#that it’s for you but you give it to the skinny redhead with the concerning cough and the dead stare because he just watched his friend get

[cirr0stratus]

just finished episode 6 of band of brothers!

ANYWAY

[ridiasfangirlings]

Sarumi AU where Saruhiko is a pro gamer who plays online games all day in his computer and only drinks coffee for his dinner. One time Saruhiko ended up inside his computer in the game he was playing (he was playing some fighting game) That's where he saw and met Misaki

Yup, that’s how you get isekaied all right. Imagine Fushimi who almost never leaves his house and makes money as a pro gamer, he enters random tournaments and never shows his face because even that is a pain. He only does single player PvP too, every so often other gamers will reach out to him and try to get him to join a team for a pro league and Fushimi just deletes their emails. He doesn’t see any point in interacting with the rest of the world, as far as he’s concerned it’s just a pain to deal with other people and he would rather be alone living off coffee and Caloriemate. One day he receives a mysterious game in the mail which claims to be a free trial that was sent out to multiple gamers. Normally Fushimi would be suspicious of such a thing but he’s been feeling unwell lately and he figures playing a new game will give him something else to focus on, and anyway he’s received advance game copies before. He starts the game up and it’s a fighting game, Fushimi finds the character selection screen a little underwhelming. Like look at this one fighter, some short redhead with a bat even though it’s a fantasy setting, how stupid. 

He starts playing but begins to feel dizzy, he puts his controller down and goes to get an aspirin but ends up passing out. He wakes up to someone shaking him, Fushimi grumbles ‘annoying’ and puts out a hand to wave them away, accidentally smacking the person in the face. The guy who was trying to wake him up squawks indignantly and Fushimi opens his eyes, sitting up and asking why someone else is in his apartment. The guy beside him is like uh what are you talking about and Fushimi realizes he’s outside, in some kind of stadium. Next to him is a short redhead with a bat and imagine Fushimi just giving this flat look like ‘really’ because he’s played his fair share of isekai games and this has to be a stupid dream. The guy introduces himself as Yata and Fushimi grumbles ‘I know’ before he can stop himself, Yata’s all flattered because to think he’s just started in ‘the Games’ and he already has a fan. Fushimi’s like I’m not your fan Misaki and Yata’s like wait how did you know my first name I don’t tell that to anyone. Fushimi mutters ‘the character selection screen,’ Yata has no idea what he’s talking about but Fushimi doesn’t look well so Yata figures he should take Fushimi to the med tent to check on him.

As he’s being looked over Fushimi realizes that he really did get isekaied, and even worse he’s wearing a wristband that proclaims him as a contestant in these battle games. Fushimi decides he’ll have to survive this to escape the game and figures that Yata seems stupid and gullible so Fushimi will just use him to learn all about the games and how to beat them. Yata doesn’t know what’s up with this weird skinny guy who somehow joined the games but he’s always happy to help and explains how the whole thing is like a big gladiator-style fighting ring and whoever wins gets a big prize. Imagine Yata thinks Fushimi should probably drop out because he seems pretty weak but then in his first fight Fushimi wins by using knives and strategy and now Yata thinks that this Saruhiko guy is amazing. Fushimi is determined to just use Yata to win his way up the ranks but when Misaki says ‘amazing’ it makes his heart skip a beat and as they spend more time together he realizes something horrible: he actually likes Misaki, and he doesn’t want to go back to the world where Misaki doesn’t exist. But at the same time he doesn’t know what will happen if he loses here either, and part of him is aware that as Yata keeps winning too they might have to eventually face each other.

[nothere-notthere-nowhere]

Long Nights

Word Count: 1883

Genre: Fluff I guess? A little angst if you squint?

Pairing: Wanda x Fem!Reader

Request:  Hi! How are you? I loved so much Oblivious and Your Wanda, they are both so amazing and I was wondering if I could request a fic? a romantic Wanda x femreader, something like Wanda recently joined the team and she doesn't like y/n because she thinks y/n goes clubbing too much with Bucky but the truth is that she was a winter soldier like him, so Bucky goes out with y/n at night to help her redeem herself and then Wanda finds out? Thank you so much and I love your writing!! - Anonymous

A/N: First request done! Thank you for reading and I hope this is what you wanted :)

“Long night?” Natasha smirked at your yawn, using two hands to hold her mug.

“Something like that,” you joked back, grabbing the freshly brewed coffee from her hand and taking a sip. You heard a light scoff and turned to see Wanda regarding you with an annoyed look in her eye.

“Sorry, did she make this for you?” You asked. You had a habit to just take things from the older redhead.

Instead of a response, Wanda rolled her eyes before making her way out of the kitchen.

“Did I do something?” You asked Natasha, who was still staring at the coffee you’d stolen from her. 

“I don’t know, she’s probably just filled with teen angst still.” Natasha grumbled, grabbing a new mug.

“C’mon, Tash, that’s not really fair.” You told her. “She just lost everything. And she’s not a teen.” 

“We’ve all lost everything, Y/N.” Natasha deadpans. “Twenty-two is basically a teenager, by the way.”

“Cut her some slack,” You laughed. “She’s probably still getting used to this place.”

“Whatever,” Natasha dismissed. “Steal my coffee again, and you’re gonna lose a finger.”

“You say that every time.” You laugh.

---------

“Buck, you ready to go?” You asked him, walking out to the common area. You were dressed in your signature black leather jacket and ripped up skinny jeans. Your staple, in a sense.

“Yeah, let me grab a jacket.” He clapped you on the back as he walked past.

“You’re going out again?” Wanda’s voice nearly startled you. She was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed.

“Uh, yeah?” Your response came out as more of a question.

“Figures.” She rolled her eyes, turning to head back in the direction of her room.

“Okay, why is she so upset with me?” You ask Bucky when after she leaves.

“How should I know?” He laughs. “Come on, we better go.”

It was a long night, trying to make amends for all of your crimes was difficult. Bucky understood, he’d been through pretty much the same thing. But that didn’t make it any easier for you to relive the awful things you’d done to people. 

Especially when you arrived at the house of a frail old woman, who’s only son you’d ruthlessly murdered. He was her caretaker. So, Bucky helped you to do small things for her, paying for a nurse and grocery shopping. But tonight, the nurse looked at you with sadness in her eyes. 

“She doesn’t have much time left.” She told you. “She keeps asking for him. I don’t know what to tell her anymore.”

The poor old woman had a multitude of illnesses, the most prominent being her dementia. So, hearing the old woman calling out for her dead son…. You weren’t exactly sure what to do with yourself.

“It’s my fault, Buck.” Your voice broke on the walk back home. “He’s the one thing she can remember and he’s fucking dead because of me.”

Bucky knew better than to interrupt. You didn’t see reason in times like these.

“I’m a monster.” You continued. “No matter how many people I help, it can’t erase the past!”

“No, you can’t.” He told you, knocking you out of your rant. “You can’t erase the past. That’s why you’re trying to make up for it. Paying for an old woman’s healthcare won’t bring back her son, you’re right. But it counts for something.”

“I feel awful.” You tell him. “I can’t get them out of my head, sometimes. Does it ever go away?”

“I don’t know.” His somber tone reminds you that he, too, is struggling with this. 

“You can go back,” you clear your throat, “I’m going to take a walk.”

“You sure? It’s late.”

“Yeah, I won’t be long.”

Bucky squeezes your shoulder comfortingly before walking off in the direction of the tower. 

You’re not sure how much longer you were out. But eventually, the crisp air was drying the tears on your cheeks and you knew it was time to get back to the tower. There was no point wallowing in guilt in the middle of the city.

“Back so soon?” Wanda’s bitter words stopped you in your tracks. She was standing by the sink, glass of water in hand.

“Not-” Your voice cracked. “Not tonight, okay?”

Wanda’s face falls briefly, her mouth opening like she wanted to ask what was wrong. But you were out of the kitchen before she could speak.

-------

You rolled out of bed late the next morning, cursing under your breath as you searched for some clothes to throw on.

“You’re late,” Natasha walked into your room, extra coffee in hand.

“I’m aware.” You threw your hair up into a ponytail, throwing on running shorts while Nat lounged on your bed.

“Clint’s already waiting for you.” She informed, picking up a book from your bedside table.

“Better not keep him waiting then, huh?” You mutter, taking the mug of coffee as you made your way out of the room. 

“Bucky said you were out later than normal last night.” She said, giving you a pointed look.

“Natasha,” you warned. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Her eyes are soft, face full of genuine concern.

“Yeah, Tash, I know.” You give her a small smile to soothe any worries.

“It’s about time you showed up!” Clint teased, tossing you a baton. Natasha squeezed your shoulder briefly before walking over to where Wanda was waiting for her on another mat. 

The morning passed slowly, Clint getting the better of you more than not. You were tired and slow. The older man teased you relentlessly, poking fun and putting you on your ass.

But, at some point, as you picked up your leg to kick Clint in the side, you forgot to hold back your strength, sending the blond man flying to the side.

“Oh my god!” You heard Wanda exclaim as you ran over to Clint.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, Hawk,” you rushed out. “I wasn’t paying attention! I’ve just been so tired. Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry, I’m okay.” He chuckled, groaning a little as he moved to stand up. 

“Are you sure?” You asked, offering a hand to help him up.

“Yeah, kid, I’ve handled worse.” He limped off the mat, leaving you to roll your eyes at his term of endearment. You were easily fifty years older than the man, but you still looked to be in your early twenties, which Clint loved to call attention to.

You heard a light scoff and glanced over to see Wanda glaring in your direction.

“Okay, what’s up?” You ask her. The attitude was getting old.

“You’re lucky this was just training! What if this was a mission?” She all but exploded on you. “You value a night out at some shitty club with who knows how many girls more than the safety of your team!”

“Leave her alone, Maximoff.” Natasha cut in from nearby.

“Why should I?” Wanda spits. “She clearly doesn’t care about anyone but herself!”

Natasha steps between the two of you, the only thing stopping her from defending your honor being your hand on her shoulder and a gentle “Tasha” as you pull her away from the brunette.

“You’re right, Wanda.” You nod. “There’s no excuse for causing harm to a teammate. That’s on me.”

Wanda simply rolls her eyes bitterly and leaves, muttering something about checking on Clint.

“Why do you let her believe that?” Natasha asks, exasperated.

“She’s right, Tash, there’s no excuse for hurting a member of the team.” You tell her.

“There’s a reason you’re out so late most nights.” The shorter woman reminds you.

 “And Wanda doesn’t need to know.” You respond in the same tone. “Besides, she’s just being protective of Clint. You know how close they’ve gotten since Sokovia.”

Natasha just shook her head.

-------

“You’re seriously going out again?” Wanda’s jaw is clenched as she stands, arms crossed, by the door.

“Uh,” You stutter, “Yeah?”

“Unbelievable.” She storms off.

“She’s kinda cute when she's angry like that.” You joke with Bucky.

“You like her, don't you?” Bucky elbows you lightly.

“What?”

“That’s why you won’t tell her where you go.” He nods, putting it together in his head as he speaks. “You like her.”

“Hey, man, I don’t know about all that. She doesn’t like me though.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You grab his arm to stop him as you walk on the sidewalk.

“Why else would she care so much about you going ‘clubbing?’ She’s jealous.” He tells you like it was obvious.

“You think so?”

--------

When the two of you return to the tower, Wanda approaches you. She’s fidgeting with her fingers and biting her lip in that cute way she does when she gets nervous. Bucky claps you on the back, wishing you a good night, though the look on his face says ‘good luck.’

“Can I talk to you?” Wanda asks.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You nod, expecting her attitude.

“Natasha told me.” She says.

“Fuck-” 

“I’m so sorry for judging you.” She cuts you off, her words rushed. “Even if you were out clubbing, it was none of my business. I just.. I was so angry that I was so drawn to this person who didn’t seem to care.” 

“You’re drawn to me?” You smirk at her.

 “Unfortunately.” She jokes. “Please tell me you got more out of that.”

“Yeah,” You laugh, “I’m sorry for not telling you. I just… If I’m honest, I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”

“Have you forgotten where I came from? I don’t think I have the right to think badly about anyone’s past.” 

“True,” you laugh again, “But I don’t want pity either, you know?” 

“I don’t pity you.” Wanda says, her hand resting on your arm. “I admire what you’re doing. The way you’re righting your wrongs.”

“It's the least I can do for the pain I caused these people.” You tell her, dropping the eye contact.

 “Well, it’s admirable.” 

“Back to this drawn to me thing-” you start.

“Absolutely not.” She pushes your shoulder gently, face burning as she does.

“You said it!” 

“And we’re not going to revisit it.” 

“I’m drawn to you too, if that helps.” Your hands find her waist, pulling her close to you. 

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.” She remarks.

“We don’t have to.” You shrug, savoring the feeling of her hands on your shoulders, her touch light, almost hesitant.

“So what?” 

“So, if you're drawn to me, I’m drawn to you… I think we both know what we should do now that doesn’t involve any talking.”

Wanda’s breath hitches at your words, her face mere inches from your own. 

“And what would that be?” Her voice is quiet, eyes glancing at your lips.

“Well,” You start to lean in. “This whole drawing metaphor, I’ll go get some paper. You grab the pens.”

“You’re infuriating.” She giggles at your response. 

“You like it though.” You tell her, finally leaning in. Your lips catch hers and she all but melts under your touch. Her lips are soft, plump. You can faintly taste her chapstick. She pulls back after a moment, resting your foreheads together.

“You’re right.” She giggles. “I do like it.”

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

He Was a Sk8r Boi

Happiest of Birthdays and best wishes to one of my most beloved and darling friends on this earth, the fantastical @hailhailsatan ! May your sass never cease.

modern au - college student Jaskier - the Kaer Morons are all skater punks

tw: mild injury (scraped arm)

---

Jaskier took a seat on what remained of a crumbling stone bench and pulled his black-and-white composition notebook onto his lap, opening it to the closest blank page. He tugged his favorite pen out from its place of honor behind his ear and waited for inspiration to strike.

And waited.

And waited.

After half an hour of staring into space and getting absolutely nothing written, the frustrated college student stood from his seat and jammed his headphones into his ears. If nature wasn’t going to help finish this stupid poetry assignment then maybe he could find a person or two to observe for inspiration instead. Glancing around the otherwise empty benches and pathways of the public park, Jaskier sighed and shook his head. “Fuck this, I’ll try the other side.”

He pulled his MP3 player out from the pocket of his light autumn jacket and painstakingly scrolled through every song available until finally giving up and pressing the “Shuffle” button. As a heavy, angry guitar riff began to filter through his headphones and lighten the load of the world from his shoulders, Jaskier found himself approaching a half-hearted attempt at a skatepark.

There was one cement half-pipe to his left and a few rails and quarter-pipes scattered around the vicinity, bolted into the ground in a seemingly random pattern. Several oddly shaped cement bowls were sunk into the earth, obviously made to work like ramps but with a larger and less predictable surface area.

There were only three skaters enjoying the park on this particularly grey afternoon, zipping back and forth from one piece of equipment to the next like emo hummingbirds. Jaskier took out his headphones again as he made his way to a nearby bench - wood this time - and casually sat himself down. The skater dudes were yelling back and forth to each other as they swanned over and around the equipment on their boards, mostly insults from what the student could hear.

The loudest of the three had springy orange hair that he wore pulled back into a small, messy half-bun at the top of his head. The rest fell down against the back of his neck in an equally messy sheet, reaching nearly all the way to his shoulders but not quite touching them. He was wearing a bright red t-shirt with a catchphrase that Jaskier couldn’t read and plain denim jeans.

“What the fuck are you doing, Eskel?” he laughed, pointing to the tallest of the group and pulling a face.

“Shut up, Bert,” the brunette shouted back at the redhead, doing a quick kick-flip over the far end of a metal railing. “You can’t skate for shit.”

“I’m better than you!”

The third member of their little gang was the quietest so far and, in Jaskier’s personal opinion, also the prettiest. He had a mass of long white hair that fell all the way to the bottom of his shoulder blades, pointed and stiff in a way that meant it had been straightened and sprayed into submission. The silvery strands were being held out of the stranger’s eyes by a baggy black beanie and Jaskier desperately wanted to know whether or not that hair color was natural (though he heavily suspected that it was not).

The white-haired guy was also the most talented of the three gathered skaters, flying from one end of the half-pipe to the other and landing a few flips in between as if risking his life was as simple as breathing. He wore no knee pads over his ripped black skinny jeans and no elbow pads either; Jaskier noted with a little zing through his nervous system that the skater’s arms were muscled like a Greek statue’s and equally pale.

He was fucking hot.

“Geralt, do a three-sixty!” the redhead jeered, chucking something at the pretty one.

“I can’t land one yet and you know it,” the white-haired guy, Geralt apparently, replied. His voice was low and sonorous and Jaskier nearly fell off his bench in surprise. The student hadn’t realized how far forward he had been leaning in order to listen to their conversation and he scooted back again with a self-conscious little blush. In the distance, Geralt continued. “Why don’t you get up here and try it yourself, asshole?”

“I just fucking might, White Wolf,” Lambert huffed, turning his board back toward the half-pipe and picking up speed. The dark-haired one, Eskel, caught Jaskier’s eye from across the park; the student blushed an even darker shade of red and looked down at his lap to avoid any sort of confrontation. If any of these guys wanted to start a fight with him, Jaskier would surely lose.

By the time the anxious student worked up the nerve to look at them again, Lambert had already climbed to the top of the half-pipe and taken a defensive stance. His eyebrows were furrowed and his arms were crossed over his chest in a projection of almost childish anger. As Geralt came up the cement incline, Lambert lashed out with his foot and kicked the other man’s board out from beneath his feet.

Eskel gave a wordless cry of alarm.

Geralt wavered in the air for a moment - cartoonishly, Jaskier thought, almost like Wile E. Coyote - before plunging to the pavement and rolling limply down the inside of the half-pipe. Eskel chucked a rock at the redhead and started screaming, “Fuck off, dude! You could have cracked his fucking skull! You could have killed Geralt, you absolute cock-toboggan!”

“Fuck! Shit, I didn't-,” Lambert fell on his butt and slid down the ramp to Geralt’s side, kneeling over him with concern written all over his face. “Are you alright, man!?”

Jaskier couldn’t hear if Geralt replied or not, but he suddenly remembered the first-aid kit sitting right there in his bag. Jaskier was a total klutz and tried to keep a handful of bandages and a tube of disinfectant on him at all times just in case he ever needed them. Thank goodness they would be able to come in handy, and for a far nobler purpose than patching up yet another one of his table-smacked knees.

Without thinking any further ahead, Jaskier grabbed the strap of his bag and took off running towards the site of the accident.

“Hey!” he shouted, coming to a stop a few feet away. “I have - uh, I have a first-aid kit if you want to use it.”

“Cool, thanks,” Eskel said, glancing over his shoulder with a curt nod. “Come on over, we don’t bite. Well, I don’t.”

“Dude, I’m so sorry,” Lambert apologized to Geralt once again. When Jaskier glanced over at him, the redhead looked legitimately upset and guilty. Geralt looked up at the newcomer from the pavement, his silver hair spread out around him in mimicry of a halo - the black beanie was lying a few feet away, forgotten or ignored.

Up close like this, the stranger stole the breath out of Jaskier’s very lungs. The man's eyes… His fucking eyes were a gorgeous molten gold in the late afternoon sun, sparking and shining like gemstones. Holding Geralt’s gaze made Jaskier feel as if his very soul was catching fire.

“Do you need a band-aid?” Jaskier asked rather stupidly, holding out the little cardboard box. Geralt nodded stoically.

“I think I scraped my arm.”

“Let me help,” Jaskier said. The student knelt beside Geralt and set the box of band-aids down. He flung open the kit and retrieved some ‘pain-free’ disinfectant, then returned to the box of bandages in search of one without a Disney princess on it. “Do you guys always do this without wearing any protective gear?”

“I’ve got a helmet,” Geralt said. He pointed towards three mismatched backpacks piled near the edge of the pavement; a bright red helmet with several semi-familiar logos stuck to it sat atop one of them.

“It’s very useful over there, keeping your backpack from cracking its skull open,” Jaskier chastised lightly, trying to keep his nerves in check. He was feeling oddly protective of a guy he’d never even met before and it was very fucking weird.

“Sorry,” Geralt shrugged. He was still laying on his back, his topaz eyes flickering between Jaskier’s hands and face. The student applied a thin layer of medical cream to the shallow scrape with shaking fingers and then wiped the remaining goo on his shirt, uncaring of the damage it may have done. He bandaged the minor wound quickly and leaned back, glancing between Lambert and Eskel as if just noticing their presence on either side of Geralt's head.

“Thanks,” Eskel grinned, holding out his hand. “I’m Eskel.”

“Jaskier,” Jaskier replied shyly. “And the loud one is Lambert, right?”

Geralt chuckled from his place on the ground and Jaskier’s heart seized painfully in his chest. What a laugh, ye gods. “Yeah, that’s Lambert. I’m Geralt.”

“Nice to meet you, Geralt,” Jaskier could practically taste the name as it melted across his tongue. “Well, not the nicest way to meet you, but I’m glad I met you all the same. Anyway.”

He stood up with a little grimace and took a step back.

“Where are you going?” Eskel asked. “You came to Geralt’s rescue so I think that means he owes you like, at least an ice cream, or something.”

“Yeah,” Lambert piped up. He smirked at the man on the ground and then turned back to Jaskier, mischief clear in his expression, “Let him take you to get an ice cream.”

