waves, nose turning up. “The servants know to knock before entering. There should be no such worries.”

I stand frozen at first, torn between what’s clearly proper and what I may secretly wish for.

My urges win the battle.

After borrowing one of Mr. Pitch’s nightclothes, I rush to change in his bathroom and emerge to find him waiting with the blankets turned down. I settle beside him, hands folding on my chest nervously as we stare at each other.

He makes the first move of comfort, hand reaching out and grasping mine. “Are you positive that you’d be able to find my mother’s killer?”

I trace my fingertips along his knuckles in the briefest moment of weakness, studying the dips and curves of his face so stunningly close. “I’m convinced,” I murmur, pushing my fingers between his. “After all, you’re too smart and I’m too bold for it to not work.”

He exhales out, lips threatening a genuine smile as he stares off at me. “Thank you.”

I have to force myself to not overreact to his words, nearly positive I’d heard them wrong at first. After seconds of processing, I find it in myself to turn my body towards him and smile at him. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Pitch.” I press our palms together, feeling his gaze soften as we stay locked in.

“Basilton,” he whispers after a few brief seconds. “Or--or Baz. I hear you trade such soft names within your friends, and it feels displacing to be referred to as mister.”

I study his face and nod my head slowly in understanding. “Baz,” I test, feeling it on my lips and watching him smile once again, keeping it in the privacy of just him and I. I wish to try it again. I do try it again. “Baz.”

“That’s enough, Snow.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Simon.”

“Hm… I prefer Snow.” He returns back to his playful smirk, and I feel like pushing him over. I can’t truly push him, of course--he’s got a broken leg, and we are laying down after all. So I settle for a shoulder nudge, which leads to receiving one back. Soon enough, we nudge each other back and forth until we sneak closer to poke and prod at each other’s faces. Eventually, in silent laughter, he collapses forward towards me with a full faced smile and settles his cheeks on top my shoulder.

Despite my best urges, I simply smooth back his roughed hair and smile. “Sleep well, Baz,” I whisper, enjoying the way his name rolls from my mouth.

He returns with a grunt, remaining against me as he dozes asleep.

I ponder for the moments before I sleep whether or not this is the beginning of our friendship. I think it may just be so.

[windingdrabble]

     “Y’ look nice.”

     ‘Nice’ doesn’t exactly cut it. It works, sure-- Ruby’s crossed the ‘nice’ bar easily, it isn’t incorrect, but it isn’t enough. His fur looks nice when the light from the moon hits it. The nurses gave him pain medication, and it’s working well enough to where his smile is small but constant and there and soft and calm and nice. Ruby makes a joke at his eyes’ expense every time he gets the opportunity to, but he keeps fluttering them open and closed and the quick, delicate blinks are curtains to his foggy eyes that Sonic can’t bring himself to think aren’t nice still. Maybe he’s covered in bandages and bruises but he’s still nice, even if calling it ‘nice’ adds to the bubble of frustration and confusion in him. Nice isn’t quite right, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to think of, and that’s already enough to make him break eye contact.

Ruby’s eyes open and stay open for longer this time, looking up at Sonic. There’s a bandage on his cheek, but Sonic grins a little stiffled grin when he bets to himself the blush could probably show through the gauze. 

“I look like shit,” the other deadpans, turning his head a little to the right on Sonic’s lap. The motion gets him a little closer to the hand Sonic has hovering over that side of his face. Sonic’s reluctant thumb tucks in closer to graze over Ruby’s nose, and after a few beats of serene (odd, misplaced, but not unwelcomed serene-- serene is a luxury to them both) silence, Ruby buries his muzzles into Sonic’s palm with a sigh. Sonic can’t help but not be able to stiffle the grin any longer, chest warm and cheeks red. He can’t tell yet if Ruby’s naturally this touchy or not-- he’s more often than not on some sort of pill or pain killer and SOnic knows from experience that definitely is a factor to consider-- but it’s-- also nice. Sometimes, when they both seem to gravitate towards sitting in the same spot and lean into eachother, it’s nice.