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Jaskier squeaked. Then he realized he’d sounded rude and held up his hands as if offering surrender (surrender for what, he wasn't exactly sure), “Not that I wouldn’t like to hang out with you more but I’ve got an assignment due and I’m sure you’re very busy doing skater things and I-”

“Am I not good enough for you?” Geralt asked, finally sitting up. He straightened his arms out behind him and rested there, reclined comfortable, a god in his temple.

Jaskier shot the older man a half-annoyed look, beating back his anxiety with a stick. “I listen to Avril Lavigne. I know not to underestimate pretty skater punks.”

“Pretty?” Geralt raised his eyebrows. Jaskier hid his face behind his hands and turned on his heel.

“Anyway, nice meeting you!” Jaskier shouted, hoping they could hear even if he was facing the opposite direction. He took off toward the edge of the park at a brisk walk, verging on a jog. He needed to go hide behind a tree and cry. What the fuck!? He was terrible at flirting and now he’d gone and ruined his chances with the guy he’d… literally just met. Chill out, he told himself - just before a strong hand clamped down over his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks.

“So not ice cream,” Geralt said. Jaskier slowly turned back to face the mostly-stranger. His lip was caught fast between his teeth and Geralt lifted one large hand to gently thumb it free again. “Maybe a boarding lesson, instead? It would give me an excuse to put my hands around your waist and you could put yours on my shoulders.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Jaskier asked. He fluttered his eyelashes and took half a step into Geralt's space.

The broad-shouldered punk smiled down at the Little Mermaid band-aid on his arm and then turned that smile to Jaskier. “Yeah.”

[crazyyanderefangirlfan]

Enter the Spider Queen pt 2

TW: Strong language and murderous thoughts.

Various shops littered every corner, from clothes to cafes to electronics. Everything looks so high-end that even the people look famous. After a few minutes, they stopped outside a cafe; it was far away from the rest of the shops, but it had a cozy feel to it. Sitting on one of the outside tables was a young redheaded woman.

She wore a navy blue sweetheart bandeau top underneath a black sheer long sleeve jacket and black high-waisted skinny jeans. Her jeans had two holes on the hips with a black criss-cross pattern; and navy blue open-toe heels. Around her neck was a black belt choker and onyx thorn drop earrings, and on her head was a pair of blue-tinted butterfly sunglasses. She was scrolling down her phone.

"Bubble butt!" Amane called out. The woman looked up, beaming at the sight of them. She stood up and walked over.

"Hey, you cum rag." She greeted, giving him a hug.

"Hey, pussy sucker." He hugged back. Lisha flew out to Lorelei and gave her a small nuzzle to which she petted the bird. The woman glanced behind him and saw the girl of the hour.

The girl stepped forward and extended her hand.

"Hi, I'm Valerie Kemonohito. It's an honour to meet."

The older woman tilted her head as she gazed intently at the brunette. Her forehead puckered, and her eyes glazed.

She looks...familiar.

Lorelei was sure she saw this face before, over and over again. A thunder rumbled within her stomach as she continued to look at the brunette's face, she clenched and unclenched her fists, and her fangs threatened to come out. For some reason, she wanted to bite her neck and inject a heavy dose of poison in her body, watching her succumb to its effects as she pleaded for her life.

The thought was morbidly pl-

"...ei, Lorelei?" Amane's voice snapped her out of her stupor. Everyone stared at her curiously, or in Amane's case worry. She furiously coughed in her fist.

"F-forgive me. I don't know what came over me." Fixing herself, Lorelei shot the younger girl a dazzling smile.

"Lorelei Arachne, I'm sure you heard of me." She shook the girl's hand as she introduced herself.

"I do. Your music is amazing." Valerie replied with sparkling eyes. Lorelei chuckled.

"Good to know, some of my songs have mature topics which tend to get criticism."

The amber-eyed woman's smile twitched; as she recalled how parents on the internet bashed some of her and her songs, saying it wasn't meant for children.

'I wasn't making it for your children.' Was her response, and reprimanded the parents for not watching them better. She felt better when her fans took her side and some stars too. A loud rumble interrupted her thoughts; this surprised everyone too.

Valerie peered down at Grim; she felt the vibrations on her arms. The flaming cat pouted.

"What? I was hungry since this morning." He complained. His stomach rumbled again as if agreeing with his statement.

"Say, Vally, why don't you get seated and order already. Lory and I need to chat a bit." The hetero-eyed male suggested. Grim acted first, immediately jumping out of her arms and running with Valerie close behind. Amane dragged her to a nearby alley, making sure no one was looking at them.

"What the fuck was that?" The concern in his voice accompanied by the shock on his expression made her drop her head.

"I-I don't know, but her face. She just... looked so familiar." She ran her fingers through her hair. What was wrong with her?

There are a few people she hates, and she racked through her mind to find one of them. A hand on her shoulder made her stop and glanced up to Amane.

"In any case, try to calm yourself. It's too early for Valerie to see your fangs." He joked, but their underlying seriousness. She gave him a shaky smile before they returned.

The girl and her monster were already seated and talking with the waiter. The man had to do a double-take when he saw both Amane and Lorelei. Amane flashed him a seductive smile, Lisha who landed on the table next to him, rolled her eyes, and nudged him with her wing. The incubus turned her and shook her head no. He pouted and behaved. Each made their order and decided to talk while waiting for their food.

"So...Valerie, Amane told me how you met." Lorelei started.

When Amane told her what happened, she nearly shifted to her demon form in rage. Out of all the things that man has done, he almost killed his only son! (Though she was positive he had bastard children.) She contemplated poisoning him, but Amane reminded her that it ruined her career if she did.

He then added if he didn't, he wouldn't meet her, so in a way, Amane was sort of thankful for what he did.

"Oh? He did?" Valerie inquired, fingers finding their way to Grim's ears.

"Yeah, and I've been meaning to ask. What are your exact thoughts on Amane?"

The question surprised her, not really expected. So did Amane; his gaze turned to the girl. His eyes shone with interest.

Valerie blinked in surprise. Bringing a finger to her lips, she thought of a proper word to describe him.

"Amane is an arrogant asshole."

Lorelei's eyes widened, Lisha was shaking while Amane gaped like a fish.

"He constantly made me run errands for him, made me buy expensive ingredients for his picky appetite, and made my friends uncomfortable." She listed off the things he did while staying with her.

"Don't forget that he keeps disrespecting me! That's the worst one of all!" Grim interrupted, glaring at the demon.

Lorelei had a large grin on her face as she stared at Amane's incredulous expression. Truthfully, she thought she would say something nice to be polite, this was better. It means she isn't afraid to say what's on her mind, no matter how well-known they are. She can't count how many times people acted to get on their good side, it ended badly for them.

"But." She added. "He can be kind in his own way."

She gave Amane a bright smile that rivals the stars at night, it made him smile back at her. Lorelei's eyes darted between the two, sensing an air of familiarity.

The waiter came back with their food, Grim wasted no time in devouring the breakfast sandwiches and wraps that Valerie ordered, the latter had to fight him from eating everything. Amane gingerly sipped his chai latte while feeding Lisha bacon strips from his sandwich, while Lorelei was just savouring the taste of her chocolate and blueberry muffin.

"Ya know, Sugar tits." Amane started, putting his cup down. "This is the perfect time to update your wardrobe."

Valerie, who was giving Grim a sip of her strawberry frappe, regarding him with curious eyes.

"I notice you didn't go all out on my credit card, why's that?" He inquired. Lorelei choked on her hazelnut frappuccino, he did what?

"I just needed to buy things like groceries and hygiene essentials. Besides, my clothes are fine." She reasoned. Grim finally stopped and went back to eating, Valerie took out her straw and replaced it.

The man just gave her a pointed look. "Kid, I have a feeling that Vil was the one who brought you these clothes, didn't he?"

Valerie was about to reply when Grim beat her to it.

"He did." Amane sighed.

"Looks like we need to get you a fashion preference too." Amane dug through his bag and fished out his wallet. He called the waiter for the bill and quickly wrote on his napkin.

"Aamne." Lorelei warned.

"What?"

"What if he has a partner?"

"He doesn't." His tone was smug, she arched a brow.

"Underage."

"My incubus senses are telling me he's 23." She grimaced and leaned to his ear.

"Is he a virgin?" She whispered, not wanting the girl and her monster to hear. Speaking of them, her amber eyes glanced at the two, both blissfully eating such good (and expensive food.)

Amane's lecherous smile was her answer, she fought the urge to smack him. The waiter came with their bill, Amane gingerly took it from him, brushing his fingers against his. The poor man blushed and stammered that he'll be back for the change.

"Keep the change baby~"The incubus purred. The poor man was crimson red, Amane would have continued if it weren't for three separate tugs on his clothes.

"Thank you for the food! Please keep the change."

Lorelei, Lisha and Valerie were dragging his horny ass to the street. Amane was pouting.

Lorelei lead them to their first destination, a boutique. The mannequins on display wore elegant clothing that seemed to shine like glass, Valerie looked at the sign name; the words "Midnight Mirror' were written cursive black with a royal blue silhouette of a girl gazing at herself in the mirror at the end.

"This is our first stop, the Midnight Mirror." Lorelei announced. They let go of Amane, who fixed himself.

"Why here? Why not one of my stores?" He asked, looking insulted.

"Dude, she's sixteen? She is too young for those." The spider demon countered. The hetero-eyed male paused.

"Okay, fair point."

As soon as they stepped into the store, all eyes were on them. They stared in awe at the trio and whispered amongst themselves.

"It's Lorelei Arachne and Amane Mania!"

"Who's the young girl?"

"A new model perhaps?"

“Maybe, she looks so beautiful and her eyes are like precious opals."

Valerie shuffled closer to Amane, shyly waving to the people who complimented her, on her head, Grim was waving too.

"Alright, kid." Amane wrapped his arm around the brunette. "Let's get you some new threads."

He led her to some clothing racks, where Lorelei was already rummaging through the dresses. When spotted, Lorelei took one and showed it to the girl. The dress consists of a cerulean blue ruffle straight across the neckline with flutter sleeves. The bodice is white with small white butterfly bows with black buttons patterned down, the top half includes a tawny brown corset with two white butterfly bows in the center. The bottom appears to be knee-length and flared, it was cerulean blue with double white lines designed to look like diamonds and the bottom hem has a white trimming.

Lorelei looked at her expectantly.

"Well? Cute right? Wanna try it?'

The girl nodded enthusiastically and grabbed the dress and rushed to the changing room. She quickly stripped off her clothes and replaced it with the dress. Smoothening the fabric, she stared at herself in the mirror. It was a bit of a tight fit, particularly her chest area but it was breathable.

"Valerie?" Lorelei called out.

"Yes?"

"I got some shoes that might go well with the outfit." Valerie opened the door enough to take the shoes from Lorelei's outstretched hand. It was a pair of cerulean kitten heels with a white ankle strap. Thanking the woman, she removed her shoes, she carefully placed them on and looked in the mirror again. It did go well with the dress and the overall outfit looked good on her.

'I wonder what the others think?'She thought, opening the door.

The two celebrities were sitting on a nearby bench with more clothes and the monsters were just lazing around. Amane and Lorelei lit up at the sight of her.

"Looking good, kid." Amane praised.

"You look positively stunning." Agreed, Lorelei.

"Now." The midnight haired male began, grabbing another dress, smirking at the girl.

"Let's continue our fashion show."

This continued for half an hour, to which Grim demanded clothes of his own, Valerie let him picked eight ribbons of his choice. Finally, they exited the store with four shopping bags for each person.

Lisha, on Amane’s shoulder, hooted in a seemingly deadpanned tone.

"Yeah, I know I promised to buy clothes for Valerie; but there were such good finds. How can we NOT buy them." Amane argued, holding up his bags like trophies. The strix just rolled her eyes.

They stopped by a few more stores, bags piling even more; Valerie was so glad she carried all those crates and sack back in the diner for this. They were also stopped by Lorelei's fans and had run from some 'too eager ones.' Right now they are enjoying a pleasant lunch in a secluded restaurant. It didn't have many people which made it the ideal place for them.

Valerie took a big bite of her carrot and chicken stew, and hummed in delight at the taste. On her left Grim was enjoying his beef garlic steak with such a happy look on his little face. Eating out has always been a luxury for them, she was thankful Azul gave her meal tickets whenever she did a good job in the Lounge, even if she was sceptical at first. This was Azul, nothing is free with him.

Taking another bite, her eyes idly wander to Lorelei, the older female was eating a lamb chop and reading her phone. Her face scrunched up, as if she read something distasteful. She swallowed her food before speaking.

"I have to go." She announced.

Amane choked on his bolognese pasta. Coughing, he downed his drink like a mad man and heaving when he finished.

"Are you serious!?" He yelled. The redhead gave him an apologetic look.

"Sorry, but my manager forgot that my recording session was today and not next week. So, they need me back."

The man grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Can't we just go with you?" Grim spoke up. They all turned to the cat, surprised at the suggestion. Valerie smiled at him.

"That's a good idea. We can still spend time and you get to hear my newest song." Lorelei beamed.

"Good thinking, Ya fat shit." Amane smirked, but she could tell he was thankful for it.

"I'm not fat, you weirdo!" The monster yelled. After lunch, they picked up their bags and called a cab since the studio was not very far and Lisha wanted to rest.

A/N: Midnight Mirror belongs to @phoenix-manga. I came up the logo myself

[mrsalwayswrite]

These Hands Were Made For You (Bill Guarnere x Reader)

Based on this post by @problematicfavesareproblematic​ because its amazing!

This is my first time writing Wild Bill. Lemme know what y’all think!

Warnings: swearing, sexual tension, palming (is that a warning?)

Words:2600

Tag List: @happyveday​ @sydney-m​ @saritanotserena​

  As soon as you stepped into the barn-converted-to-mess-hall in Albourne, you knew what was coming. 

 "There she is, fuckin' goddess of war herself! Come to see how the toughest, most handsome sonofabitch in the 506 is doin' this morning?" 

 You just chuckled and shook your head at his exaggerated smug look. "Yeah, Bill. Something like that."

 Guarnere winked at you and you could not figure out how it was possible for such a simple action to be so dirty. The way he tilted his head just slightly, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smirk followed by a quick wink...you could feel heat pooling in your belly and your breath catch. 

 The cocky grin on his face grew as he saw the hint of pink on your cheeks. He knew what that wink did to you and he LOVED using it against you. 

 Bastard. 

 "Something you need, Y/L/N?" Martin asked from the table closest to the door.  

 "Yeah, any of you seen Lip?"

 Luz answered from the table, cigarette dangling from between his lips. "Think he went back to the house to grab something. Why?"

 You waved Luz off as you could see him start to stand, stepping further into the barn. "Just need to ask him something. Winters is in a meeting otherwise I'd ask him."

 "Why don't you take a seat, he should be back soon."

 "Perfect spot saved right here for the Valkyrie of Easy!" Bill announced, patting the open spot on the bench next to him. 

 You rolled your eyes but relented, moving past the other table to drop next to Guarnere. On his other side sat Heffron, still looking a bit wide-eyed and nervous that he somehow won the coveted spot with the Toccoa men. Toye sat across, giving you a brief nod when you sat down. Perconte, Christianson, Skinny, and Grant also took up residence around the table. Perco seemed to have been in the middle of telling some overly, exaggerated story. 

 Most of Easy relaxed in the barn. The Toccoa men were grateful for the break from the front-line and hot food instead of K rations. All the replacements were eager for the next jump, ready to soil their ODs, not truly understanding that war would only take from them, never give. The division between Toccoa men and replacements was painfully obvious. 

 Heffron leaned around Guarnere to meet your eyes. "Hey, sorry again about the fellas yesterday. They've been like that since training."

 "Not your fault, Babe." You shrugged, running a hand through your hair. 

 "What's he talkin' about?" Guarnere narrowed his eyes at you. Even Toye across the table was staring at you in concern. 

 "Nothing, Bill. It's fine."

 "If you're sayin' its fine then it ain't fuckin' fine." He growled. When he realized you were not going to elaborate, he turned on Babe. "What the fuck happened?"

 The redheaded replacement looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world in that moment than being interrogated by Wild Bill. "Some of the men were...ah, tryin' to...um… proposition her." He finished with a wince. 

 A long beat of silence.

 Then Guarnere exploded. 

 He pounded the table with a tight fist, the table shaking at the impact.  A snarl on his lips, he started to rise from his seat, eyeing the tables further away full of replacements. "Who the fuck was it? Someone from our platoon? Imma fuckin' kill 'em. Who was it?"

 "No," you cut in, grabbing his arm and restraining him, hoping to stop him before he worked himself up into a frenzy, "some replacements from third."

 He growled but let you pull him back down. "Goddamn replacements. They touch you?"

 "No, Bill. I handled it."

 Toye spoke up, eyeing his friend carefully as if to see if he was going to have to prevent a replacement's murder or help hide the body. "What you do?"

 You smirked, squeezing Guarnere's arm for good measure then pulled your hand back into your lap. "Told them if they tried to pull that shit again, I'd rip their cocks off and mail them to their mothers."

 All the men at the table either winced or shifted uncomfortably at the mental image. 

 "Hey, don't you be touchin' no one's cocks." Bill said, fury still on his face but also amusement. 

 You raised an eyebrow, "what would you rather I have done? Swung at them? Give Sink a reason to send me packing?"

 "Nah, you swing at 'em, they might fall in love." He winked at you again, telling you he knew exactly what he was talking about. Underneath the table, hidden from view, his knuckles skimmed the outside of your thigh. You attempted to hide the shiver that caused but knew you failed when Guarnere chuckled quietly.

 "Why would that matter?" Babe asked innocently. 

 "Oh, here we go." Toye sighed. 

 "Shut up Joe, the kid asked alright." Guarnere started his story, pleased to have a new, rapt audience. "So here we are, back in Toccoa, right? Most of us have already arrived and started trainin' with goddamn Sobel. Then one day this beautiful broad shows up and we're told she's joinin' the paratroopers. None of us believe it. Why would a broad be joinin'? Don't make no fuckin' sense. So the next day we're supposed to be startin' to learn self-defense and guess who I get paired up with? Huh? Lovely Y/L/N over here. Right, so I'm fuckin' pissed cause I don't wanna be fightin' no broad but Sobel is watchin' like a hawk. I tell her I'll pretend to swing at her and she should just fall down. Play fightin', ya know? Like when youse a kid. I take a swing at her, thinkin' she knew the plan. She easily dodges my swing and before I can right myself, she lands a punch on me. Knocked me flat on my ass and seein' stars. I look up to see this goddess standin' over me, bloody knuckles and all, and she says 'you better get up and fight me like a man before I knock you on your ass again'."

 "So, what you do?" Heffron asked, surprise clearly written all over his face. 

 Guarnere tapped the table with his finger. "What did I do? Well, I got up and told her that when this war is over, I'm gonna fuckin' marry her, that's what I was gonna do."

 Those who had heard the story before chuckled while Heffron sat there, head tilted and eyes bouncing between you and Guarnere like he was waiting for the punchline still. 

 "Why? No offense, Y/L/N." 

 Guarnere threw his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. "Cause she hits harder than any fella I've ever known, includin' me brother Henry. Boxin' champion that one was. Now if that ain't a reason to marry someone, I don't know what is."

 "And she puts up with your bullshit." Toye deadpanned. 

 You rolled your eyes, sliding out from underneath Guarnere's arm. "That's just words unless there's a ring and I don't plan on marrying for a while yet. Still gotta win a war first." You stood up, smoothing down your ODs. "'Sides, maybe by then I'll find someone who doesn't annoy me so much."

 "Nah, you'd miss my handsome face too much."

 "You keep telling yourself that, Bill."

 "One day you'll come around." He winked, making your insides warm. You would never understand how that was possible. The Philadelphian pointed a finger at you. "You lemme know if any of those replacements bother you again. Can't have those bastards propositionin' my future wife."

 "See you later, boys." You said, not even bothering to answer him. You headed towards the door, intent on finding Lipton; but also to get away from the man who gave you such feels without even saying a word. Then when he did speak, complimenting and claiming you in front of the others…. it was becoming harder and harder to keep your hands and your lips to yourself. 

 ***** 

 You leaned against the doorframe, admiring the man who was too caught up in writing a letter home to have noticed you yet. He twirled the pencil between his fingers as he thought about his words. The chair creaked under him as he shifted, leaning forward against the wooden desk to continue writing. The small bedroom only consisted of the desk, chair and bed. Guarnere's duffle bag was thrown in a corner with things haphazardly pulled out. The NCOs had been billeted in a house together, everyone able to have their own rooms unlike the enlisted men who were forced to share a converted barn.

 When you had first met him, and your first real encounter resulted in you punching him, you had thought he was the most unhelpful, condescending, little shit; and you had no problems telling him that for weeks after. When he had bounced back to his feet and proposed...you had laughed so uncontrollably, it had taken a sharp bark from Lipton to get you to focus again. 

 Over the following weeks, the bastard would openly flirt with you and practically pummel anyone else who tried to. Sometime around Fort Benning, your own feelings toward him started to change. No longer was he a man you loathed. You found yourself happy he was in your platoon, that he hovered around you keeping assholes from other companies away, that you enjoyed his flirting and when you two were alone... you reciprocated. 

 Actually, the first time you flirted back, he almost choked on his tongue he was so surprised. After that, things shifted between you two. 

 He continued openly flirting but understood you could not since you were under far more scrutiny and Sobel was looking for ANY reason to get rid of you. 

 For two years Guarnere had been in your life...and you hoped for the rest of it too. 

 "Enjoyin' the view, sweetheart?"

 You smiled at him as he leaned back in the chair, legs still under the desk. "Should I be?"

 He scoffed. "You know you like what you see...I'll tell you though," his eyes raked over you, "you're a fuckin' goddess with a body to drive a man crazy."