“How would you know?” Sonic replies, a little amusement in his voice. Ruby just... ending up half-asleep on his lap was already endearing (endearing-- endearing is nice, and it’s a little better than nice, but endearing doesn’t fill up the space in his heart Ruby has carved himself a home into) but hiding his face in his hand makes him smile crooked-- he can feel it.

“I just do,” Ruby replies, in his endless, stubborn wisdom. Sonic rolls his eyes, tracing the outline of Ruby’s eye with a stray thumb.

“Flawless logic, O’ Wise One. I’m the only one who can tell if y’ look like shit or not.”

He feels Ruby smile the smallest bit wider, and his heart skips a beat, and Ruby hides in his palm again and sunlight falls over Sonic’s back.  

“You are biased,” Ruby replies not-exactly-incorrectly (he still looks nice, still looks endearing wrapped up in all the bandages and casts), quiet and muffled. “You are the second least qualified to tell me if I look like shit or not.”

“Hey, I’m not second best at anything,” Sonic feigns insult, despite the smile in his voice. Ruby’s face isn’t as warm as it was when he was in the throughs of sickness weeks ago, but Sonic prefers it this way. If Ruby’s fever had come back that quickly that fast he would’ve been kicking down the doctor’s door forever ago. “If I gotta be unqualified I gotta be the most unqualified or no dice.”

Ruby opens his right eye to roll it, and Sonic huffs. Ruby complains that his eyes are useless now, but of course he doesn’t skip out of putting up a show of annoyance. 

“You make no sense,” he comments, closing his eye again when Sonic’s other hand gently brushes the fur near his ear. Sonic’s familiar with longing now, or familiar with it enough to at least recognize its pull at Ruby so easily giving in to the affection, at his still-relatively-peaceful smile under the moonlight still streaming in through the window, at the breath he feels dance over his hand as Ruby eases into him more. Sonic hasn’t made sense for a long time now, and for once, it isn’t daunting or scary or stressful.

“You don’t either,” Sonic shrugs, brushing over the pathways on the side fo Ruby’s face that are starting to become somewhat familiar, that are still drawing out that longing. 

It shouldn’t be too long before the hospital discharges Ruby. He’s getting his casts removed... in a few weeks (Sonic tries to keep track of all the dates, but for the life of him everything is still so liquid and runny and it blends together a lot), he’s been face mask free for a while now, he’s allowed to be carried outside and to hobble around more and more with Sonic to keep an eye on things. He won’t need to be tied down to a bed pretty soon, he won’t have to take as many medicines, he won’t have to move so little. He won’t have to get pain meds and curl up like this and joke in a quiet voice, the only voice in the room, and the only voice in the world Sonic wants to listen to at the moment. He won’t need distractions from the hospital at night, he won’t need conversations at four am (it was four last time he checked, before climbing on the bed), he won’t need Sonic to brush his quills absentmindedly (he isn’t absentminded-- he’s very present and very aware and very invested in where Ruby moves, what he says, how his fur moves against Sonic’s fingers, how his lips move against Sonic’s palm, how he looks so okay for once in forever and Sonic wants him to be okay forever), he won’t need Sonic to ‘accidentally’ have to stay where he is for the rest of the night, back to propped up pillows and hands gently discovering where he can scratch to get Ruby to be less grumpy.

The longing tugs, familiar anxiety seeping into the calm atmosphere. 

Where would Ruby go after this? Sonic may be working on the whole Chaos Control... Control thing, but he can’t manage as much back and forth as he does from the hospital to anywhere else in his world. That’s his world, where everything is a five minute run away at most. Ruby’s home is in his corner of the multiverse, and Sonic shifts uncomfortably at the thought of leaving Ruby (stubborn, way too godamn stubborn Ruby) to his own devices with a hole in his chest, alone in a world Mephiles likes to frequent. Sonic hasn’t been able to track down that thing since the whole mess went down-- his Super Sonic memories have always been a little... dreamlike. 