 You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to minimize the sound, as he winked at you before turning back to his letter. 

 "The other NCOs said you were going out tonight for drinks."

 "Yeah, yeah. Told 'em if I didn't finish this letter for my ma, she'd jump on a boat and come find me. Got three letters from her already. Last one she threatened to come find me. So, I told the fellas I'd meet them there."

 The muffled sounds of the other NCOs drifted up the stairs; they were gathered in the common room getting ready to head out. With that in mind, you moved silently across the room to where he sat at the chair. Coming up behind him, you dragged your hands over his broad shoulders then down his firm chest, stilled his motions. 

 "Y/N…"

 You loved touching him, could not get enough of it when you were able to. What you also loved doing was paying him back for teasing you. 

 One of your hands continued to travel downward until you palmed his cock. He froze, pencil hovering just about his letter. Without a word, you slowly, torturously, stroked him over his trousers. 

 "Fuck, sweetheart." He groaned, tipping his head back slightly. 

 "You said earlier I wasn't supposed to be touching anyone's cocks...does that include yours?"

 Turning his head, he looked at you out of the corner of his eye but before he could speak, you took the tip of his earlobe between your teeth. 

 "Hands on the desk, Sergeant." You growled in his ear. 

 Immediately, his hands slammed on the wooden desk, palms down. The pencil fell to the floor. Letter now forgotten on the desk. 

 "Mmm, yes, sir… you keep them there." You continued slowly stroking his cock over his trousers. "You have no idea how bad I wanted to kiss you earlier when we were at the mess hall." You licked up the curve of his ear, feeling him shudder under your touch. Your hand gave him a gentle squeeze as you continued whispering in his ear. "Think I should punish you for teasing me earlier? That wink you gave me...all the dirty images it put in my head. Want me to tell you about them?"

 "Fuck, sweetheart, yes."

 "I thought about you bending me over one of those tables. Notice how they are at the perfect height? How good you would feel inside me. How deep you would be."

 One of his hands started to move off the table, drifting towards where your hand played with him. 

 You nipped his earlobe sharply, making him hiss. "Hands up, Sergeant, or no reward later."

 "You're gonna kill me, darlin'." His hand slammed back on the desk. 

 You licked a line up his neck before pressing your lips against his ear again. The pace of your hand increased, his chest rising and falling to match. "Remember that time in Mackall where we snuck into the parachute packing building and fucked on the silks. You couldn't wait to get inside of me and almost tore my new ODs. So I made you wait and watch as I started touching myself. After someone came in and we almost got caught."

 His hips were now rutting against your hand, the chair shaking with his movements.  His hands were in white-knuckled fists on the desks, trembling with his desire to get them on you. 

 Unable to help yourself, you grabbed his face with your free hand, turning it to press a bruising, messy kiss to his lips. He greedily took ownership of your mouth and deepened the kiss. He plundered your mouth with his tongue, reminding you how his mouth and skillful tongue alone could drive you wild. 

 Finally you broke away, pressing your forehead against his temple as you attempted to refill your lungs with the oxygen he had stolen. "God, I wish I could kiss you out there. Let everyone know I am yours. Maybe share quarters with you instead of sneaking around like teenagers. Fuck whenever we want."

 "I'd be the luckiest, fuckin' bastard in all of Easy. You're mine. My goddess."

 "There is one thing I need right now. I need the toughest, most handsome sonofabitch above me. I need my man inside me." You squeezed your hand, making him tip his head back and loudly groan. "Now the other NCOs are just downstairs. Think you can keep quiet?"

 He pressed a hard and fast kiss to your lips. "Oh darlin', it ain't me whose gonna have to keep from screamin'."

 "Mmm, think you can help me out?"

 "I'd do anythin' for ya…." He turned in his seat, hands now stroking your waist with a completely wicked and sinful smirk on his face. "Go lock the door."

 You stepped back, admiring the disheveled look on Guarnere, how his eyes blazed with passion and desire. For you. Without tearing your gaze from his, you shut the door and locked it behind you. 

 "Jesus Christ, you're a dream."

 "Only for you. Come on, Sergeant, show me how good you are with your...arsenal."

 Before you could move, he leapt out of his chair, making it clatter on the floor as it tipped over in his enthusiasm. He picked you up easily and tossed you on the bed. You laughed only to be immediately silenced by his mouth slamming against yours, a moan drawn from you as his talented fingers rid you of your clothing with an almost inhuman speed. 

 *****

 Later that night Guarnere was quite late for getting to the pub but he did not mind one bit. Especially since his bed now smelled like you…. And he had been able to remind you how much he loved you. 

 Quite vigorously. 

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

I am here with another whumptober story featuring my OC Oliver from my unnamed sci-fi story.

Oliver in this story is a former slave boy of 8-10 years old who has just been rescued from the planet he was a slave on and taken aboard the spaceship Catacrome.

Prompt number 6, Touch Starved, Hunger Ft. Oliver

           Oliver sat huddled in the ship’s medbay, arms wrapped around his knees, shivering in spite of the blanket around his shoulders. Everything was so much; the thrum of the ship’s engines beneath his feet, the clicking of the fans in the vents, the strange, sharp scent filling the room that pricked his nose and made it itch…

           Oliver curled his bare toes into the blanket and tried to focus on it. It was so soft, and the gentle pressure on his shoulders felt good. It was probably the only reason he hadn’t bolted out of the room. The ship’s doctor had said she’d be back soon, hadn’t she? How long had it been? Had she locked the door? Was he trapped in here?

          That last thought made his breathing speed up and his chest tighten painfully. He didn’t want to be trapped, he didn’t want to be alone, what if this place was no better than the slave compound had been-

           The door whooshed open. Oliver jumped, and his eyes widened as the redheaded boy who had found him strode in, holding a bowl with a delicious scent wafting from it that immediately set Oliver’s mouth watering.

           “Hi again!” said the boy cheerfully. “Nurse Tracy needed to talk to the captain so she told me to bring this to you.”

           The boy- was his name Milo? – held out the bowl. Oliver stared at him for a long, nervous moment, then his small, skinny hands emerged from the blanket. Milo, for all his enthusiasm, was very careful as handed over the bowl.

           He was less careful a moment later when he jumped onto the bed and sat beside Oliver, so close that they were almost touching. Oliver sat very still, hardly daring to breathe as Milo adjusted himself, leaning back against the wall with a sigh.

           Milo looked over at him. “You gonna eat?”            “O-oh, s-sorry,” Oliver shot him a nervous glance, then quickly started shoveling the soup into his mouth. It was hot and good and-

           Oliver coughed, nearly choking as he inhaled his food. A second later he felt a touch on his shoulder and almost jumped out of his skin.

           “Don’t eat that fast, you’ll get sick,” said Milo. “You’re supposed to chew the food first.”

           Oliver barely heard him, so focused was he on the older boy’s hand pressing against him. Unless it was from [friend’s name] or Stormy and her mother, touch was bad. Touch meant pain was coming. Shoulder touches held you in place so you couldn’t run away. A small whimper escaped him, and he cringed back, quivering.

           “Uh, Oliver? Are you okay?”

           “I’m s-s-sorry,” he said in a small voice. “S-s-sorry.”            Milo stared at him, finally moving his hand as he did so. Oliver braced himself.

           “What are you sorry for?”

           Oliver blinked. “W-what?”            “What are you sorry for?” Milo repeated. “You didn’t do anything, except start shivering.”            “I-I did something bad, d-didn’t I? W-with the soup?”            “What?” Milo looked confused. “Why d’you think that?”            “Y-you touched me,” said Oliver, equally confused now. “Th-that means something bad’s going to happen.”            “Uh, Oliver, that’s not what that means. I was- trying to be nice, I guess? I didn’t want you to choke and die or somethin’. Nurse Tracy would be really mad at me if that happened.”

           Oliver frowned. “You’re not gonna hit me?”            “What?! No! Why would I hit you?” Milo waved his hands and Oliver shrank back.            “Are you mad now?” Oliver asked nervously, back pressed against the wall.            “I- no, I’m, I’m just- argh!” Milo covered his face with his hands. “Why d’you think I wanna hurt you?”            “You’re bigger’n s-stronger than me, an’ when s-somebody messes up they get beaten.”

           Milo stared at him, and Oliver had a feeling he’d done something wrong again. Tears sprang into his eyes, and without meaning to he started to cry.

           “Aw, Oliver, I, I didn’t mean to, don’t cry, please? Um, look!” Milo picked up the bowl of soup and stuck it on his head, where it balanced precariously. Milo spread his hands out, grinning. “Ta-da!”

           Oliver giggled. Immediately he threw his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

           “There, see? I’m harmless, just silly,” Milo took the soup bowl off his head and set it on the table beside the bed.

           Oliver wrapped his arms around his knees. “Silly?”            “Yeah, it’s when you do stuff just for fun,” Milo smiled.            Oliver blinked. “Oh.”

           They sat in silence for a few moments, then Milo spoke again. “Did people used to hit you? Where we rescued you from?”            Oliver hunched his shoulders and nodded.            “Oh. Well, look, nobody would ever do that to you here, okay? And- and if anybody ever tries you come find me and I’ll beat ‘em up for you, okay?”            “You’d hurt them?” Oliver asked uncertainly.            “Only to protect you,” Milo shrugged. “Us boys playfight all the time anyway.”            “Playfight?”            “Uh, yeah, you probably aren’t ready for that yet. Forget about that for now. Just remember that if anybody ever tries to hurt you again I’ll protect you, okay?”            “O-okay.”

           Milo scooted back so he was next to Oliver again. “So, do you know what a hug is?” he asked.            “Y-yes. [Friend’s name] and I used to hug sometimes, when we were really scared. But if the guards saw us they’d push us apart and yell at us,” Oliver sniffled.            “Can I give you a hug?”            Oliver gave him a concerned look. “Are- are you allowed?”            “Jeeze, you’re gonna love this place once you stop being so scared,” Milo ran a hand through his hair, making bits of it stick up. Oliver valiantly held back another giggle.

           Then, without warning, Milo picked Oliver up and set him on his lap. Oliver froze, a tremor running through his insides.

           “Wh-wh-what-” he stammered.            “Yeah I’m allowed to hug you,” said Milo, carefully wrapping his arms around the smaller boy.

           Oliver sat stiff and rigid for several minutes, quivering occasionally. When no blows or loud words came though, he slowly relaxed a little. Milo was very warm, and the pressure of his arms was nice. It made him feel…

           Oliver blinked in surprise.

           It made him feel safe. It had been so long since he’d felt safe… actually he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt safe. Safe was a story he and [friend’s name] had whispered to each other on bad nights, a place where things were warm and there was food and no overseers who hit and whipped…

           They had never imagined it would also be a place with hugs.

           Oliver felt tears spill down his cheeks, and in a moment he was sobbing, curling up into a tiny ball, arms wrapped over his head in a protective gesture.

           Milo gently pulled him closer, and without really thinking Oliver pressed against him, crying softly into the older boy’s shirt. Sobs shook his entire body, but only the smallest noises of distress escaped him.

           Eventually he settled, his head tucked under Milo’s chin. His breathing deepened, and Oliver slept.

[scorevechkin]

For the prompt thing, 5 with bradray!

Tumblr prompt 5 with bradray “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” 

Ray doesn’t normally think of himself as a jealous person, he’s not somebody who gets worked up if someone flirts with his partner. Normally, that is.

He’s not a jealous person, he’s not. 

Except — except he is, right now. Specifically because some leggy redhead is purposefully pressing her tits against Brad’s arm like it’ll somehow get him to notice her or something. Ray’s seen photos of Brad’s ex (he’s snooped in Brad’s old room when they’d visited his parents) and this woman looks enough like her that it makes Ray seethe. 

They were only at the bar because it was both date night and there was a football game on. What better way to have a low-key date night than chilling at the bar, drinking shitty cheap beer and eating overpriced shitty appetizers? Well, it would be better if Brad didn’t have a woman hanging off his arm, Ray thinks. 

Brad obviously isn’t interested, Ray knows that, but it doesn’t stop the ugly jealousy from sitting in his chest and fanning up into his cheeks, already flushed pink from alcohol. Ray regrets sending Brad up to get the jalapeño poppers because that means he has to wait at the bar to get the bartender's attention, which means he has to wait longer while Lisa’s lookalike paws at Brad’s arm as they make polite conversation. Or, that’s at least what Ray’s hoping is happening. 

Ray knows he shouldn’t be jealous except the longer he stews there alone, the combination of alcohol and whatever seems to eat up at what little self-confidence he has when it comes to his relationship with Brad, which sucks. Brad’s a tall, gorgeous, tan, viking beef slab of a man with a proportionate cock and he’s dating Ray, Ray who’s 5’9” on a good day, who has barely managed to put back on any of the weight he lost during OIF and who still has slight facial scars from Rudy’s shitty espresso pot. His beer tastes terrible now and his stomach churns uncomfortably, seething and just sitting there looking like a fucking idiot. A jealous idiot. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so insecure, because trusts Brad, of course, but Brad is (was?) straight. Maybe there were some wires crossed between OEF and OIF, maybe some fucked up head injury that made Brad think Ray was the bees knees or some shit. 

It sucks, that’s all Ray knows. 

Plus, he can’t even fucking do anything. DADT is still a real thing and as far as the world is concerned, Ray is just Brad’s roommate. Not his boyfriend, just an old Marine buddy who visited and ended up not leaving. 

He’s so consumed with his thoughts that Brad manages to sneak back up on him, jumping slightly when one big hand grabs at his shoulder. “Ray, what’s wrong with you?” Brad asks, dropping back into his seat and it’s then Ray realizes that Brad brought back another bottle of beer only for himself. 

Ray doesn’t pout, he doesn’t. “Nothing is wrong, homes, I’m just sitting here.” 

Brad’s eyes furrow and his voice pitches up a bit the way it does whenever he’s about to get defensive. “What the fuck is your problem?” The words only serve to rile Ray up more. “Nothing is my fucking problem! Why do you think I have a problem? You know who I’m sure doesn’t have a problem? The redhead shoving her tits in your face.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Brad asks at the same time as Ray immediately says “Jesus Christ, forget it.” 

That seems to break the dam and Ray gesticulates wildly, knowing he probably looks insane as he waves an arm towards the bar. “The fucking tits, Brad!” he hisses out, like he’s trying to whisper but obviously failing at it. “The tits?” Brad asks, looking more and more confused and annoyed at Ray, choosing to give an exasperated sigh as he takes a long drink from the bottle. Ray’s annoyed at how fucking dense Brad is being, because! Because, it’s clear Brad liked the attention! And the fact that she looks like his ex, the one he so forlornly talked about in Iraq like he was still in love with her. 

Ray knows he’s being irrational at this point but it’s like he can’t stop himself from becoming frustrated, and maybe it’s because there’s a 6 year difference between Brad and himself. Brad got engaged once and Ray is freshly twenty-three and this is his first long relationship. 

“Wait a minute, are you jealous?” Brad asks abruptly, there’s amusement in his tone that only serves to piss Ray off more. Because, fucking yes, he’s jealous, but also fuck Brad for making fun of him. “No.” Ray spits out, pointedly looking away from Brad, who only continues to stare at him. He can feel Brad boring fucking holes into his head so he finally looks back, “Okay fine, yes I’m fucking jealous, are you happy?” 

Brad gives a shrug, “Maybe. I’m just,” there’s a hint of a smile, “I’m surprised, usually I’m the one who feels jealous.” 

Ray almost spits out his beer, almost. “I’m sorry, you? When? Why? What the fuck, Brad.” “Ray, in case you hadn’t realized, due to your predilection to be half fucking naked at any point at home, you’ve gained a few admirers.” Brad frowns and picks at the paper label on his beer bottle before giving up and chugging the last of it. “Plus, it’s hard not to notice how some of your classmates stare at you when you decide to annoy the shit out of me by inviting them over.” “They stare at me because they’re intimidated by my superior intellect.” “Maybe they stare because you decided you were going to wear your silkies,” Brad stares at him and Ray recognizes that sort of hungry look he has, mixed with a fond annoyance. Neither of them says anything for a long moment and Ray chances a glance back at the bar and the redhead is still there, glancing back at their table to try and get Brad’s attention. Ray huffs, finally finishing off his beer, which is lukewarm at this point, making a face as he slams the bottle down. “Do you— okay, firstly, what the fuck Brad, how the fuck did I not notice? Next time just  literally hit me over the head like a caveman and drag me off to ravish me, homes, I give you fucking permission. Secondly, you’re it for me homes, like,” he leans into the table a bit more like it’s a secret he’s telling Brad, knowing full well the noise of the bar is easily going to drown out their conversation, “your fucking horse cock has factually ruined me for anyone else.” The lingering jealousy is still there but it’s easy to put it on the back burner as Brad stands up from his chair, leaning in close in the guise of needing to tell Ray something privately. “I’m going to get our jalapeño poppers to go and pay our tab, then we’re going to go back home — and I can show you what exactly I wanted to do to you while you were parading your skinny ass around in your PT shorts.” 

Ray’s body flares up in heat and he nods dumbly as Brad reaches down to squeeze at his waist before he’s moving away back towards the bar. He watches as the redhead tries to cozy up to Brad again, a triumphant sort of giddiness as Brad puts a hand up to, at least what Ray assumes, turn her down again.  Brad looks back towards Ray as the redhead stands up from the bar and leaves, giving him a wink as he takes the to go box from the bartender. Big gay Brad, Ray thinks as he shakes his head fondly and makes sure they have everything before they leave. 

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 64 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Violet was not pleased by Team Adult’s discussion about Courtney, and Katya tried to grit her teeth and smile through her anxiety.

This Chapter: Katya continues to fake it, Tati rescues Courtney from Team Adult, Bianca makes nice, and Violet finds joy with an old friend.

***

“Katya! How are you, girl?” asked Alexis, giving her a tight hug that smelled like sweet florals.

Even though Katya had barely worked in Fame’s office, the entirety of the Galactica staff absolutely loved her, the crew always welcoming her back with open arms ever since the first time Trixie brought her back, everyone delighted to see her.

“Hi! I’m good, how are you?” Katya replied, touching the ruffles of her dark red skirt, doing her best to keep the smile on her face. “Love this dress.”

Alexis looked at her for a long moment before tilting her head and lowering her voice, asking, “Are you okay?”

Katya bit back a sarcastic reply. After all, Alexis couldn’t have guessed that she was about the 40th person tonight to ask her that question. Katya was trying her best, she really was, but simply maintaining her sanity all week had been hard enough.

She just didn’t have the energy to be her usual effervescent self, and she knew it.

“I’m fine, just a little tired,” Katya shrugged, the words an absolute lie since she honestly felt exhausted. “You know, this time of year the six year olds are a bit out of control. Christmas cheer and all.”

Alexis laughed, patting her on the arm. “Well, bless you for taking care of the little monsters.”

When Alexis left a few minutes later, Katya felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders. “You know, if you want to leave early, we can.”

“That’s okay, sugar butt.” Katya turned around, placing a kiss on Trixie’s cheek, her fiancé wearing a sparkly silver tuxedo. “I know it’s important for you to bond with your team.”

“Yeah, but it’s even more important that you’re okay,” Trixie told her softly, holding her against his side, his voice low and full of concern.

“Have I told you today that you’re my favorite?”

“No…”

Katya wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him flush against her, Trixie immediately responding to her dominance. “How about this...you go chat up whoever you need to, and I’ll go prepare a sampling of every dessert they have...then we can meet back at that table in 10 minutes for a taste test?”

“Oh, you’re so on, baby.”

He gave her an enthusiastic high-five before scampering away, Katya smiling at his jaunty little walk. She’d been feeling so guilty for days now, wondering if she’d ever be enough for him. If she couldn’t handle kids, would he still be happy? She supposed there was no way to truly know for sure, and that thought plagued her like no other.

“Hey Katya. Are you okay?”

Katya closed her eyes, taking a brief moment to center herself before forcing a sunny smile and turning towards April’s voice.

***

The Galactica party was a lot more fun than Tati expected, everyone so much sweeter than she had hoped. She had bumped into Violet, the two of them actually talking this time, and Ivy had said hello to her earlier, Tatianna still beyond grateful for how kind the redhead had been to her at the holiday show. And then of course, there was the lovely Max, who had taken some photos for Tati’s portfolio after they’d met in September.

“Hi Max!” she exclaimed, greeting him with a bright smile. “It’s great to see you again!”

“Tatianna, hello!” Max said, gesturing for her to stop and pose in front of a big glittering Christmas tree, snapping a few shots of her, laughing as she hammed it up, giving him her best poses. “Well done.”

“I feel so honored to be in front of your camera again,” Tati said.

“Not for the last time, I hope.”

“Oh god, me too. I honestly can’t thank you enough for that session we had.”

“So they were useful then?” Max asked.

“You’re kidding, right?” Tatianna didn’t want to say that the simple photos Max had taken of her in his studio were a million times better than the meager gigs her agency had booked for her. It had been so much fun to shoot with him, Max guiding her with his calm voice and clear vision, the results speaking for himself even though Tatianna had just been doing what he asked. “They’re the best photos in my portfolio, hands down.”

“I know it’s tough when you’re starting out,” Max said, “But I’m sure you’ll find your niche; you’re very talented.”

“Thanks,” Tati said, hoping it wasn’t just something people said. It felt like she’d spent months pounding the pavement with little to show for it. Thank god for Courtney for getting her in with Galactica, because the holiday show had been her first major job for a real label, and she had her fingers crossed about walking for them during fashion week, hoping she’d done enough to prove herself.

She glanced towards Courtney once again, standing with Bianca and Miss Fame and what looked like a whole group of their high-roller friends, including the supermodel, Raven, who Tati still couldn’t believe she’d worked with. (Not that they’d exchanged two words, but even being in the same backstage area as her had been exciting.)

Tati knew that she should probably go over and say hi, but you couldn’t pay her to interrupt that group. Although from the look on Courtney’s face, she might have welcomed the interruption--poor girl looked stressed, clinging to Bianca’s hand for dear life.

Max followed her gaze, chuckling to himself. “Courtney’s new girlfriend is certainly a good person to know.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve met her before and I don’t think I left a very big impression. Although to be fair, she was real busy eye-fucking Courtney the whole time.”

Max laughed some more at that and said, “That sounds about accurate.”

Finally, Courtney glanced back in Tati’s direction, her eyes lighting up when she saw her. She leaned in, murmuring something into Bianca’s ear, then came bounding towards Tati, a relieved expression on her face.

“Augh, you look so fucking pretty!” Tati squealed, pulling Courtney in for a tight hug.

“Look who’s talking, golden goddess!” Courtney cried, taking her whole ensemble in, then turning to Max to add, “Hi Max, how are you?”

“I’m well, thanks,” Max said, picking up his camera again and snapping a shot of the two of them, Courtney on her tiptoes. “I should probably leave you ladies to catch up. Have a lovely evening.”

“Bye!”

“I love these shoes!” Tati said, spinning Courtney around.

“Thank you, they’re Bianca’s,” Courtney said, beaming up at her.

“So...how’s that all going? Are you having fun?”

“Tonight?” Courtney asked, smile fading, the look on her face betraying exactly how much fun she was not having. “Tonight’s been...interesting. I mean she’s amazing. And walking the red carpet together was just the most exciting moment of my whole life.”

“Aww…” Tati grinned, then asked, “...but?”

“But...her friends are...not quite in favor of it. I think they think she could do better.”

“Fuck them! You’re a goddamn catch.”

“Thank you,” Courtney giggled, then waved to someone excitedly. “Oh! There’s Alaska! She’s the best, she’s in charge of the makeup department and she told me they’re gonna be casting the next campaign in January. Let’s go say hi!”

“I love you…” Tati said, letting Courtney pull her over to a striking blonde woman in a blue gown with sky-high heels and even higher hair.

Tati stood up straight, hoping to make a good impression, but their exchange with Alaska was quickly cut short when a swarm of people flocked over to hammer Courtney with questions about her scandalous date.

“Are you guys actually a couple?”

“Is Miss Fame mad?”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Are the rumors true?”

Courtney laughed, taking the questions in stride and giving very diplomatic answers along with a few knowing winks, finally able to loosen up and have fun.

***

Shangela loved the annual Christmas party. Sure, it was a pain to put together, Fame’s attention to detail and demand for perfection almost impossible to keep up with, and yet, they managed it every single year, the result always worth it.

“Mmh!” Rita moaned, her eyes closed. “God, this gelato is magnificent!” The HR director was dressed in a sparkly blue suit, her hair twisted in a tight updo.

“Do you two want a room?” Jaida raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed, her white nails tapping against her brown skin. She was dressed in glittery royal purple, and looked like a million bucks.

“Do not be jealous of those of us who have chosen comfort over beauty,” Rita smiled, her accent coming out. “You might be skinny, but I, I have gelato.”

Shangela snorted, Jaida hitting Rita’s shoulder and leaning in for a taste.

“Guys!” Shangela looked out on the dance floor, Kiara standing there with her arms over her head decked out in sparkling gold, Laganja next to her in gorgeous yellow. “Get on out here!”

“Come on!” Laganja cupped her mouth, “or are you scared you can’t shake it?!”

“Ugh!” Shangela gasped, holding a hand to her chest. “Girl you did not just say that to my face! Move aside!”

***

Bianca loved her friends, but she knew how intense and judgmental they could be, and so she was glad to see Courtney finally having fun on the dance floor with Tati. She smiled slightly to herself, watching as Courtney twirled and laughed--the lowkey shade she’d gracefully endured earlier seemingly forgotten.

She turned back to the group, catching Fame’s eye and giving her what she hoped was her most charming smile. Fame narrowed her eyes slightly, lips pursed, and Bianca sidled up to her, putting an arm around her waist.

“So on a scale of 1 to 10...how mad are you?” Bianca asked softly.

“A 7.” Fame’s voice was cold, but she didn’t push on Bianca’s arms, didn’t try to wiggle out of her embrace.

“I’ll take that,” Bianca laughed, a moment of relief fluttering in her chest.

“You know I hate being blindsided,” Fame told her.

“I know, I know...but be honest. If I’d called you and told you that I was bringing her, what would you have said?”

“I’d have said the same thing I told you a month ago.” Fame looked at her, her blue-gray eyes filled with annoyance. “Absolutely not. Stay away from my staff, and for damn sure don’t bring them anywhere near a red carpet.”

“Exactly.”

Fame rolled her eyes, shaking her head at Bianca, but not making any move to get away from her gasp. She was definitely peeved, and wanted Bianca to know, but they’d be okay. And Bianca had no doubt that once her friends realized that her relationship with Courtney was serious--and even better, than it was making her so absolutely happy--they’d all get on board.

Bianca leaned in and pressed a kiss to Fame’s cheek, then inquired, “Still a 7?”

Fame gave her some side eye before admitting, “Maybe a six and a half.”

“Hey, progress!” Bianca said, clinking their glasses together, Fame not pulling away which Bianca took as another win. “That’s barely more than usual.”

“If you ever,” Fame pointed at Bianca, champagne twirling around in her glass, “pull something like this again,” Fame’s voice was firm and hard, a warning tone in it that left no room for arguments. “I might not be so forgiving.”

“So you’re saying don’t propose at your Spring runway show?” Bianca asked, a mischievous grin deepening her dimples.

“Bianca, that’s not funny,” Fame sighed, exasperation radiating from her and Bianca laughed, hugging her tight. “If I thought you’d still be together in February, you’d be on very thin ice right now.”

“Good one, blondie,” Bianca said. Given the circumstances, she decided it was better to let her have that one.

***

Courtney had never liked her coworkers more than tonight, on the dance floor. She was so used to seeing everyone in their serious, professional modes, but getting tipsy and a bit silly with them was a much-needed reprieve.

However, as much fun as it was, her eyes kept getting pulled towards Bianca, and her dimples, and the hand that was wrapped around her glass that Courtney wished was wrapped around her thigh. At one point, she glanced over to find Bianca gazing back at her, tingles rushing up her spine as their eyes met.

She smiled slowly, giving her best hair toss and bedroom eyes, hips moving in a slow, lazy circle. Then, for good measure, just to really hammer the message home, she took her fingers and slid them slowly up her thigh, lifting her skirt ever so slightly.

Bianca’s expression barely changed, but Courtney was watching closely enough to detect the slight quirk of her eyebrow, the smile tugging on her lips. She also saw Bianca’s eyes flick over to the exit, then back to her, and gave the faintest nod of agreement.

“Tati? Would you hate me if I took off?”

“What?” Tati yelled over the music, laughing as Bob took her hand and spun her in a circle. “No, go get laid, girl. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

And with one last air kiss, Courtney headed for the door, nearly skipping towards the exit.

Bianca took longer than her to extricate herself from her friend group, and by the time she made it out to the lobby, Courtney was already waiting, posed, leaning against a table covered in poinsettias.

Bianca threw open the door, striding towards her quickly, taking her face into her hands and kissing her hungrily. When she pulled away, she was already breathing hard, one hand wrapped around Courtney’s waist, the other tangled in her hair.

“Did you have fun in there?”

“It was alright,” Bianca murmured, lips trailing down her jaw. “Fuck, why didn’t I get a hotel room for us?”

“Um, because you live four blocks away?” Courtney ventured as her eyes fell closed.

“Four long, endless blocks,” Bianca moaned softly, fingers gripping her waist tighter.

“Come on…” Courtney giggled, pushing off from the table and heading for the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

“Uh!” Pearl’s eyes widened as she swallowed, an explosion of deliciousness in her mouth. She reached down, stabbing another piece of the passion fruit mousse on her fork. She had spotted Violet sitting by herself, her friend clearly not having a good time, so Pearl had done what any great bro would do, which was kidnap her, the two of them now tucked away in the darkest corner she could find.

“Try this one Vivi!”

“What?” Violet looked at her like she was crazy, a raspberry tart on her half of the plate and Pearl couldn’t help but laugh. Their legs were intertwined, the seat they had taken not nearly big enough for two adults. Pearl had grabbed them a plate of the teeny tiny desserts that had been put out, the treats resting on Pearl’s thigh and Violet’s skirt.

“Come on,” Pearl grinned, raising the fork, “Here comes the airplane.”

“You’re insane,” Violet laughed, the frown of her beautiful face completely gone.

“Open wide!” Pearl moved the fork forward, making an airplane noise, Violet hitting her hand to get it away from her face.

“Pearl!” Violet cried, outrage in her voice, even though she was still laughing, their plate almost toppling over, Pearl popping the bite in her own mouth.

“I’ll get you next time.” Pearl wiggled her brows, swallowing the mousse down.

“Please,” Violet sounded exasperated, but she was adorable when she was upset, Pearl knowing few things that were more fun than ruffling Violet’s feathers. Pearl was just about to go for Violet’s raspberry tart, stealing it a surefire way to get into another play fight, when she saw light coming out of Violet’s clutch.

“Umh, Vivi?” Pearl pointed to the ground, “Your bag is glowing.”

“Shit!” Violet’s eyes widened, and she lunged for her clutch, nearly tipping over the plate as she fished her phone out.

***

“Fuck!” Courtney exclaimed, Bianca all but hurling her onto the bed, her dress tossed to the floor the second they’d stepped off the elevator.

Courtney was already on edge from the ride home, Bianca driving her absolutely nuts in the backseat of the town car, sucking wet kisses into her neck, toying with the little decorative buttons on the front of her panties. She sprawled on the bed, legs danging over the side, looking up wild-eyed at Bianca standing above her, tugging her down by the skirt.

“Please, B...”

“Please what, angel?” Bianca asked, flashing her a wicked smirk as she slowly knelt down between her legs.

“I...I…”

“I love these practical undies,” Bianca said, fingers trailing over the edge of Courtney’s gray, boy-cut panties. She dipped her head, teeth pulling at the little buttons, the pressure against Courtney’s clit even better than it had been in the car, immediately making her grasp the covers in her fists.

“I love seeing you all wet like this, baby.” Bianca nuzzled into the front of her panties, then began to kiss down her thigh.

“So wet,” Courtney echoed, thrusting her hips up, begging, “Take them off, please.”

Bianca pressed one more kiss to her inner thigh, then began to slide her panties down. She let go of the covers, hands going to her tits, playing with her nipples to release some of the pressure building up in her abdomen.

“In a hurry?” Bianca teased, lips ghosting over her.

“I need…”

“What do you need, angel? Tell me,” Bianca urged, nibbling gently on her thigh, mouth moving higher. “Tell me.”

“You tongue…” she whined, not caring how needy and strung-out she must have seemed.

“Uh huh...where?” Bianca licked her, so gently she thought she might scream, right at the crease of her thigh.

Courtney let out an impatient, strangled moan, pinching her nipples hard, hips rolling faster now. She could feel Bianca’s hot breath against her, and all she wanted was that mouth, that tongue, but words were failing her. The only thing she could manage was a gasping litany of, “Please please please please…”

It seemed to work, though, Bianca swirling a tongue over her, finally, strong hands holding her shaking legs apart. Her body responded fully to every generous touch, arching up, whimpers turning soon to full-throated moans.

***

“You know,” Sutan reached out, closing the cab door, Violet’s crutches against his chest as the car pulled out, juggling everything while tipsy a huge pain. “I can’t wait for these,” Sutan moved his arm, the crutches clacking, “to be obsolete.”

It had taken forever to find Violet, her phone going to voicemail the first three times he had tried it, and while he wasn’t proud of it, it had taken a few deep breaths not to panic.

Apparently, the vibration on it had died months ago, the fact that he had a 23 year old girlfriend who actually had the sound turned on on her phone in her everyday life deeply bizarre.

“I’m sorry that me getting around is such a huge inconvenience for you.” Violet was leaning back into the seat, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll tell my broken bones to hurry up.”

Sutan realised how stupid he had just been, Violet’s struggle so much grater than the hassle he felt.

“Sorry.” He went for an apologetic smile, hoping it was clear on his face that he meant it. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Mmh?” Violet looked over at him, and Sutan put her crutches down against the window, hoping that they’d stay in place.

“Yes mmh.” He moved closer, their driver ignoring them completely as his hand touched Violet’s knee, his arm sneaking around the back seat, boxing her in. “Can you forgive me?”

“Hmm,” Violet hummed, the sweet lavender scent that had become synonymous with her filling his nose, the prettiest blush dusted over her cheeks. “I’ll consider it.”

“Good,” Sutan grinned, “because I am very, very, very sorry.”

“Oh god,” Violet rolled her eyes, a chuckle leaving her. “You absolute idiot.” She reached out, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss, their lips touching as Sutan pressed her against the car door, their trip home a lot more interesting now.

***

“Go go go go!” Alaska laughed, clapping her hands together as Kandy and Ivy slammed back shots. Most of the non-staff guests had left by then, staying once the cameras had disappeared not that interesting. It was, of course, the best part of the night, as the lights went down and the bass turned up.

“Yeees!” Alaska cheered as Ivy finished the 5th shot and slammed the glass down seconds before Kandy.

“Everybody!” Shangela grabbed Ivy’s hand, “We have a winner!” She thrusted it into the air, making everyone laugh, and Alaska felt like she was flying high.

She grabbed her vodka soda, looking around the room, only just spotting Kim Chi who was bent over  a couch, drawing a moustache with lipstick on Amy who had passed out. As their boss, Alaska had a fleeting concern, wondering if she should intervene, but then shrugged, realizing how hilarious it was, and turned back to Shangela to take another shot.

[fluffonthebunniestail]

What a Sleepover

Okay, so I may or may not be plotting some headcannons for Zuko 👀👀

BUT, in the meantime- I must push this fic out because I've been thinking of it for a while!

Also, small psa. Just because two dudes are having a sleepover, hugging, holding hands etc. does not mean they're into each other, or gay. Same goes for females, we all just need affection sometimes and shouldn't have to be dating to do so!

Summary: Karma and Nagisa are having a sleepover because that's what best friends do :)

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It was the last class before a well deserved free day. Well, it feels very well deserved.

It was a rough week of extra training not to mention crammed-in study sessions for the following tests. Finally, about ten minutes until school's was done for.

Nagisa was just bouncing his leg in excitement, especially because he is going to go home with Karma.

It wasn't very often they got to hang out anymore, so he was going to take this sleepover and enjoy it. And everything else can go shove it.

So yeah, Nagisa was quite excited. It was a time to just be stress-free. Not just from the normal teenage stress, but the stress placed on their shoulders about the end of the world.

So, when the bell finally rung, it took every bit of will power not to whoop. Instead, he said his goodbyes to Kaede like the gentlemen he is.

He then, packed his things, walking towards Karma's desk.

"You ready to go?" He asked.

"Yeah, give me one second." Karma replied, pulling his back over his shoulder. "Okay, you won't mind if we stop by the store real quick? I want to pick out a few things before we head to my house."

"Yeah, we can go." Nagisa said as they began to walk out the door together. "What are you gonna get?"

"Just some snacks, I don't know. If you see something you like, tell me."

Nagisa just nodded as they continued to their journey to the store. It was mostly accompanied by silence, but it was nice silence. Just listening to some music they've recently found with the occasional bob to the beat.

Once they finally made it to the store, Nagisa just followed behind Karma.

"You cooking tonight?" Nagisa asked seeing Karma picking out some beef.

"Yeah, I was planning on making some beef curry. Unless you wanna order."

"Nah, I always prefer your cooking."

"Damn right."

They got to the isle filled with snacks, Karma just let Nagisa pick out a few.

"Imagine if your parents were here." Nagisa mentioned making the other snort.

"God, they'd lose their shit. I mean sure they're gone but they're... something." Karma huffed, shaking his head.

Nagisa could remember the first time he met Karma's family, it was strange to say at the least. They were putting Karma on a strict diet, despite the fact that he was already skinny. It was just strange.

"Has it ever bothered you?" Nagisa asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Uh, I mean, them being gone all the time. Does it bother you? Like don't you get lonely sometimes?"

"Not really, it's weird. I don't miss them if that's what you're asking."

"When was the last time they were here?"

"Uh, shit I dunno. A little before I was suspended last year."

"Shit."

"Oh don't worry, it's freeing if anything. It's nice. I'm not a people person."

"I know, I know. But still."

"How about, worry about yourself and your own jackass of a mother." Karma said lightly punching Nagisa's head.

He always does that.

"Well, welcome to my humble abode. You already know where everything is and whatnot. Do me a favor, set something up to watch while I make dinner, will ya?"

"You got it chef Karma." Nagisa soluted then retreated to the living room getting something to watch.

Long story short, Karma finished cooking, they ate it and it was absolutely delicious.

Like what couldn't he do?

They then watched some fun stuff, did whatever they felt like until they set up camp in the living room. Aka, Karma getting blankets and pillows, and for them to wrestle who got the couch and floor.

Then they just talked, talked about some woke shit, but not really woke shit ya know?

"Terasaka's a bitch." Karma blurted.

"You're an even bigger bitch." Nagisa retorted, snorting at the random statement.

"Hey, at least I take pride into it."

Nagisa just changed his position slightly by resting his head on Karma's stomach (they're resting like a T) Hey, bromance. It was normal, Karma wasn't very touchy feely but Nagisa was and Karma had to accommodate. Basically, Karma didn't have a say but he didn't really care. It was nice having someone trust him like that.

"This year is crazy." Nagisa said just staring into the ceiling.

"And it's not gonna be any less crazy any time soon."

"You think we're actually going to kill him?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On how sappy everyone gets."

"But we have to."

"There could always be another way. It always bothered me when Koro Sensei said that he blew up the moon and will to the earth. What is stopping him? He could've done it a long time ago when even the higher ups can't do shit. How come he's now giving us -fucking students of all people- a deadline. He could take us all out as easily as a blink of an eye, what it stopping him?"

"Should we ask him?" Nagisa asked, making Karma bark out a laugh.

"Absolutely the fuck not."

Nagisa just hummed in response. Karma then just sighed obnoxiously.

"I'm bored."

"What do you wanna do?"

"I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"Nope, entertain me."

"By...?"

"Wearing one of my mom's dresses."

"Fuck no!" Nagisa yelped, sitting up.

"What? It'd just be you in your final form."

"You're an ass."

"Ouch, I'm truly hurt. You've wounded me deeply Nagisa!" Karma said clutching his heart, turning to his side covering his head with a pillow. "Just leave me here wounded to such painful words you've set upon me."

Nagisa just scoffed, poking his side making him yelp sitting up quickly.

"Oi!" He pouted.

"What?" Nagisa asked pretending to be concerned.

"And you're calling me an ass?"

"You wanna see this 'ass'."

"Not really, I can already smell it." He snickered.

"Oh yeah?" Nagisa said putting his hands up. Karma catches them pushing them away from him.

"Nagisa, I will rock your shit."

"Yeah? And I can do the same."

"Sure thing pipsqueak."

"You'll apologies for that."

"Will I?" Karma said pretending to think for a few seconds, "I don't think so."

"You're so gonna get it."

"Yeah, whatcha gonna do about it?"

Nagisa then quickly let go of Karma's hands, tweaking his sides.

"Hey!" He yelped, "That's cheating!"

"How so, modern problems call for modern solutions."

"You did not just say that-" He cut himself off as he saw Nagisa snake his hands towards him. "Okay, we're not gonna do that!" He said pushing Nagisa's arms away from him.

"Why not?" Nagisa snickered, "Is it because little Karma's too ticklish?"

"Nagisa, shut the fuck up." He fumed, his face starting to get red.

"Awwe this is adorable." Nagisa was loving this, after all those times Karma embarrassed him to no end.

"Fuck oHOFF!" He yelped as Nagisa quickly started to squeeze his sides.

Did he fuck off? Nope. If anything, he continued to squeeze his sides. This made Karma fall not so gracefully onto his back. he was slapping and swatting his arms aimlessly at Nagisa, pulling at his hands trying desperately to pull him off.

"STOHOHOP NAGISA!" He screeched, laughing loudly and uncontrollably. He was squirming around as much as he could, trying to buck Nagisa off but the boy was determined.

"What's wrong? I thought you were said you were gonna 'rock my shit'." Nagisa teased. It was hilarious how easy it was to tease Karma.

The redhead was trying. Key word: trying, to retaliate by jabbing his fingers at Nagisa's ribs. Only reason it didn't work was because it actually hurt a bit. Thank god for Karma losing all sense of control when being tickled.

"Oh yeah? Do you think you're in any position to try that?" Nagisa asked, snaking his hands to the hollows of Karma's underarms.

He squealed, arching his back, elbows locked to his sides and laughter reducing slightly to giggles. It's his least ticklish spot, but it still keeps him going strong. He was able to spout out a string of curses and demands of stopping to Nagisa, but all fruitless.

This however, gave Nagisa full access to the spot he knows kills Karma: stomach.

As soon as his hands had even made contact to his shaking abdomen, Karma screeched.

"NOHODON'TPLEAHAHAHA-" He pleaded. He was trying his best to throw the smaller boy off him. However, it was deeming incredibly difficult with the unbearable sensations that spreaded all throughout his stomach. Nagisa made sure to squeeze every bit of his midsection before briefly traveling to his ribs.