Ruby could want him to stay away, now that he won’t need as much care. Sonic is the emergency contact for a whole host of reasons, but half fo them are for the safety of everyone around Ruby. Sonic woudl be hard-pressed to find someone as explosive during a panic attack as Ruby is, and when you’re a ticking time Chaos Energy time bomb who was made to sock people’s jaws in his sleep, only someone with the same jaw-socking dayjob can keep you at bay. Ruby would still need someone to keep him from hurting /himself/, yeah, but... Ruby’s stuck here, one way or another. When he bails out fo the hospital, he won’t be stuck anymore-- stuck with the hopsital, or stuck with Sonic. 

“Hey, uh-- you,” he licks his lips, twirling a few strands of Ruby’s fur. “You.. going to stay.. at your place when they let you outta here?”

“You mean I am not here for the rest of my endless life?” Ruby laughs, and this time the skip in Sonic’s heart is bittersweet. There’s something about hearing Ruby laugh and it being the only sound in the room. 

His eye opens again, and he shifts in Sonic’s lap. “I... no.” Something taints the peace that had blanketed Ruby for most of the night, something shadows over his face and knits his brows. “No, I... I will look for somewhere to stay here, I guess.”

They’ve talked about a lot of things in Ruby’s hospital stay. Guilt, anger, hurt, regret, mistakes, apparently mutual feelings (though they haven’t said they’re anything other than friends, which Sonic doesn’t complain about), but Sonic doesn’t think it’s ever going to be a comfortable subject to bring up. Given what he knows now about Ruby’s history, he doesn’t blame Ruby for skipping out on home visits. Sonic runs his fingers down Ruby’s face, trying to draw the tension from his expression and shoulders again, somehow. 

“I-- You--” he stutters, never a good thing to be unable to keep back. Sonic the Hedgehog is witty and fast-talking and confident, and when Sonic the Hedgehog isn’t witty and fast-talking and confident the red flag it raises sticks out like a sore thumb. “You-- Y’know, I don’t... I don’t know if..”

“Spirit, relax.” Ruby’s head tilts, away from Sonic’s hand to attempt to make eye contact. Sonic bites on the inside of his cheek, ears flicking like an anxious beat pacer. Ruby’s hand lifts from the messy blankets all around them, enough telegraphing to tell Sonic to meet him halfway. Blind, and all. Sonic rolls his shoulders, holding onto Ruby’s outstretched hand, which squeezes when they made contact. 

“Stuttering does not sound like you,” Ruby continues, softly enough to where Sonic doesn’t start thinking the same thing, to his own detriment. He stutters rarely, although if he does it’s usually around Ruby. “What is it?”

Sonic blinks down at him, at the glassy eyes he hasn’t come to appreciate any less, at the genuine emotion in them despite their lack of eyesight, at Ruby’s slight head tilt, concerned and curious and nice and endearing and cute. Cute also doesn’t occupy the space he needs it to occupy, but it slots in a little better. A more snug fit, even if the longing is making it cold and Sonic involuntarily holds Ruby’s hand tighter. Ruby rubs his knuckles with his thumb, still inquisitive. Still allowing Sonic his own pace.

“Tails’ house,” Sonic manages, blinking down and then away from Ruby at the door of the pale white room. “I.. have a room. In Tails’ house. He could... I think I can cash in a few favors, and you could.. crash there, for a bit.”

Sonic laughs without intending to. “If you aren’t tired of having me around so much.”

Ruby shifts again, a little more than the last few times. He’s still frowning, but still inquisitive-- curious if anything. Curious, confused. “Why would I be tired of that?” 

Sonic blinks, scrambling through the logic in his thought process for an explanation. He laughs again, nervously. “Well, I dunno. If you’re just.. making due with what ya’ got here, I mean. It isn’t like you sleep much at all-- or if I sleep much at all, either-- and if you’re stuck in the hospital and not moving, and I’m not moving to make sure you don’t run away, then you- might as well.. do this, I guess.”