He drilled his fingers between his bones without mercy.

"Are you going to apologize for calling me a pipsqueak?" Nagisa asked digging at his stomach again, making him squeal with every vibrating movement.

He knew that Karma could barely speak a proper sentence, but this was very fun.

What was more fun was seeing a bit of skin from his shirt that rode up from all the rustling. Nagisa tried to grab his hands with one hand, not very successful but better then not trying. His other went under Karma's shirt clawing at his twitching stomach making his laugh come out more panicked.

"Sorry, I can't really hear you." Nagisa grinned, vibrating his hand right around his navel making Karma nearly jump out his skin. His laughter went in and out of being silent. Nagisa felt bad and relented his attack.

The redhead in turn was panting out a few giggles holding his midsection.

"Gohod, you're such a dick."

"Meh, maybe. But you deserved it you mega dick."

"Whatever." He waved off Nagisa, sitting up. He turned his head to the blue boy. "You know I'm gonna get you back."

Nagisa just sighed pumping the air deflated, "Worth it."

"Well, I'm getting snacks and you aren't having shit."

"Why must you be so cruel?" Nagisa sobbed. Karma just chuckled walking to the kitchen.

Karma although wasn't a big fan of getting tickled the shit out of him, it was nice to let loose every once in a while. If course he isn't going to say that though.

[whumphoarder]

Emergency Contact

Summary: It’s not that James disliked his roommate, it’s just that they didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.

Or, in which fifteen-year-old college freshman Tony Stark needs a ride to the ER and James Rhodes is too responsible for his own good.

Word count: 4,050

Genre: sickfic, hurt/comfort, angst, whump

A/N: Thank you so much to @xxx-cat-xxx and @sallyidss for beta reading, ideas, and encouragement!

Link to read on Ao3

It’s not that James disliked his roommate, it’s just that they didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.

To be fair, the skinny five-foot-four prepubescent kid who’d walked into James’ dorm on move-in day didn’t look much like a college student, nor was he lugging in cardboard boxes and duffle bags filled with crap like the rest of the freshmen in the hall. There was no air of excitement and trepidation to him—no telltale buzz of new experiences. Not to mention, James had spent the majority of his summer away at Air Force ROTC camp, cut off from most forms of media and therefore oblivious to the rumors that Howard Stark’s infamous fifteen-year-old child prodigy was set to start his engineering course at MIT the very same semester that he was. It was hardly his fault for not recognizing the kid.

Even so, he probably shouldn’t have addressed Tony as ‘champ’ and asked if he was there to drop off an older sibling. That was on him.

What was not on James, however, was the fit Stark pitched at the resident assistant’s office upon realizing that his father had evidently not set him up with a single room after all.

“So move me then,” the little twerp demanded. “Just put it on the old man’s bill—he’s got the money. I didn’t just live through the last seven years of boarding school dormitories only to have to keep sharing the fucking bathroom in college.” He glanced over his shoulder at James, before adding, offhandedly, “No offense—I’m sure you’re swell.”

James huffed out a short, ironic laugh. He was standing in the back corner of the office with his back leaning against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, quietly taking in the scene unfolding in front of him. “None taken.”

(At this point, he wouldn’t have minded a switch either.)

The mousy redhead at the desk looked frazzled. “Look, I’m very sorry, Mr. Stark,” she tried to explain, “but there’s nothing I can do. All our single dorms are fully booked.”

Even when the kid shoved a wad of cash at her tall enough to make James’ eyebrows rise, the RA held her ground.

“It’s a first come, first serve policy,” she explained, her voice faltering, but words firm. “At least until something opens up. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it has to be.”

So there they were, a nineteen-year-old Air Force cadet from a working class family in Philly who had gotten into ‘fancy school’ on an ROTC scholarship, a 3.87 GPA, and a prayer, and a spoiled rich brat with a pile of daddy issues taller than the Bunker Hill Monument. The two were going to be stuck together for at least the next few weeks and neither of them was particularly thrilled about it.

X

Despite James’ initial concerns, rooming with Stark wasn’t actually that bad.

James had an additional scholarship that was dependent on his academic performance, so he joined several study groups to keep his grades up. Between ROTC, student government, and mock UN, along with his never-ending mountain of engineering coursework, he was rarely home.

Meanwhile, Tony might look like a twelve-year-old, but that certainly didn’t get in the way of his budding popularity on campus. The kid was swimming in invites to different parties and events (though whether that was due to his own sharp wit and natural charisma, or simply his undeniable social status as the son of Howard Stark, James couldn’t tell). Either way, between James’ busy schedule and Tony’s avid social calendar, the two could go days without seeing each other, which suited them both just fine.

With all the partying, James figured his roommate’s grades must be suffering, but a curious glance at the quarterly report letter lying on Tony’s desk last week proved otherwise. The kid had straight A’s in all seven of his classes—two more than James himself was taking.

(Alright, maybe he disliked Tony a little bit.)

X

James knew it wasn’t going to be a good day from the moment he woke up to see sunlight streaming in through the blinds. That just wasn’t supposed to happen at 5:45 a.m. in November.

“Shit,” he muttered, scrambling out of his twin-size bunk. The display on his alarm clock was silently blinking the very incorrect time of ‘12:00’. The previous night’s storm must have knocked out the power. He grabbed his watch from atop his desk to check the actual time and immediately breathed out a sigh of relief. 7:22. No morning run today, but he should still be able to make it to his eight a.m. class if he hurried.

Still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he snagged some clean clothes from his dresser and made a beeline to the adjoining bathroom. He pushed open the door and slapped on the light switch, but the second the room illuminated to reveal the scrawny figure sitting slumped on the floor between the toilet and the wall, James froze.

“Tony?” he asked in confusion. He hadn’t even heard the kid come home last night.

Without opening his eyes, Tony hummed a bit in response. Then all at once, he lurched forward and gagged, coughing up what looked to be mostly bile into the toilet bowl.

James grimaced. It was definitely not the first time he’d seen his roommate severely hungover, but it was the first time he’d seen it happen on a Tuesday . At the rate this kid was partying, he’d be lucky if he had any liver function left by the time he graduated.

With a sigh, James set his stack of clean clothes down on the sink counter. “Look man, I’m sorry, but I really gotta shower. I know you’re not feeling too great, but do you think you can give me, like, five minutes in here?”

Tony blinked up at him, seeming to process the question. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay…”

Doing his best to ignore the acidic smell of vomit, James stepped carefully around Tony into the small room. He flushed the toilet and grabbed the metal trash can from beside the sink while Tony pulled himself shakily to his feet.

“Thanks dude. I promise I’ll be fast.” He passed the can off to Tony and watched him stumble back out of the room before shutting the door.

If the military had taught James nothing else, it was efficiency. He emerged ten minutes later—showered, dressed, and clean shaven—to find Tony sitting listlessly on the edge of his bed. The boy looked more dead than alive, with one arm wrapped around his stomach and sweat soaking through his thin gray t-shirt. Just the sight of him was practically an underage drinking PSA in itself.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” James announced as he grabbed his backpack from the floor.

Tony acknowledged him with a small grunt, but didn’t make any effort to move. His mouth was slightly open and he was breathing through it carefully, warily eyeing the trash can on the floor in front of him. For once, James was glad he had an eight a.m. class to get to; he figured in about five minutes, he wouldn’t want to be here anyway.

In a spur of the moment gesture of kindness, James grabbed a fresh bottle of water from the case under his desk and tossed it onto Tony’s bed. “Feel better, dude,” he said on his way out the door.

X

Tuesday was always a busy day for James. He had back-to-back classes all morning, followed by a student council meeting in the afternoon and a mandatory ROTC training session. It was nearly seven o’clock by the time he made it back to the dorm, and by that time he’d honestly forgotten about that morning’s excitement until he opened the door to their room.

As miserable as Tony had appeared that morning, he looked decidedly worse now. He was lying curled up on the edge of his bed in a tangle of sheets and blankets, cheeks flushed and body shivering. The whole room carried the vague scent of vomit, though the trash can by the bed was currently empty.

“So… I take it this isn’t a hangover?” James deduced, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He plopped the paper sack of Taco Bell that was going to make up his dinner onto his desk, causing Tony’s face to scrunch up in displeasure. “Stomach flu?” he guessed.

Tony made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat.

“Think you got a fever?”

Another low noise issued from Tony, somewhere between a grunt and a moan, which James took to mean something along the lines of ‘don’t know, and don’t care.’

James hesitated a moment, unsure what to do. If his mother were here, she’d tisk her tongue and press her hand to the kid’s forehead to gauge his temperature, but somehow he didn’t see that going over too well with Tony.

Instead, James checked his watch and sighed. “I can give you a ride to the student health center if you want,” he offered. “They don’t close until eight.”

“Don’ have to... ‘s just a bug,” Tony mumbled into the pillow, the most consecutive words James had heard from him all day. “I’ll be fine.”

The thing was, if Tony were one of his ROTC buddies, James would have dropped it right there. He’d never been particularly good at caretaking, and besides, he had a test coming up in his thermal-fluids class tomorrow morning that he should really be studying for. But something about the utter vulnerability Tony was displaying at the moment gave James pause. True, the kid might be a stuck-up asshole, but he was also just that— a kid. Only a few years older than James’ own kid-brother.

James looked at Tony appraisingly. “Can you handle a shower?”

“Huh?” Tony breathed.

“A shower,” James repeated. “Remember those? Water, soap, maybe even some shampoo if you’re feeling adventurous,” he said wryly. “That is, if you can do it without passing out.”

Tony fixed him with a rather pathetic glare. “Not gonna pass out.”

“You better not,” James quipped, crossing his arms and watching as Tony pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ve seen more than enough white boys’ pasty asses this summer to last a lifetime. I have no desire to add another.”

(Tony lifted his middle finger weakly in his roommate’s direction.)

X

Over the sound of the shower running in the background, James ate his tacos and started flipping through his class notes in preparation for the test the next morning, but he was finding it unusually hard to focus. He kept listening for any sounds of distress from the bathroom, and after fifteen minutes had elapsed, he got up from his desk and crossed the room.

“Hey, I was serious about the ‘no passing out’ rule, Stark,” he hollered, rapping his knuckles against the door. “If you biff it in there, you’re on your own.”

As if on cue, a loud crashing sound immediately issued from inside the shower.

James’ eyes widened. He jiggled the door handle only to find it locked. “Tony?” he called. “Did you just fall?”

There was no response.

James cursed. He grabbed a paper clip from his desk and quickly jimmied the flimsy lock open—a skill he’d learned from his cousins years ago—before pushing open the door. “Tony?” he called again.

Suddenly, a hand emerged and pulled the edge of the shower curtain back just enough for Tony to stick his head out the side. His face was totally straight, but there was a hint of mirth in his eyes. “Whoops, must’ve dropped the shampoo bottle,” he deadpanned. “Thank god I’m rooming with the US Coast Guard.”

“Air Force,” James corrected irritably.

Tony pulled the curtain back closed. “Whatever.”

James rolled his eyes. “Next time I’m letting you drown, Stark...” he grumbled as he stepped back out of the room.

X

By the time Tony finally emerged from the bathroom an additional twenty minutes later (the latter ten of which he’d spent retching loud enough into the toilet that James had broken out his walkman and headphones), all traces of his earlier humor had dissolved. He moved shakily back to his bed and managed a couple sips of water before curling up on his side, the trash can within easy reach.

James tried to turn his attention back to his textbook, but Tony’s labored breathing as he drifted in and out of consciousness was making it difficult to focus. James kept stealing worried side glances back at the bed, wondering whether there was something else he should be doing.

At around nine-thirty, Tony jerked up suddenly and stumbled back to the bathroom to start dry-retching into the toilet again, and that was when James gave up trying to study for the night. He got up from his desk and pushed open the hastily half-closed door to the bathroom to wet a washcloth at the sink. When the mostly unproductive spasms ceased, he handed the cloth to Tony.

“Have you eaten anything today?” James asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer already.

Tony just grimaced and shook his head.

“Want some crackers or something?” he offered. “I can go raid the cafeteria soup station.” James might not have had as packed of a social calendar as Tony, but it wasn’t like he never partied. He still knew the college hangover tricks.

Tony shook his head again, eyes closed. He seemed to lack the energy for words.

“Gatorade at least then?” James tried again. “All I’ve seen you drink today is one water bottle—you’ve gotta be getting dehydrated by now.”

Another head shake. “I’ll jus’ puke it up again…” Tony muttered. “Prob’ly a kidney too at this rate.”

“Well it’s better than puking up nothing,” James reasoned. Technically, he didn’t know if that was true or not, but he was tired of watching the kid be miserable. He moved back to the room to grab his keys and jacket. “What flavor do you want?” he called.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony croaked back from the bathroom. “They’re all terrible.”

“That’s the most ignorant thing I’ve ever heard you say,” James retorted. “Just for that you’re getting purple.”

And with that, he exited the dorm and shut the door behind him with a bang.

X

It turned out that the vending machine in the lobby outside the dining hall only sold three Gatorade flavors—blue, orange, and red. James bought a bottle of each, then slipped into the deserted cafeteria to snag a handful of individually-wrapped saltine packets from the clam chowder counter before heading back to the dorm. It took some cajoling, but he managed to get two full crackers and half a bottle of the sports drink into Tony before it came right back up.

“Told you,” Tony rasped, spitting neon blue strings of bile into the toilet bowl. “Lost cause.”

“We’ll try red next,” James said, cracking open a fresh bottle. “One of them’s bound to stick.”

But red didn’t stay down any better, and neither did orange. James mooched a can of ginger ale and a quarter of a bottle of Pepto Bismol off a fellow cadet down the hall, but those fared no better. Even the cup of tap water James kept bullying him into taking sips from proved too much.

By midnight, Tony was still sitting slumped against the toilet on the bathroom floor, barely conscious, and James was at a total loss. “I think we have to go to the ER,” he admitted finally.

Without opening his eyes, Tony made a low noise of discontent in the back of his throat. His eyes were sunken in and he was alarmingly pale.

James let out a deep sigh. “Look, I’m sorry man, but we’re running out of options here. If you can’t even keep water down, you’re gonna need an IV.”

“No…” Tony lifted a shaky hand to try to take the cup of water James was holding. “I’ll-I’ll try again… just—” His words were cut off by a weak gag.

James cursed under his breath and quickly steered Tony’s head back over the bowl. It turned out not to matter though because for the next several minutes of miserable retching, nothing came up. When it was finally over, Tony slumped back against the wall. His eyes were red and puffy, and James figured it was only dehydration that was keeping the tears from falling.

“Alright, that’s it,” James declared. He wrapped an arm around Tony to lever him upright, feeling the feverish heat coming off the kid in waves. “I’m not letting you die on our bathroom floor—we won’t get the deposit back.”

Tony breathed out the ghost of a laugh. “Jus’ tell Howard to write you a check at the funeral...” he murmured. “‘bout all he’s good for,” he added under his breath.

James’ brow furrowed but he chose not to comment. He hoisted Tony to his feet and bore most of the kid’s weight as he led him back to the bedroom and sat him down on the edge of the mattress. “I’m gonna get you a clean shirt, okay?”

Tony nodded, gazing blankly forward with half-lidded eyes. James ended up having to help the kid pull his sweat-soaked t-shirt off and guide his uncooperative arms into a fresh one, followed by his coat. When they got to the shoes, James didn’t even bother having Tony try himself. He just stuffed the kid’s feet into a pair of sneakers for him.

“I taught my little sister how to do this last summer,” James explained as he tied Tony’s laces, if only for something to fill the awkward silence. “She’s in first grade.”

Tony hummed lightly. “I never went.”

James frowned, pulling the knot tight. “What do you mean?”

“Firs’ grade,” Tony clarified. “Or second. They started me in third.”

James smirked, imagining tiny five-year-old Tony filling out his multiplication tables in a classroom full of kids a full head taller than him. But his face quickly fell again as he suddenly realized a potential flaw in their plan. Tony may be in college, but he was still technically a minor. James wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to bring him off campus. “Shit, we’re gonna need to call your parents...” he said.

Tony’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Why?”

James raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m about to haul their fifteen-year-old son’s ass off to the hospital? Have you been following this conversation at all?”

“Oh. Jus’ leave a note for the RA.” Tony shrugged, listless. “They won’t care.”

James gave him a strange look. “Of course they’ll care—they’re your parents.”

Tony’s eyes were glassy with fever. “They won’t,” he croaked. “Been in boarding school since I was seven.” A shiver ran through his body and he swallowed hard before continuing. “Got pneumonia one winter and was in the hospital eight days. Dad jus’ paid the school to handle everything—didn’ even visit.” A tear finally slipped down the side of his cheek. “I was twelve.”

James knew it was just the fever making Tony so forthcoming at the moment, but it didn’t make his words any easier to take. As much as James always complained about his own mother’s doting whenever he wasn’t feeling well, he couldn’t imagine being sick enough to be in the hospital and not having anyone there for him. He didn’t know what to say.

Thankfully, Tony broke the awkward silence. “Sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes and pressing his palm against them. “‘M fine.”

With a quiet sigh, James put his arm around Tony to help him back to standing. “You know what? We’ll just call them when we get there,” he said before leading Tony out to the car.

X

The drive to the hospital was uneventful. Tony sat curled up in the passenger seat of James’ old beater of a Chevy Monza with an empty plastic bag in his lap, quiet except for the occasional whimper he’d let out when they’d hit a bump in the road. When they arrived, James got Tony checked in and situated in the waiting room with some forms to fill out before stepping out to the foyer to use the payphone.

James fished the scrap of paper containing the number that Tony had finally agreed to give him out of his pocket. He dialed it three times. Each time, the call was picked up by the answering machine. On the third round, he left the Starks a brief message stating which hospital Tony was at and how they could contact their son, then hung up quickly before he could add anything else he might come to regret.

He reentered the waiting area to find Tony sitting hunched forward in his chair, breathing shallowly and clutching the small kidney-shaped basin that the triage nurse had given him like his life depended on it. “What’d they say?” he murmured. James wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard just a hint of hopefulness in the kid’s voice.

Without meeting Tony’s gaze, he slid into the seat beside him. “They didn’t answer,” he said guiltily.

Tony’s tone returned to flat: “Shocking.”

“They’re probably just asleep,” James reasoned, trying to sound more certain than he felt. “I left a message, but we can try again later.”

Tony hummed absently. Then all at once, he brought the small plastic container he was holding up to his mouth and threw up whatever little liquid remained in him. His hands were trembling so hard that James had to help him steady the basin.

When the heaving stopped, one of the nurses from the front desk exchanged the used basin for a clean one. Tony grunted in thanks, then looked up wearily and locked eyes with James. “You really don’ have to stay.”

James gave a tiny scoff. “What? You think I’d just leave you here to faceplant on the linoleum?”

Tony shrugged a bit. ���‘S not like we’re friends, Jim.”

James pondered this for a few seconds before returning the shrug. “I guess you’re right.” He settled back in his chair and picked up a copy of Good Housekeeping from the stack on the waiting room table, flipping it idly open on his lap. “Too bad I’m invested now.”

X

It was around three a.m. by the time Tony’s name was called. He was taken back and briefly examined before getting hooked up to an IV line for fluids and antiemetics. The doctor ordered some bloodwork to be sure, but said that all signs pointed to a virus. As soon as they could get the vomiting under control and Tony’s vitals stabilized, he should be good to go.

While Tony dozed in and out of consciousness on the ER bed, fluids dripping steadily into his arm, James just sat there, silently mulling the events of the last sixteen hours or so over in his mind. It was weird seeing Tony like this—weak, and small, and just so undeniably young.

James waited until the clock struck five before slipping quietly over to the phone located near the nurse’s station. This time, he dialed a different number—one he knew by heart.

A familiar voice answered on the third ring: “Hello?”

Instant warmth flooded James’ chest at the sound. “Hey Ma,” he said softly.

“James?” His mother’s tone changed from puzzled to concerned in two seconds flat. “It’s so early, baby. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Ma,” he assured, the corners of his lips turning up into the smallest of smiles. “Just wanted to catch you before you left for work.”

“Well, you got me,” she laughed lightly. Over the line, James could hear her bustling around the kitchen, pouring coffee into a mug. “What do you need, baby?”

James hesitated a second, his gaze shifting back in the direction of Tony’s bed. “It’s nothing, just… I wanted to ask if I could invite someone home for Thanksgiving next week.” He shifted his gaze back in the direction of Tony’s bed. “I get the feeling he could really use it...”

Link to all my fics

[dearophelia]

self indulgent grey’s spy!au

so i’m watching madam secretary again and it’s reminding me of the grey’s spy au i was frantically texting @evil-redhead about last year

(first of all, and i did the research to learn that this isn’t actually possible, but it’s fic so who cares: please imagine with me addison as elizabeth’s surgeon general. thank you and goodnight)

second of all, and this is just copy/pasted from text messages with some very light editing:

-one-

The kill order comes in over encrypted text just after 2:30am Kaliningrad local time. Addison knows the logic: take him out and the whole supply chain through the Baltics collapses. She also knows the reality: taking out gun runners in former Soviet states is like playing whack-a-mole with a baby hammer. Eventually someone in the Company will figure that out and change tactics. In the meantime, she has orders.

She speaks flawless Russian with zero accent, which helps when she steers the arms dealer out of the party and up to his private suite. She pretends she’s from the same village as his grandmother, tells stories about a local borscht variant. He compliments her tits and her legs and everything else he can see. What he doesn’t see is the way she twists around her ring and flicks open a hidden compartment with her thumb while she’s pouring the vodka.

Addison watches as he eagerly takes the shot and then turns an interesting shade of purple. He’s dead within ninety seconds.

She takes a shot of clean vodka, wraps up in her black trenchcoat, and slips out the back entrance into the night.

There’s a pay phone four blocks down. She calls her handler and leaves a message about the museum being closed tomorrow, code for mission complete. She checks out of the hotel and is on the next flight to Helsinki away from here.

-two-

Addison likes Mark Sloan, she does. He’s a good asset and a great fuck and she doesn’t at all mind that their schedules sync up in Helsinki more often than she syncs up with anyone else anywhere else. Helsinki’s a good place to lay low for a few days, even easier when she’s hardly getting out of bed.

But he’s DIA and she doesn’t trust defense guys farther than she can throw them. Goes out of her way to avoid them, usually. But Mark’s good company, great fun, and nothing they do in this hotel room ever happened the moment one of them leave. So she’ll let the DOD thing go as long as it doesn’t interfere with her own work.

He’s making breakfast and trying to tell her a joke he overheard. This never ends well, but she indulges him. It falls apart in the translation – “You’d find this hilarious if you heard it in the original Czech,” he proclaims, setting a plate of eggs in front of her.

Addison eyes him over a forkful. “Since I don’t speak Czech, your odds aren’t looking good, Sloan.”

Mark’s still telling his joke and she smiles as the sun rises over their tiny hotel room.

36 hours and then she’s off to Paris and meeting a DGSE contact she can hardly stand. Then, armed with that information, back to former Soviet listening posts. Maybe this one will be inland.

-three-

Addison takes the right hook like a champ, luring the goon into a false sense of security. She drops down, grabs a broom from the floor, and lets the guy have one last laugh at the pretty girl with the stick before she comes whirling in and knocks him flat on his ass inside five seconds. Another goon runs out of the shadows and she cracks him across the skull so hard he actually skids across the floor.

“Impressive,” her contact says in dripping French. He sips his tea.

“The file?” she holds out her hand. No one does intelligence theatrics like the French. Not even the Russians.

With an irritated sigh, the DGSE agent drops a USB drive into her hand. “It self-destructs after 24 hours. Would not recommend keeping it in your suitcase.”

Addison gives him a tight smile and returns to her hotel room.

Derek, this time.

(Mark is Scandinavia and the former Soviet states. Derek is Western Europe. Alex is usually somewhere in Central Asia and Jake is in the Mediterranean.)

She waves off his concern about the shiner blooming over her eye and slides the drive into her laptop. “Order room service,” she tells him as she pulls her shirt off, changing out of bloodied and ripped clothes while waiting for the drive to load.

It’s not his fault he hovers. He’s an embassy doctor, bouncing around Western Europe for the State Department. Last time he got into a fight was probably high school. Last time he had to do anything classified on his own was probably never.

He orders – including red wine and extra ice, which she’s sure makes the kitchen worker on the other end say a few choice things about Americans – and her laptop chirps ready.

Volgograd this time. Not a weapons dealer. A physicist. A nuclear physicist. “Oh boy,” she says to herself.

She books a hotel in Volgograd and then places a same-day Amazon delivery for post-its, a portable printer, tape, and other supplies. She and Elizabeth call it the conspiracy theory order, though she skips the red string.

While Derek’s setting out dinner (and sets a bag of ice intentionally – and somewhat aggressively – in her direction), she sends a secure text to Alex.

gonna be in vgrad for a minute. you nearby?

Dinner’s over before she gets a response.

yep. even have some intel for you.

Addison puts her phone away and turns to Derek. “I’m fine,” she says, gesturing to the cuts and bruises.

“I know.” Still, he wraps his arms around her in a gentle hug. “I worry.”

She hugs him back. They haven’t been married in a long time. “I know.”

He gently maneuvers her to the couch and opens his bag. Addison went to med school too – though the CIA scooped her up during her residency – and a few of the cuts need butterfly closures for a couple days. She lets him work.

“How are Meredith and the kids?”

-four-

“Lox and two chives,” Addison orders at the counter, as she has the last ten days. “And the bathroom key, please.”

The cashier slips her a key. She pays and disappears down the hallway with the bathrooms, but opens the supply closet instead. Past shelves of paper towels and cups and cocaine (not her problem, not today), she pauses at the second door. The handprint scanner flashes blue then green at her palm. The door unlocks.

Bright lights overhead, several whiteboards shoved up against the walls, photographs and maps taped up everywhere. The single desk in the middle of the room is covered in folders labeled TOP SECRET, most of them open. Alex puts a cup of coffee into her hand. She finishes half of it before she even takes her coat off.

Spy work isn’t all glamorous. It’s mostly sitting in dark dank rooms filled with boxes of moth-eaten paper, trying to connect two dots. Alex is a good partner for it though. The fact that he’s CIA too doesn’t hurt – she doesn’t have to play the alphabet agency paranoia game with him.

Hours pass. Another day, another half step closer. The bagel shop closes and they slip out the back by the dumpsters.

“You want to grab a drink?” she asks as she has every night.

“We could skip drinks,” he suggests.

She looks at him in the flickering parking lot light. Normally he says yes, they get drinks and dinner, talk shop, part ways at her hotel.

A small smile graces her lips. Addison doesn’t need to be a spy to pick up Alex’s meaning.

Volgograd is fucking boring. And she and Mark have an exclusive-when-we’re-in-the-same-city agreement, not exclusive-everywhere.

The smile shifts into a smirk. “Yeah.”

-five-

This is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea. This might be the worst idea she’s ever had. And yet.

Flicking her eyes up to the rearview mirror, she gets a read on the car following her. Scratch that – cars. Plural.

She slams on the accelerator and calls Elizabeth.

“I need a favor,” she says as soon as Elizabeth’s picked up the phone. Addison hears several small children laughing in the background.

“On it,” Elizabeth says, once she’s heard the situation and the favor. “Give me ten minutes.”

Sure. She’ll keep leading a high-speed car chase through Southern Turkey and try not to accidentally make a left into Syria. She can keep this up for ten minutes. Why not.

She has the final piece in a USB drive hidden in her shoe, but this extremely stupid idea only becomes worth it if she – or, she supposes, her shoe – can get back to the agency. Which is where Elizabeth comes in. Addison’s nowhere near Ankara and the embassy, driving into Syria is an even worse idea (and she’d run out of gas long before hitting Damascus anyway), and so she needs an exit. Now.

Seven minutes and Elizabeth calls back about an airfield fifteen miles away. A Blackhawk will be waiting there for her, but she has to clear a couple layers of airfield security first.

Addison looks back up in the mirror. Three cars now and she thinks she sees the silhouette of someone hanging out the window with a gun. She’s going to have to have a discussion with Derek about suitable conversations he has with his current wife about his ex-wife the CIA agent and international spy. It’s not Meredith’s fault; GRU’s been tailing Derek since they were the KGB. Addison makes a mental note to remind State about that, maybe have someone sweep his house for bugs on a more regular basis.

But that’s a later problem. A much later problem. The more imminent problem is that she’s being shot at and still has seven miles before the airfield. “Can I just drive through security?” Addison asks, making an abrupt right down a skinny unlit street.

“Sure,” Elizabeth says. “It’s our airfield, do what you want.”

“Not the first time I’ve destroyed US government property.”

Elizabeth snorts. “Call me if you need anything else.”

The call drops as another round of gunfire shoots past.

“You’re really bad at this,” she mutters at the car behind her. They haven’t even managed to blow out the back window yet, not that she’s complaining.

By the time she hits the airfield, they’ve shattered the back window, blown several holes in the trunk, and they hit one of her back wheels just as she slams through the first security gate.

The second gate guards are a little more prepared and already have the gate lifted. They drop spike strips behind her to trap her pursuers. She jumps out of the car to the sound of many tires being violently punctured and the sound of angry Russians being thrown out of their cars and onto the ground.

The Blackhawk lifts off into the dead of night. Addison runs her fingers through her hair and texts her handler that she’s on her way back to Istanbul. She’ll hand off the intel to people who get paid a whole lot more than she does and move on to a new case.

Maybe South America, this time. Let some heat die down before bringing her back to Europe.

Once it’s all settled and she’s in her state-sponsored room, showered and sitting in a fluffy bathrobe, she checks her messages. One from her brother, about Thanksgiving logistics. One from Elizabeth, making sure she made it out okay.

And one from Mark.

Case is taking me to Venezuela. Gonna be a while, Red.

Addison grins. Her new orders came in just before dinner. Turns out there’s some worrisome news in her area of expertise coming out of the South America desk and the Company’s shipping her off to Caracas.

Maybe not. My flight leaves in a couple days. Buy me a margarita?

[madamebaggio]

Notes: Previously...

***

Chapter 2

Sansa followed the women in silence with her head low. Most people seemed to ignore them, apart from a few men that made crude remarks to them.

They had a long way to walk, but Sansa didn’t say a word and just kept walking.

Eventually they got to a bridge lined by houses. The women entered one and Sansa went after them.

There were a few women around and two men, but Sansa avoided looking at them, and just followed Kay.

“Bridget.” Kay called the cook. “Get some food for this girl, will you?”

Bridget turned to look at Sansa, then seemed to measure her up. “Too skinny to work.” She informed Kay.

“She isn’t here to work.” Kay told Bridget firmly. “She needs a place to stay for the night and something to eat.”

Bridget arched an eyebrow. “Are we doing charity now? Have you talked to Arthur about this?”

Kay’s look was unimpressed. “I’ve raised that boy. I don’t need his permission to do anything. Lucy.” She turned to one of the other girls who’d been with them. “Keep her company, please?”

Lucy gave her a kind smile. “Of course.”

Kay left and Bridget grumbled and complained, but finally put a plate of food in front of Sansa.

“You never told us your name.” Lucy indicated gently.

“It’s Sansa.” Now it was safe for her to say her name; she was far from Westeros.

“That’s beautiful.” Lucy told her honestly. “Where are you from?”

Sansa bit her lower lip, worried that Lucy wouldn’t believe her. “Westeros.”

Lucy’s eyes became round. “How did you get here?”

“I was running.” Sansa confessed. “A captain was kind enough to let me escape on his ship, but… It didn’t occur to me to ask where he was going.”

Lucy put a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “What were you running from?”

Sansa could see that even Bridget had stopped working, and was avidly paying attention to the conversation.

She was tired of running, tired of the doubt.

She decided to tell them the -partial- truth.

***

“Arthur, I need to talk to you.”

Arthur, Back Lack and Wet Stick all turned at the same time to the door.

“I’m busy now, Kay.” Arthur told the other woman.

“I brought someone here.” She informed him. “If you don’t want to talk to her, it’s fine, but I’m letting her stay. Bye.” She turned to leave.

“Fuck.” Arthur scrambled to get up and follow her. “Slow down, Kay. Who are you talking about?”

“We found this girl, she needs help, she’s staying.” She told him in no uncertain terms.

“I need more details than those.” He pressed. “Who is she? What if she's in trouble?”

“She’s a child and she’s scared.” Kay threw back. “I can find something for her to do around here.”

“So you don’t want her to work here with…” Wet Stick started saying, but a look from Kay cut him off.

“She’s young.” She informed him again. “And I think… I think she’s a noble lady.”

“What? Fuck no, Kay.” Arthur told her firmly. “If she’s a lost daughter of someone, we’ll get in trouble. What if she ran away from home?”

“She has a strange accent, she isn’t from here.”

“No.” Arthur insisted. 

Kay just stared him down.

“Kay…” Arthur whined. He could never win when she pulled the stare.

“Come meet her.” Kay asked. “You will understand me better.”

Arthur groaned in defeat, and went after Kay, while Wet Stick and Back Lack followed, clearly amused.

When they entered the kitchen, they saw a scene that shocked Arthur to his core: Bridget was consoling a young redheaded girl who was crying on her shoulder, and even Lucy was crying.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Bridget’s eyes zeroed in on him. “She’s staying here.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Arthur demanded.

“Arthur, we have to help her.” Lucy pressed. “She’s far from home.”

Arthur took a deep breath in. It was way too early for this bullshit. “One thing at the time.” He asked. “You. What’s your name?”

She turned her head to him, and Arthur realised that Kay was right; she was really young. But her eyes… There was ice in them, but at the same time, they seemed to burn with something. She was remarkably pretty, even with tears running down her face and her hair a mess.

“Sansa.” She cleared her throat. “My lord.”

Arthur scoffed. “I’m clearly not a lord. Where are you from?”

“Westeros.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You’re far from home, princess. How did you get here?”

“I entered a ship without knowing where it was going.” She confessed. “Captain Neville…”

“Whoa.” Arthur cut her. “Neville as in big, mean, bad manners?”

“His manners weren’t so bad.” She defended automatically. “Do you know him?”

“Only by name. He’s always in trouble for what he says about the king. People say he’s part of the resistance.”

Sansa lowered her head. “He was arrested today. That was how I got lost. He was going to take me to his sister.”

Lucy winced in sympathy. “If he was arrested, it’s very likely that his family will flee, otherwise they risk being arrested too.”

A tear fell down Sansa’s face. “He was so good to me.”

Oh god, she was going to cry again.

Arthur turned to Bridget. “Why were you all crying?”

“The poor darling lost her whole family and was forced to marry into the family that murdered them.” Bridget said, her arms still firmly around Sansa.

Oh god…

“Kay thinks you’re a noble lady. Are you?” Arthur wanted to know.

“Yes.” She confessed.

“You aren’t some lost princess, are you? Will there be someone knocking on my door, looking for you?”

“I’m very far from home.” She reminded him. “And I’m not that important.”

“Arthur…” Lucy pressed.

This was a problem. He couldn’t deny the girls anything, because they hardly ever asked for anything. But this…

“I don’t want to give you problem.” Sansa told him.

“You aren’t any problem.” Kay waved her concern away.

“I haven’t decided on that yet.” Arthur threw back.

“She can spend the night.” Kay offered. “And tomorrow we can figure something out. Come on, Arthur. She’s lost and scared.”

Arthur groaned, feeling he’d live to regret this. However, they were all looking at him, and he couldn’t say no just then.

“Fine.” He gave Sansa a look. “Just tonight.”

“Thank you.”

[wafflewarriors]

Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

Chemical Attraction

Dean flashed you a cheesy grin. "You did good out there tonight. Proud of you." His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, but he still seemed mostly sober.

He was checking out the group of women up at the front of the bar, who wore more revealing clothing than you dared.

You envied their confidence. Sometimes you wished you had the grit to do that stuff.

Dean didn't fake reluctance to leave you or Sam. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it. When he finished his drink, he made his move, leaving the table, and you and Sam with it.

The younger Winchester smiled at you awkwardly. You could tell he wanted to leave as well—he and some girl at the bar had been making googly eyes at each other since he walked in—but was conflicted on leaving you.

"Sam," you said impatiently. "That girl has been giving you the eyes since we walked in. And don't think I don't see you sending them back. If you don't get up now, I'll push you over there."

You were glad that women weren't assuming you and Sam—or Dean—were together; it made everything much less complicated. Both of the Winchesters were way out of your league. You were more likely the sister they never had.

He was a little surprised, and a little amused by your attitude. "Oh, really?"

"Don't test me," you joked.

He laughed, collecting his jacket and walking away.

Your deluding smile fell from your face once you were alone. Bars were usually their choice of festivity, but they mostly just made you uncomfortable.

You were now alone, as both of the boys hit on some chicks and snuck off to get laid. You were used to it. It wasn’t your ideal celebration, but if it made them happy, you'd bear it. You supposed they just assumed your interests matched theirs. Even if all you wanted to do was go home and sleep.

Anyway, the faster the Winchesters both left with broads, the faster you could leave. It was just that simple.

You sipped your whiskey that Dean had paid for. It was strong, and hard to swallow, but in small portions it was tolerable. You appreciated the gift, even if it wasn't your preferred drink. Dean had a big heart, and you wouldn’t ruin your sweet moments with him because you were feeling picky.

You let your mind wander to a darker place.

You were still coming to terms with hunter life. And from what you've gathered, it was cruel, unfair, and thankless.

The Winchesters didn’t sugarcoat it, either. Everything that society looked down upon—the suspiciously cult-ish tattoos, borderline or over-the-line alcoholism (a line you were uncertain where Dean fell), and cheap clothing with leather jackets—was a signature of a hunter’s life. Not to mention the trigger-happy hands, suspicious glares, and their off-putting, dark looks.

It opened your eyes.

That "gothic" girl you saw in your neighborhood? That might have looked like a satanic tattoo, but it was actually an anti-possession tattoo that she got because she was terrified of the demons that wanted to kill her. And those knives in her pocket and backpack? That was for her safety, and probably yours, too.

Or that shady alcoholic up the street? Werewolves brutally murdered his friends, and he has to live with the survivor's guilt. He drinks while obsessively researching how to hunt them down. Though he'll likely die of a failing liver before ever taking on the pack.

The point was…

Looks weren’t always transparent.

And, well, you were everything hunters weren't.

Your pain tolerance was pathetic, for one. Tattoos? Big nope. You hated all things needles, and despite tattoos looking cool, you liked to avoid pain, thanks.

Second, your wardrobe. As if that wasn't blatantly obvious.

And, last, you were a hopeless lightweight. A few shots and you were tipsy. Dean thought it was hilarious.

Still, you drank your whiskey, feeling guilty that you hated it.

You were tired. It was dark out, and you could already feel the whiskey in your system. You just wanted to go home.

So the last thing you expected that night was for a guy to hit on you. You, feeling unlike yourself—and very drunk—warily flirted back.

He was charming. Thing was, with your buzzing vision, all you noticed were his eyes and handsome smile. You didn’t notice the more important things, like, say… the roofies dissolving in your drink.

Too bad you hadn’t—because you wouldn't have let him breathe down your neck like he had been… or breathe at all, for that matter.

Your words slurred, and you leaned into him when he stood. "Hey, hey, h-hey, mister. Wheeere ya' goin' off to?"

You were smashed.

You didn’t feel too hot, either. You were practically dangling off his shoulders as he helped you from your chair, and your stomach churned. "I don' feel so guud…" you slurred, keeling over to vomit on the pavement. Huh. You were outside?

You made out two shapes that looked dubiously like him. Albeit one may have very well been a trash can. "Yeeuur kindouf prr...retty."

He snickered, though you weren't sure what was so funny. "Just let it sink in," he said. "It's okay, babe."

What was he talking about? You frowned, troubled. "Doe… don'ttt… calmeh that."

There was only a muddy sense of direction. You fizzled in and out of consciousness, and your memory escaped you.

You were completely at this man's mercy.

///

You woke up feeling like hell. The lights… the sounds…it was all too loud.

Your head felt like a crushed soda can. You turned—inch by inch—trying to get a view of the entire room, tied up—which, yeah, was a big red flag—and leaned awkwardly against the wall. When you finally saw behind you, you met the eyes of multiple other women in your same predicament.

The previous evening was a haze. Your mind was still catching up with the present, much less the past.

Something in the shadows of the room moved, and you watched as two figures loomed over an unconscious woman covered in dark, bloody bites around her neck and chest.

"Vamps," you spat. But it came more like "vamffptss" through your gag with a few lisp-y expletives.

They spun around, smiling to themselves. A vampire crouched down to your level, taunting you, "Ah, so there is more to her than a pretty face! Who would have known? Are you a hunter, babe?"

A memory clicked as he said that. You might say it rang a bell—an alarm bell, anyway—but you couldn't place it. His voice was bouncing around in your head and it was hard to focus.

"Sssgrew you."

He stood, gave you a smirk, and drove his foot into your abdomen. Hard.

"Wow. I mean, you were a little feisty at the bar, but I never would have envisioned you'd have so much kick." He winked at you, then turned back to his goonies. "Alright. Ship 'em. Mark the pretty ones. They'll be worth more."

You puffed, still recovering from the harsh blow, as a skinny redhead yanked you up by the ropes. He was watching you like one looks in a microwave at their meal.

You thrashed. It was a weak move, hardly knocking him back on his heels, but it was also a minor triumph.

Then said vampire punched your throat, and all smugness disappeared.

The lead vamp turned to see the commotion and erupted, "Are you kidding me? Christ—get the gag off her, will you?!" When the others looked at him in alarm and skepticism, he barked, "She’s no use to us dead! Do you want her suffocating?"

Carrot Top worked the gag from your aching jaw, and you just laid there, winded, like a dead dog.

The Lead Vamp grabbed the shirt collar of your redhead attacker. "Hey, maybe don't punch 'em in the throat next time. They're gonna squirm a little—it's what they do. So ignore it."

"Yessir'."

"Good. And, hey, guys—bag the ugly ones. I got a client for them."

You coughed, propping yourself up by the elbow. You were concerned. Am I ugly?

The redhead vamp kicked you down by your arm, hissing, "Not you. We got a special guy for you. Likes the fighters."

You were so tired and weak and helpless. Couldn't do anything but lay there. You could only watch as the other vamps manhandled poor, terrified women.

"Leeches," you said, earning you a foot to the face.

"Do yourself a favor and shut up."

It was hard to not comply. As your head lolled, you spat blood at his feet. You would not go down easy.

He hauled you up, and his punch cracked like a whip.

You stared at his bloody knuckles, feeling your own arms twitch. The ropes were loose. You wondered briefly if you could even run—

Another strike had your vision swimming with stars.

"Hey. I got a question—huff—" You said, taking the punches like a champ and distracting him. "Has anyone ever told you—uff—that you look like—guh—Strawberry Shortcake?"

The ropes worked off your wrists and when he swung, you ducked—or fell, more like—away from his swing. Breathless, you pulled yourself to your feet to run.

The adrenaline was really the only thing keeping you going. Thing was, adrenaline didn't give you accuracy, it just gave you strength. And little that strength was.