He shrugs again, ear twitching. “I dunno if this is your-- first choice for spending the night. I’m just a free pillow and conversation.”

Ruby shakes his head, taking back his hand to blindly hover over where he probably imagined Spirit’s cheek to be, and when he makes contact, he finds his way to Sonic’s chin to tilt it enough to get Sonic’s runaway eyes.

“Making due? Spirit, did you miss out on that whole conversation we had where we both said we were hypocrites and liked eachother?”

The question and the hand at his chin make Sonic run a blush. “No, ‘course not, but.. it ain’t like I know how this works, and you don’t either, and we’re both not exactly the ‘let’s immediately get married immediately and never leave until we get sick of eachother’ kind people, y’know?”

With his hands free, Sonic tugs on the cuff of his glove. “We both need our space, we already talked about that, and I don’t.. I don’t know how much y’re doing this cause you’re bedridden?”

“No, I know, but why would I be tired of you? I... like spending time with you, I told you that. You make staying here bearable...”

Sonic shifts again, opposite ear twitching. “Just a hunch.”

He looks away again, despite Ruby’s eye contact being mostly for show. His stomach twists into familiar anxiety. “A few months ago I barely figured out if I woudl throw up if you held my hand or not, dude. I ‘unno where your line is drawn.. If you’re just here right now cause it’s convenient or...”

He twitches, not exactly discreetly. “You know I’m bad at this.”

“I know,” Ruby replies, a little fond and a little concerned and a little in thought. His ears swivel towards Sonic. “...You think this is going to stop.”

Sonic tilts his head, a ‘so-so’ kind of thing. “Hell if I know.”

And he doesn’t really know, not clearly. It isn’t a clear cut deal, sorting through his thoughts when they get tangled up in the mess that is emotions. It’s-- a lot, a lot of overwhelming, anxious stuff and things and Sonic can’t even differentiate the stuff from the things, but it sounds close enough, it sounds resonant enough, it sounds familiar and sort of... close. He didn’t think Jules was going to stop. He didn’t think Bernie was going to stop. 

“It... at least sounds like it,” Ruby sighs, cupping Sonic’s cheek, to which Sonic replies by nuzzling into his palm like Ruby had done earlier with him. 

“...I worry about that, too,” he says, vaguely like a confession. “That this will stop. That you will change your mind.”

Sonic blinks, leaning into Ruby’s hand. Smiles a little, a little sad. “That it’s temporary, yeah?”

As if he can detect it, Ruby returns the sad, empathetic smile a little. “Yeah.”

Sonic sighs in the quiet of the night, slipping his fingers inbetween the ones Ruby has on his cheek. They hold eachother’s remaining hands. “Do you.. think it’ll stop?”

Ruby shakes his head, bringing their held hands closer. “Why would I say no to a free pillow and conversation? You are annoying, but not that annoying.”

Sonic laughs, louder and more genuine than his nervous, awkward laughs. He fully tangles his fingers with the hand Ruby keeps on his cheek, pulling it down. His head falls, his nose bumps against Ruby’s where he closes his eyes and breathes through the insecurity clouding his head. Ruby worries about the same thing. He opens his eyes again, and inhales a little relief when Ruby smiles.

“The.. line. The 'this isn’t my thing’ or ‘I got bored, I guess’ line. D’you know where you draw it yet?”

Ruby’s eyes are close and Sonic can see him thinking, ears twitching, blushing. It’s... cute. “Do you?”

“Well-- doing this isn’t the end of the world,” Sonic says, somewhat playfully, and more relief filters in when he recognizes his own playfulness. “I think it’s... a mood-dependant thing, but.. you?”

Ruby leans up a little, enough to nuzzle their noses together, and Sonic snorts as he answers. “I think I can make do.”