And, woah, was the ground spinning. You gagged as you watched the hallway sway. You were not in any shape to run, but you sure as hell tried to. You stumbled down the hallway, your knees giving out multiple times before you couldn’t pick yourself up again.

The vamp's yell echoed down the hallway. "You're not a hunter anymore, little lamb! You're the hunted!" It probably wouldn't take much for him to follow the sound of your hummingbird heart.

That was enough encouragement to get anyone on their toes. Even someone who was shaking like a leaf.

Whatever roofie they'd given you, it was enhanced. Everything was so hot and bright and loud. You wished the world could just be quiet. Your heart was beating so loud you could feel it in your teeth.

You clambered to the exit, reaching for the doors to push them open.

Just then, a hand pitched you backward, pulling down on your shoulder. You yelled out, petrified.

"It's me, it's just me," Dean whispered quickly, easing you through the door, around the corner, and to where Baby was parked.

Your heart was still jack hammering in your chest as he pulled you in for a hug. You were high as a kite on adrenaline.

"Been looking all over for you." The pitch in his voice was more stressed than usual. You were like a little sister to him.

You leaned into his embrace. It was warm and solid and safe. And it was exactly what you needed to ground yourself.

"He drugged me," you blurted. "He drugged me. I couldn’t—he just—"

He paled. "Did he touch you?" When you paused, his expression darkened. "I'll rip his lungs out. I'll kill every single one of them. I'll—"

"He didn't touch me," you interrupted. "Not like that." You rested your forehead against his chest.

"Thank god."

"But I think they would've." You practically melted as he smoothed your hair down. "They're human trafficking. Selling women as blood bags."

Dean turned to Sam, who was leaned up against the Impala, and nodded at him. Sam took that as his cue to go ahead without Dean. "I got Sammy on it right now. You sure you're alright?"

His arms around you were the only thing keeping you standing. "Just tired. And my head really hurts." Gunshots went off behind you, and you flinched. Your ears were still sensitive.

"Sounds like nothing a little sleep can't fix." Dean patted your back and opened the back of the Impala.

You crawled in and fell asleep before Dean could even pull out of the parking lot.

"Let's get you home," he breathed.

[tatticstudio55]

Dany, ghosts and mythical figures

Pasting it under the cut because it’s a bit long. I wrote this for a colloquy that’s currently scheduled for the end of May, and I try to be optimist but it’s in France, I live in Canada, all our borders are currently closed and it doesn’t look like things are about to get better anytime soon, so... I though I’d try translating it into english (warning: it might not come off as too polished) and share it here, at the very least 😔. Que sera sera. Aaaaand tagging you @tomakeitbeautifultolive

The term "ghost" used here therefore refers to this role of intermediary, or passer, between the worlds concerned – Cécile Sakai

 The loss, the mourning and the reality of the in-between, or intermediate states, occupy a fundamental place in Daenerys’s story. She was born in mourning, exiled from birth and leads a wandering existence from an early childhood. No matter where she goes, she’s seen as a stranger. She exists, but does not really belong anywhere. Her story is shaped by the reality and experience of the intermediary.

The first thing we notice about her, and from her first appearance in the novels, is the way in which the author uses the character's physical appearance to indicate a symbolic proximity to the ghostly, or the surreal: her pallor, her small size, her typical Valyrian features. Even the dress, chosen for her by Illyrio Myopatis, seems to enhances Daenerys’s “immateriality”:

Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. "Is it really mine?" – AGOT, Dany I

The dress is meant as a reflection of the wearer. Daenerys’s eyes are the same color as the dress, (or a close match – amethyst and plum), her hair the same liquidity (“The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver”), her body the same ethereal characteristics ("She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision," he told her brother. "Drogo will be enraptured." "She's too skinny," Viserys said.). Beyond the matter of the body itself, Daenerys shows some parallels with vampirism, ritually “absorbing” elements which quite clearly symbolize life forces. Pregnant, she eats a stallion's heart "raw and bloody", in accordance with the Dothrake custom that believes it will give the child strength, swiftness and fearlessness. The scene takes place in a nocturnal environment and the text very much emphasize the "bloodiness" of the ceremony. Daenerys later receives, and in more dire circumstances, her first “initiation” to blood magic with Mirri Maz Duur (blood magic resting on the vampirical tenet that only death can pay for life). And when Drogo's funeral pyre burns –

The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. – AGOT, Dany X

Here she appears not quite “human”, glowing and feeding from the fire, whereas the flames are depicted in a very anthropomorphic way. The "dancers" spin, twirl and whirl in a vision that celebrates sensuality and physical vigor. Daenerys merges with the flames and is reborn from them, but her own body is no longer able to give life.

Subsequently, the books bring forefront the foils between the ever-growing physical presence of the dragons and the frail-like body of their mother. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion fall into every physical extreme: extreme size and strength (getting there), the extreme amount of food they eat and the heat they give off. They "steam" in the cold, at night, while around them the khalasar disintegrate, Daenerys' flesh "falls away" and she becomes "lean and hard as a stick" (ACOK, Dany I). Drogon’s fire saves Daenerys from actual vampirical beings (the Undyings). The foils between mother and dragon(s) reaches a climax in Dany IX, ADWD, when Daenerys confronts an unleashed (and much larger) Drogon in the arena of Daznak:

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared. – ADWD, Dany IX

Where Drogon is the “body” and Dany the “ghost”, the overwhelming physical presence of the former emphasizes and amplifies the stark opposite of the latter. Dany, like the first dress she was given, is akin to water and keep slipping through people’s fingers: those who hunt her, those who want her dead, those who want to marry her and those who want to use her.

Laughter erupted all around them. Even the old man joined in. "You saw her, then," said the redheaded boy behind them. "You saw the queen. Is she as beautiful as they say?"

I saw a slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar, he might have told them. Her face was veiled, and I never got close enough for a good look. – ADWD, Tyrion XI

Here, for instance, those who speak are on the hunt for stories, tales and rumors about the queen. Evasive, Tyrion withholds what he knows. At the same time, he is himself in the position of the frustrated chaser (she was veiled, she was too far away). The losses and bereavements already experienced by characters like Jorah Mormont and himself add an additional angle to the matter: Jorah sees Daenerys as a second Lynesse Hightower (the wife he lost) and Tyrion, while on his “grand travel” to Meereen, asks left right and center "Where do whores go?” (in reference to Tysha, the wife he also lost.) They are both haunted by the ghost of beloved women, which Daenerys gradually comes to replaces, as "perfect" and "ideal" as the first ones, but no less out of reach. Her geographical location in ADWD - Meereen is under siege by sea and land, boats no longer pass through Slaver’s Bay - reveals and hides a more metaphysical gap between Daenerys and her "pursuers": Jorah, Tyrion, Aegon, Euron, Victarion. Quentyn Martell is the exception, not that it ends well for him.

Orpheus and Persephone

-Orpheus

Dany is established very early on as a type of “psychopomp” (for lack of a better word) character: a character who passes from one metaphysical space to another (typically the "world of the dead" and the "world of the living"). Despite her belonging to the "living" world, Dany is pushed into spaces that are heavily associated with death, as well as in roles bearing resemblances with at least two psychopomp figures from Greek mythology: Orpheus and Persephone. Her overall narrative has an orphic tone ("If I look back, I am lost"), but the myth first really appears when Dany plea with Mirri Maz Duur to save Drogo's life:

Mirri Maz Duur tossed a red powder onto the coals. It gave the smoke a spicy scent, a pleasant enough smell, yet Eroeh fled sobbing, and Dany was filled with fear. But she had gone too far to turn back now. – AGOT, Dany VIII

The one rule that Orpheus must follow (to not look back at Eurydice) is meant to keep humans from witnessing directly god(s)’s doings. Mirri Maz Duur imposes the same rule on Dany:

"I will stay," Dany said. "The man took me under the stars and gave life to the child inside me. I will not leave him."

"You must. Once I begin to sing, no one must enter this tent. My song will wake powers old and dark. The dead will dance here this night. No living man must look on them." – AGOT, Dany VIII

Like Dany, Mirri is a psychopomp figure with an ambiguous characterization (the author hints more directly of her ties to the supernatural than he does with Dany). The Lhazarean occupies two realms simultaneously, both intertwining and merging in her presence: a mythical realm from an immemorial time/space, and the realm of the ordinary:

Mirri Maz Duur chanted words in a tongue that Dany did not know, and a knife appeared in her hand. Dany never saw where it came from. It looked old; hammered red bronze, leaf-shaped, its blade covered with ancient glyphs. - AGOT, Dany VIII

The knife’s unknown origins can be interpreted in two ways. Dany does not know where and when it was made - the only conclusion she can draw is that it must be "very old" – nor does she know how (or where) Mirri managed to conceal the weapon. As a result, Mirri comes off as a symbolic embodiment of the mythical realm that’s intertwining with the “normal” space (the tent):

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.

Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone. – AGOT, Dany VIII

The mythical space, however, ends up overflowing its confines - the walls of the tent - onto the ordinary realm, and effectively swallows it. The scenes inside and outside the tent, “bruised-red sky”, Qotho "dancing”, “arakh dancing with arakh”, the Dothraki shouting; Mirri’s “inhuman wails”, the dancing shadows, the brazier, the "bloody bath" inside, are all in perfect symmetry with each other. Then,

No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur's voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! she screamed. The dancers!

Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent. – AGOT, Dany VIII

Here, for instance, the text really insists on the ever-growing presence of the mythical space. The last sentence of the chapter ("Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent") deliberately draws a foil between the reduced space of the tent and the immensity of the sky, somehow making the tent appears much bigger than it really is. And the more it grows, the more it pushes the boundaries of the ordinary space. When Dany open her eyes, the sky itself is remindful of the Asphodels. This is an initiation, i.e., Dany passing from one realm to another for the first time. The "behavior" of the mythical space (the tent) also bring up the question: is Dany the one moving towards said space, or is it the expanding space that’s moving towards her? The tension between the mythical and the ordinary is projected onto its two main actors, Daenerys and Mirri. There’s an underlying, thematic reciprocity established between them, one projecting a distorted reflection of the other, the first even going so far as to assume the role of the second after thanking her for her “lessons". Roles, identities, functions, times and spaces interpenetrate and repel each other, and Dany passes fairly fluidly from one state to another. We talked about how Mirri seemed to have a foot in an ancient, mythical time, but in her next chapter, it is Dany who finds herself trapped in a feverish dream filled with ghosts (her deceased brothers) and mythical figures. The dream is essentially a retelling of Orpheus in the underworld: chased by a cold shadow, Dany runs across a stone hall lined with specters, towards a tiny, faraway red door that’s presumably the only way out. She must reach the door at all costs without looking back, even as the ghosts of loved ones, dead or alive (Drogo, Jorah, Rhaego), appear and vanish before her eyes.

After the tent comes the Red Waste in ACOK, another hardly disguised “underworld” landscape:

“That way lies the red lands, Khaleesi. A grim place and terrible, the riders say."

The rivers they crossed were dry as dead men's bones. Their mounts subsisted on the tough brown devilgrass that grew in clumps at the base of rocks and dead trees.

The Dothraki began to mutter fearfully that the comet had led them to some hell.

The next pool they found was scalding hot and stinking of brimstone. – ACOK, Dany I

Not faring too well, the Khalasar soon turns into a procession of deads (the sick, the starving, the dying and those who died for real). In proper ghost fashion, travel is generally done at night. When they finally reach "Vae Tolorro", Irri ironically worries that the place might be haunted, while in fact they are most likely the “ghosts” there. The place is nicknamed "gardens of the dead", but no one dies there, except for a woman bitten by a scorpion. Coincidentally, Eurydice also died of a poisoned bite.

Seemingly, there’s a pattern with the underworld-coded spaces visited by Dany: each one is larger than the previous one. First a tent, followed by the Red Waste (and a brief “halt” in the HotU), then by Slaver’s Bay. Meereen is a grotesque look-alike of the greek underworld: located in desertic lands, rich in precious stones, with its own brand of Styx ("the slow brown Skahazadhan”), walls topped with “rows of harpy heads with open mouths”, peoples inside worshiping the gods of Ghis with blood sacrifices in the fighting pits. In ADWD, thousands of fleeing astaporian, crippled by hunger and illness, many of them on the brink of death, are crowding under the walls of Meereen. And Dany happens to be this underworld’s queen.

-Persephone

In ACOK, on the day the Khalasar reaches Vae Tolorro, Jorah Mormont visits Dany in her tent and gives her a peach. Then, at her request, he ends up telling her the sad story of his marriage to Lady Lynesse Hightower:

My home was a great disappointment to Lynesse. It was too cold, too damp, too far away, my castle no more than a wooden longhall. We had no masques, no mummer shows, no balls or fairs. Seasons might pass without a singer ever coming to play for us, and there's not a goldsmith on the island. Even meals became a trial. – ACOK, Dany I

The Hightowers are established in the Reach, the most fertile and greenest region of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jorah meets Lynesse in Lannisport smack in the middle of grand festivities. Lynesse is taken from her “flowery kingdom” to be the lady of a gloomy, dead-looking island. Jorah tries to coax her with various luxuries, including the food (“I lived for her smiles, so I sent all the way to Oldtown for a new cook”), but three seeds of pomegranate won’t do. Every now and then Lynesse must be brought back “up”:

I built a fine ship for her and we sailed to Lannisport and Oldtown for festivals and fairs, and once even to Braavos, where I borrowed heavily from the moneylenders. – ACOK, Dany I

Of course, the money runs out and they’re forced to set sail for Bear Islands. Not that it prevents them from leaving again later:

When I heard that Eddard Stark was coming to Bear Island, I was so lost to honor that rather than stay and face his judgment, I took her with me into exile. Nothing mattered but our love, I told myself. We fled to Lys, where I sold my ship for gold to keep us. – ACOK, Dany I

Their marriage eventually dissolves, but the story starts again with Dany in Lynesse’s position. We get an inkling of it with a simple scene (he brings her a fruit plucked from "in the gardens of the dead"), but which also harbors a predatory tone ("The lion pelt slid off one shoulder and she tugged it back into place. "Was she beautiful?" "Very beautiful." Ser Jorah lifted his eyes from her shoulder to her face. " / “Dany shivered, and pulled the lionskin tight about her. She looked like me. It explained much that she had not truly understood. He wants me, she realized. He loves me as he loved her, not as a knight loves his queen but as a man loves a woman.” – ACOK, Dany I). We spoke above of metaphorical “underworlds” visited, occupied or conquered by Dany: Mirri’s tent, the Red Waste, Slaver’s Bay. Not trivially, it is Jorah who carries her inside the tent, Jorah who advises her to go through the Red Waste, Jorah who persuades her to sail to Slaver’s Bay. Persephone’s myth being anchored in the duality of the fertile seasons (the summer months, when Persephone is reunited with Demeter) and the dead seasons (the winter months, which she must spend with her husband), its underlying presence in Dany’s narrative also evolves accordingly, here in relation to Dany’s fertility, here in her role as “Demeter” in Meereen (when she plants bean crops, olive trees), at a key time where Jorah (Hades) isn’t by her side. Hints pointing to Persephone and Demeter are all the more revealing because there seems to be a direct link between plant fertility, mother / child union and human fertility:

"I am the blood of the dragon," she told the grass, aloud.

Once, the grass whispered back, until you chained your dragons in the dark.

"Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was … her name …" Dany could not recall the child's name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away. "I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons." – ADWD, Dany X

This "exchange" takes place in the Dothrake Sea, "paler than she remembered, a wan and sickly green on the verge of going yellow”. Dany, distraught by the death of a little girl, by the conviction that she herself will never conceive, and guilt-ridden for chaining her own "children" in a dark pit (another metaphor of Persephone chained to the underworld during winter), expresses her sorrow at the dying grass. Then, Jorah’s “ghost” returns to her:

Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you. – ADWD, Dany X

The dying of the grass, crops and vegetation is always presented as the prima facie of the end of summer and the return of Persephone to the underworld. This is why the grass speaks with Jorah’s voice, and why Daenerys mourns her lost, forgotten or dead children in a dying grass sea.

Appearance and resorption of myths

We’ll try to tackle the character's role in a more general context here, because her narrative impact is currently limited to Essos. It’s through Tyrion that Dany and Westeros really intersect for the first time. From the fighting pits, Tyrion sees a veiled, “slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar” in the tribunes. This is not Jorah or Barristan, or even Quentyn Martell who, although tied to both sides of Planetos, do not play a significant role in what’s currently happening on the West side. Tyrion is another matter. He is the in-narrative eye of Westeros.

They’re about to unleash lions on Tyrion and Penny. As soon as she hears of it, Dany puts the breaks. Tyrion's memories of her make her akin to an apparition, or a mirage: veiled, indistinct, distant, soaring in a whirlwind of smoke on her dragon. It also happens in a place sharing glaring resemblances with the Red Waste:

“She had seen the fighting pits many times from her terrace. The small ones dotted the face of Meereen like pockmarks; the larger were weeping sores, red and raw.”

“The red sands drank his blood”

“Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough.”

“He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing.”

“Black blood was flowing from the wound where the spear had pierced him, smoking where it dripped onto the scorched sands.”

“The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her.” – ADWD, Dany IX

In ACOK, Dany and her Khalasar also encounter a mirage-like city in the desert:

"A city, Khaleesi," they cried. "A city pale as the moon and lovely as a maid. An hour's ride, no more."

When the city appeared before her, its walls and towers shimmering white behind a veil of heat, it looked so beautiful that Dany was certain it must be a mirage. – ACOK, Dany I

Vae Tolorro and Dany are not mirages, however. Vae Tolorro really saved Dany’s Khalasar from a certain death in the desert. Dany really saved Tyrion from the lions. The repercussions of her actions are too real, her physical impact on the story is too great for one to put her among the true "ghost" characters, such as Lynesse or Tysha.

Only, here’s the deal: Daenerys Targaryen is a character of exceptional circumstances, of one-time deals, and exceptional circumstances, 1) do not last, 2) do not happen again, and 3) are not recoverable. Circumstances such as these create myths, and myths are reproduced, or imitated, or preserved as legends, but they will never happen a second time like they happened on the first time. Vae Tolorro did exist once, but withdrew from the story once his function was filled, and Dany will likely never return there. Drogon did appear in the Daznak arena, causing an “unusual” disaster, but the incident is unlikely to happen again. What remains afterward of Vae Tolorro, of Daenerys and Drogon in the arena, are mirages, imitations and imitators. Dany is not at this stage. She is at the archaic stage of the first time (Mircea Eliade, The myth of the eternal return), where the gap between the mythical and the ordinary is the deepest, and where the resorption of the myth is the most brutally felt. Dany, a very human character in and of itself, suffers from these effects more than anyone. Immediately after the birth of her dragons (the mythical event), she must undertake a difficult journey in the desert, that leaves her physically worn out and, in a way, physically diminished (the resorption):

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick - ACOK, Dany I

And following immediately her first flight on Drogon (the mythical event) she gets lost in the Dothrake sea, which once again takes a physical toll on her –

It was afternoon by the time Dany found the stream she had glimpsed atop the hill. It was a rill, a rivulet, a trickle, no wider than her arm … and her arm had grown thinner every day she spent on Dragonstone. – ADWD, Dany X

- almost to the point of literally being resorbed into the earth:

My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb. – ADWD, Dany X

There are therefore two fundamental elements one should consider with regards to Dany: the authentic myth, and the nostalgia of the lost myth. It’s part of what makes Dany’s narrative so compelling. The authentic myth belongs to an immemorial past. The memory of the myth belongs to the present. And Daenerys belongs to both. Should she reconcile these two parts? If so, is this reconciliation supposed to play a role in the outcome, not only of her own story, but of the entire series? We raise the issue because the myth / memory dichotomy is not exclusive to Dany; see, for example, the "Others" (the myth) and the three-eyed raven (the memory). It all remains to be seen. In any case, I’m intrigued by this tendency to bestow ghost-like characteristic to a character who’s frequently moving from one realm to another, whatever these realms are supposed to be: the world of the dead and the world of the living, the past and the present, the mythical and the real…

[ashintheairlikesnow]

BTHB: Tearful Smile

You anons wanted the dubcon drabble? I give you de dubcon drabble. CW: Dubcon (on both sides). Also contains drugging, mentions of torture, violence, and abuse, as well as threatened noncon (not depicted). And more than a fair dash of spice.

@spiffythespook​ asked for tearful smile for @badthingshappenbingo​

Blood spot: requested Puppy sticker: fulfilled​

This isn’t really my “Merry Christmas” piece - that’s going up next week. But it takes place just before the first Christmas (Handcuffs Year) Danny is in captivity, after just about a full year with Bram in the woods in Alberta. 

Tagging: @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @finder-of-rings, @whumpywhumper, @special-spicy-chicken​

“Wh-what did you give him?”

“Does it matter?” Bram sits back on the couch, one arm up, sipping his beer, with the air of a man watching a really fascinating show on TV. “Look at him, Nate. Doesn’t he shine?”

Danny lay on his back with part of his head underneath the Christmas tree, blue eyes sparkling and hazy, running fingers along the lines of red and blue and green lights, whispering “pretty, pretty, pretty” to himself in a tone of hushed awe and wonder.

God, he’s beautiful. Even with the bruises.

Nate swallows back revulsion at the thought, the self-loathing that had become a second skin he wears over the first. The only protection he had left - hating himself for things he hasn’t even done yet, with the understanding that sooner or later, he will.

He can’t hold out forever, and it’s a miracle Bram has even gone this long without forcing him to take a more active role, to do more than clean up the blood, bandage wounds, maybe hold one knife while Bram uses another.

But he can’t argue with Bram’s question, standing next to the couch and looking across the room… because Danny did shine.

He’s high as a fucking kite, and he glows with it, all the daily miseries smoothed out and away by whatever was in his system. His jaw is a little slack, and the wavy red hair is spread out behind and beneath him against the Christmas tree skirt, a perfect circle of dark hunter green that sets off Danny’s pale skin, even in the yellowed light from the lamps and the crackling fireplace. 

It etches the pale, thin scars on his face - he’s worn the muzzle three times in one year - into shadows, like a line drawing rather than a man.

Danny doesn’t even seem to notice him yet. He’s lost in the curved oval of the lights, twisting the cord that connected them, the wires a bright green mockery of the colors of the pine needles themselves, wrapped around fingers that were beginning to roughen from cleaning. Danny's hands were losing the way they’d once seemed so oddly sensitive for someone who lived as hard as Danny did.

“Bram, is h-he going to be… oh-okay, in the morning?” Nate had never really done drugs besides pot, it had never been his thing. He’s pretty sure he’s the only person he knows his own age who hasn’t tried something harder.

When he’d first gotten to know Danny, he’d been the only one still worrying about whether or not the skinny redhead, who towered over the rest of the group, would make it home safe after one unwise decision or another.

“What, cause you wanna bring him home with you?” Scott laughed, and the others laughed, too, standing at the bar with beers in hand watching Danny Michaelson throw himself around in a mosh pit down by the stage. It didn’t matter that the bar was dark and the band was loud and there was a crowd down there - you could always see Danny’s hair, his height, above the rest.

Nate watched him push at another man, who shoved back and sent Danny reeling, a fierce smile like a snarl on his face, before he spun and shoved at someone else entirely. You could nearly see the sweat droplets flung from his hair, the way he shone. Danny was angry - and elated - in the dark.

Nate wondered, with a sudden rush of blood in his heart and head and other places entirely, what he looked like with that much sweat on him and much less clothing.

He hadn’t been with anyone since he’d gotten away from Bram, but he thought maybe he was ready to try.

“Wh-what? No! I just… you kn-know, it seems like he d-d-does a lot of drugs,” Nate said, shrugging, trying not to look too concerned, too worried, too interested. He tried taking a very calculated drink of his beer, and spilled some less than gracefully onto his shirt, but it was dark enough that the other men didn’t notice.

“Oh, yeah, he totally does.” That was Will, who just shook his head full of curly dark hair, chugged the rest of his beer, smacked the empty bottle down on the bar, and ordered another - all in one graceful motion.

The bartender was not as impressed as Will wanted him to be.

Nate frowned, glancing back at the mosh pit. A woman nearly a foot shorter than Danny had been pushed down, and Danny leaned over her, blocking the crowd from getting near her while he threw an arm out to help her back up

God, Nate thought, not for the first time, and not for the last. He’s beautiful. “Has anyone tried to st-stop him? From getting high all the time?”

“Stop Danny?” Scott rolled his eyes. “Fuck no. Look, he’s a grown-ass man, he’ll make his own dumbass choices. He’s a cool guy, but he’s a fucking roller coaster. Just… hang on and enjoy the ride, Nate.”

“I’m n-not… that’s not wh-what I m-m-m-”

“Settle down, numbnuts, I’m kidding. Anyway, keep it casual with Danny or don’t keep it at all.”

“Wh-why?”

“He’s angry as fuck, man. Probably going to burn out by his mid-twenties on that bitter shit.”

“And the drugs, Will.”

“Right. Scott’s right - can’t discount the drugs. But, you know what - fuck it, don’t we all burn out by thirty now?”

“Yeah,” Scott said, and laughed again. “Danny just gets to burn out with all that mysterious money. We should all be so lucky.”

Nate stands next to the little plastic mat with the thin blankets that left Danny shivering and sometimes so desperately cold he was willing to get in bed with Bram just to have a hint of warmth, and wonders what Scott and Will and the rest of them would think about how lucky Danny is now.

Is his ankle chain lucky? Are the open sores on his wrists from the handcuffs lucky? Is he lucky to have Bram slice into the backs of his hands, over and over again? Should he count himself lucky to be alive, or would Danny have been luckier if he were dead by now?

“He’s fine,” Bram says, waving his free hand carelessly, bringing Nate back from his thoughts. The pale blue eyes - a little cloudy-looking, and with those darker pieces of himself that constantly move under the surface - are locked on Danny, too. “He knew I put shit in his drink the second I gave it to him and he didn’t fight me on it… so maybe there’s something you didn’t know about our little Red, huh?”

“N-no, I saw h-him do stuff, at bars…” Nate hesitates, torn between twin urges to walk away and to stay here to stare at the absolute gorgeousness that was Danny’s face lit from the inside out. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Danny had been bitter and angry - and sort of fascinating for the way he so easily accessed the fury that Nate no longer could - but on drugs he was softer. Nate had sworn, back when he was hiding out and hoping Bram would give up looking for him one day, that he could see that the bitter part of Danny was a shell he wore over the real man underneath.

“You want him?” Bram asks, casually. Like offering to let Nate borrow a book.

“I’m s-s-sorry, do I what?”

Of course I fucking want him, but not like this.

“You’ve said no every other time I’ve tried to get you to take him. I only brought him here because of you, anyway... What about this time? Maybe because he won’t remember it this time? Should make it easier on you, right?”

Yes, because the problem is whether or not he remembers it, not that I did it. That makes perfect fucking sense.

Bram glances back at him, and their eyes briefly meet, and Nate sinks under the water, for just a second, before Bram looks away.

You goddamn monster. I love you.

“I don’t th-think Ecstasy m-m-makes you forget anything,” Nate says, hesitantly, his low voice soft enough to cover the hardness of his thoughts. His stomach twists again. There’s nothing he’d rather do less than victimize Danny yet again, in a whole new way, in an even worse way than the bleeding and the pain.

Danny seems finally to notice him, twisting around on the floor to look over, shooting Nate a loopy, addled, beautiful bright smile. His ankle chain rattles as he moves, the cuff too tightly to even shift around. “Pretty lights,” He breathes. “Nate, come lay down in the lights with me. C’mon. I want you to see the lights this way.”

“Go ahead,” Bram says, grinning. It’s a shark’s smile, full of sharp teeth - too many sharp teeth. “He wants you to see the lights this way, Nate.”

“Bram, I d-d-don’t want t-to-”

“Do I look like I give a fuck what you want? I said get down on the fucking floor with him.” Bram’s voice drops, and Nate has been with him long enough not to flinch at the change in tone, but he feels the cold wash over him regardless. Every defiance, every time Nate says ‘no’, every moment he claws back onto the hint of who he is - all of it is a moment he’s waiting for Bram to turn on him and force him to do it, anyway. “Or would you rather I got down on the floor with him?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want that,” Danny breathes, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes on them - they trail back to the Christmas lights, the evergreen smell in the room, the hint of sticky sap on the trunk where it’s riveted into the tree stand with the special plant food to make its slow death take even longer. “Nate, I want you to come lay down with me, not, not Abraham, please. Nate, can you, please?” He turns the wide, clouded blue eyes on Nate.

“Look, see?” Bram grins. “He wants you down there with him.”

“Why are y-y-you doing this?” Nate whispers, through lips that barely move. “You d-don’t want him to f-f-feel good, or be happy. Why w-w-would you g, give him something that makes him f-f-feel like this?”

“Mmmn, that’s true.” Bram cocks his head as Danny tries to wriggle himself totally out from under the tree, pushing himself up on one elbow. His eyes move back down to the braided rug, the mass of colors and textures, and he rolls onto his stomach, running his fingers over the bumps and ridges of cloth. “Maybe it’s not him I want to make miserable today.”

Nate frowns, eyes narrowing slightly, but he can’t stop watching Danny’s fingers, long and thin, the tracery of scars along the backs of his hands, the wounds reopened and cut a little deeper every time he screws up, defies an order, tries to be who he used to be. 

The bones of his wrists that stick out more than they used to, the little knob right there where wrist and hand meet that Nate just wants to hold, the underside with its thin hint of purplish-blue veins that he’d have given anything some days to lick-

He shakes it off, with effort, and swallows against the dryness of his mouth. “And you th-th-think giving me wh-what I want with him will m-m-make me miserable?”

“I know it will.” Bram shrugs, casual as can be. “You don’t want him like this. But I know you better than anyone else in the world will ever know you, Nate. I know you’ll say yes.”

“H-How do you kn-kn-know I’ll say yes?” Nate asks, and his voice is barely a whisper of sound, but Bram hears him anyway.

“Because if you won’t,” Bram says, taking a sip from his beer, “I will.”

“Y-Y-You already do.”

Bram’s smile could freeze Arizona. “Not like I will if you say no. I know you think I hurt him, but I want you to believe me, baby, I haven’t even scratched the surface of all the ways I can make him regret every fucking breath. So yes, or no?”

“Nate,” Danny says, in a low soft voice. “Nate, come over here. Feel this rug. Shit, I haven’t been high like this since…”

“Since before you came home to me, puppy,” Bram says sweetly, and Danny’s eyes jerk up to his, wide in a face that’s gotten thinner with never eating enough. They don’t quite manage to focus on him, but even like this this, Nate can see the naked fear that crosses his face.

“Before I came home,” Danny repeats quickly, but after a second he seems to forget he was looking at Bram at all. Nate watches his jaw slacken and all his thoughts slip right through his fingers as he drops his attentions back to the rug.

“Yes or no, Nate, I haven’t got all night,” Bram says. The walls of the living room, the one large room in this tiny cabin, seem to be closing in. Smaller and smaller, the way all his choices and his understanding of himself gets closed in, chipped away.

“Y-Yes, you do. We have all the t-t-time in the world, out h-here.” Nate’s voice is calm, somehow, and he steps forward, moving away from Bram and the furniture and over to Danny where he lays stretched on the rug on his side, watching his own fingertips playing with a loose thread in the seam that holds two rolls of the rug together.

“Is that a yes, my love?” Bram’s voice is low, and pleased.

Nate takes all the guilt that threatens to squeeze the breath out of him, sets it aside in an empty gaping canyon of self-hatred that lives eternally in the back of his mind, and says simply, “It’s a yes.”

Danny rolls onto his back, looking up at Nate, wavy red hair falling into his eyes. It’s winter, and Danny’s hair is already getting long, past his ears and whispering along the back of his neck, twisting in soft curls across his forehead. Nate reaches out to push the hair away, and Danny hums softly. “Your fingers feel nice,” He whispers.

“G-Good,” Nate whispers back, aware of Bram’s eyes burning into him, trying to ignore it, to push it all away. Life with Bram has always been about trading away whatever he has left, to save himself in the end. And now to trade the dregs of the man that still remains, to try and save another.

By doing something he’s always wanted to do and doesn’t want to do at all.

“So, this is stupid, but I’ve been… you know, I know you’re older and you, like, know shit I don’t. But I’ve been… thinking about you, kind of a lot, I guess.” Danny looked away from him, nervously sipping his drink, and Nate reached out to take it from his hands, letting their fingertips graze each other just a little bit.

“Don’t d-d-drink so fast, you’ll g-get drunk and be harder to t-t-talk to,” Nate said, and pitched his voice into real flirtation, something he used to be fairly good at. He’d gotten rusty, trapped in that house.

“Aren’t drunk people supposed to be easier to talk to?” Danny countered, but he lets Nate take the drink and place it on the table, tilted his head to let a little hair fall into his eyes, gave Nate a toothy smile that he knew already he’d love to see more of.

“Not y-you. I like you b-b-better sober.” Nate hesitated, then leaned forward, a little more into Danny’s space. When Danny’s smile only widened, and they were nearly nose-to-nose in the little bar, neither of them wanted to pull away and break the moment.

“I think I want to see more of you,” Danny said, a whisper nearly drowned out by the music around them.

“I th-think I want to s-see more of y-y-you, too,” Nate replied, and thought - fuck Scott and Will’s advice, they didn’t know shit. Nate had gone years trapped in hell and he just wanted to be with someone again.

Besides which, Scott and Will didn’t seem to see that under all his anger, there was something that shone in Danny Michaelson.

You just had to find it and bring it out.

Nate strokes gentle fingers across his forehead, down the side of his face and his neck, over a hint of collarbone that peeks out from the neckline of his shirt. Danny shivers with a smile on his face, eyes fluttering closed and then open again. “I’m s-s-so sorry,” Nate murmurs to him, with real feeling. “I’m so s-s-sorry, Red.”

“Sssshhhhh,” Danny whispers, and his own hands slip down. Nate watches with that dryness in his mouth again as the redhead’s fingers curve around the hem of his T-shirt, grip on, and he arches his back so he can slide it right off his head, tossing it lazily to the side. The firelight catches the muscles of his arms as he moves, sets off the freckled skin. “Ssssshhh, you’re so good, Nate, you’re so nice.”

“I’m sorry,” Nate repeats, because he has to, and with Bram watching them both, he leans down to kiss the end of Danny’s nose, one of the scars along his cheekbone, up to his forehead. “I’m so sorry. J-j-just look at m-me now, okay?”

The blue eyes open, and for a moment, the two men only look at each other and smile - Danny’s hazy and drugged and beautiful, Nate’s guilty, tearful, and a little frightened.

Frightened for Danny, frightened of Bram, frightened of himself and how easily he will hand over any last remaining shred of principle or conviction if it will save Danny Michaelson even a moment of pain.

“What are you waiting for?” Bram asks, not quite snapping.

Danny tenses, then reaches out to grab Nate by the back of the neck and pull him down for a kiss. His mouth is soft, and warm - the rest of Danny always seems so cold now - and Nate lets himself be lost in the moment, tries to shift away how much he hates himself for what he’s about to do.

But it’s better, if it’s him and not Bram.

At least once.

At least for tonight.

When they break apart, foreheads still touching, Danny’s cloudy eyes try to focus on his clear green ones. “‘Kay,” Danny murmurs, their lips still nearly brushing. “Can do it. Can look-... your eyes are bleeding, Nate.”

“What?” His voice is hushed, a whisper, and he brushes the backs of his knuckles on his good hand down Danny’s neck, over breastbone, down his stomach, watching Danny arch into the touch, feeling him shift and move as Nate’s hand curves around one hip over the thin cotton pants that are the only pants he’s ever allowed to wear, no matter the weather.

“Like green sky…” Danny smiles at him, a flash of white teeth, nuzzling at his face, his hands moving up to Nate’s neck, over his shoulders, feeling at the fabric of his shirt, lost in the softness, the warmth of the heavy knit fabric. “You’re stained glass,” Danny whispers, words slightly slurred. “You’re a fucking saint sparking fucking starlight…” Nate shifts, or Danny does - he likes to hope it was Danny, for his own sake, for his own sanity. It moves their hips together, just a little, where Nate lays next to him on the floor.

“Fuck,” Danny nearly groans. “Ah…” He grabs Nate by the arms and pulls the older man on top of him, and for a half-second Nate wants to forget that anything is wrong with this, that it’s anything but his first Christmas with the younger guy who seemed like everything Bram wasn’t, everything Nate wanted.

For a while, it’s only this - a kiss, or a series of them, but they run together and Nate isn’t sure he’d count it as more than one. Hands, and Danny’s ribs stand out too much in his thin frame and Nate’s fingertips trail over each shade and hint of light. Danny whispering to him, nonsense things, and the lights of the Christmas tree still shine in his eyes and bounce off his hair.

Nate buries his bad hand in that hair, feels the softness that’s started to go brittle after nearly a full year of never eating enough.

Bram laughs - the awful off-key barking hyena laughter - and Danny freezes underneath Nate, breathing harder, clutching tightly onto him like Nate could possibly protect him from the consequences of Bram’s horrible good humor.

“J-Just look at me, Red,” Nate whispers urgently against his ear, licking at the earlobe, feeling Danny shiver again and hold him with shaking hands. “Just look right at me.” His good hand slides back down to grip Danny’s hip, to steady him against the sense of Bram’s eyes, and his heart is pounding.

He can feel Danny’s heartbeat, too, and some part of him wants to smile, because he’d always sort of wanted to lay somewhere with Danny Michaelson, feeling his heartbeat right through his skin.

Not like this, though.

Not like this.

I should have known Bram would never, ever let me go. But it never occurred to me that if he found me with someone, he’d take them, too.

Nate drops his mouth to Danny’s neck now, kissing gently along the scarring starting there from the barbed wire that Bram sometimes wraps around his throat, making him practice breathing until he bleeds. When he nips at the scarred skin, Danny lets out the first real, true noise. 

When he closes his mouth on it, the noise gets louder.

“Well this is getting interesting.” Nate would gladly stab Bram like he once stabbed his sister, leave him dying on the kitchen floor, and he and Danny would flee through the woods and find civilization, go back home-

But he can’t hurt Bram. And even if this is the only night he can protect, he can’t let Bram have Danny to destroy if he’s given even the barest hint of a choice.

Danny had tensed again at Bram’s voice, and Nate catches his eyes as he nearly turns to look at the monster sitting on the couch wearing skin like a man. “No, no, just look right at me,” He says, a little urgently, turning Danny’s face back to his. “It’s going to be oh-okay. It’s okay. I d-d-don’t want to, I promise, I just… I have to-”

“Of course you want to,” Bram interrupts, shifting where he sits, slowly leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, beer still in hand. Outside, snow falls in a perfect picturesque white. “And if you don’t… I will.”

“I know that, B-Bram,” Nate says, in a voice that’s not quite pleading. “I kn-know. Just-”

“Sssshhhh.” Danny cranes his neck, moving his head up from the floor enough to kiss Nate’s cheek, scarred, rough-skinned hands pulling Nate back in for another kiss. “S’okay if it’s you,” Danny says, softly, and he smiles softly, and nearly everything about Danny is soft, and sweet, and beautiful.

And fogged and drugged, high and off-limits in Nate’s mind - but the choice he’s been given is to cross his own lines or watch Danny be torn apart again.

Tonight, just this one night, he has the chance to trade away one more piece of the principled, moral man he used to think he was. He gives away his certainty that he’d never do anything like this - that he would never, ever be this person - because if he doesn’t, Bram will do something far worse.

“Always if it’s you,” Danny continues, and now it’s his lips against Nate’s neck, tongue lapping at the slowly fading pink marks from Ashley’s knives, her little game of seeing how long it took him to scream. “I want you, too.” Danny’s hands are on his shirt and Nate lets him pull it up, pull it over his head, muss up his black hair.

He shouldn’t do this.

He has to do this.

He wants to do this.

But… not like this.

“Saint Nate,” Danny says, tone playful, consonants soft and slurred together, as his hands move over Nate’s chest and torso, play along his sides, slide down under the waistband of his pants until Nate nearly gasps. “Ha,” Danny grins at him. “Look at you, Saint Nate. Saint… Saint Nathaniel. Patron saint of, of puppies, and… fuck, what’d he put in my drink? Shit, you feel so good-”

Nate groans, and gives up, and his good hand slips into Danny’s pants, too, searches and finds, begins to move. When Danny’s hips jerk up hard, Nate pauses, but one scarred hand grabs at his wrist and presses his palm down right where it is.

“Don’t stop,” Danny murmurs, and uses his hand to show Nate what he wants him to do.

“Fuck, R-Red,” Nate groans into his neck, into his warm skin, as Danny moves against him. “I’m so sorry.”

This isn’t how I wanted this to happen.

“Say, what’s in this driiiiink,” Danny sings, and his voice is cracked and hideously off-key. Danny has an awful singing voice, and still Nate finds himself smiling. “Baby, it’s cold outsiiiiiide…”

“Sssshhhh.” Nate shifts back, resting his weight on his legs, a knee on either side of Danny’s hips. Still on his back on the floor, Danny’s eyes drift through the room, landing but never staying, and finally… finally they make it back to Nate.

When they land on him, they stay.

“Stop holding out on him, baby,” Bram says. His voice is impatient, not quite snapping, but Nate knows it for what it is - not annoyance but hunger. Bram wants him to be miserable, to hate himself, for spend the next few days castigating himself for being a fucking criminal, a piece of shit, the worst thing in the world. “He’s asking for it.”

“Please,” Danny says softly, and Nate’s hatred of himself shatters - for the moment only for now - under the affection there. Written on Danny’s face is all the sweetness Nate once thought you had to find in him, right there to be had, right on the surface.

“H-How can you w-w-want me like this?” Nate asks, and he doesn’t mean the drugs (although he means that, too). No, he wants to know how Danny can want him when they are trapped somewhere in the woods together but Danny is tortured and cut to shreds and beaten and destroyed piece by piece, while Nate eats at the table and doesn’t have to ask and sleeps in a bed without having to earn it.

He wants to know how Danny can want him, after everything that’s happened because Nathaniel Vandrum had a fucking crush on him.

“I wanted you before,” Danny whispers, fumbling at the button of Nate’s jeans, having trouble getting his hands to close well enough. “Why would I stop now? C’mere, Saint Nate. S’okay if it’s you, I want it to be you. C’mere.”

The lights from the Christmas tree light Danny’s skin with little hints of blue, and red, and green, and yellow. The lights glint in his hair and on the line of his freckled shoulder. They dance over some of the freckles on his face, and Nate can’t quite stop himself from kissing his favorite little cluster of them, right along the scar on Danny’s left cheek.

I could never deserve this.

I never wanted it like this.

I want you so badly it hurts.

I’ll hate myself tomorrow, if you’ll let me - but I don’t think you will.

“Merry Christmas,” Danny says, with an odd, lopsided, goofy little smile.

Nate shakes off the icy blue eyes that watch them from the couch, and lowers his head to kiss Danny again. “Merry Ch-Christmas.”