#that seeks to dumb them down to their bare bones elements

[vacantgodling]

on that post cy made in regards to problematic characters… tbh i don’t think i make problematic characters. not because they don’t do bad things but just the words “problematic” and “characters” do not exist in my mind or vocabulary in conjunction**. i have multifaceted fucks that make a variety of decisions that make sense for their arc and their story. they are also fictional people. yes they can kill people and be manipulative idc they’re not real lmao

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Chasing His Heat

Characters: Loki x Reader

Chapter: 1 of 2

Rating: Explicit

Summary: After a failed mission strands you in the Siberian wilderness, you and Loki are forced to take extreme measures to fend off hypothermia.

Warnings: Language, making out, partial nudity, implied smut, Loki is an ass but not completely

Taglist: @just-the-hiddles

“I’m going to kill Thor the next time I see him,” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest against the biting wind that cut through your clothing as if it didn’t even exist.

“Only after I am finished with him,” Loki snapped, trudging a path through the snow ahead of you. His long strides were a bit too wide for you to keep your steps within, but you did your best, although the effort was pointless after spending several minutes out in the dreadful weather. Your shoes, socks, and pants were completely soaked, adding to the chill seeping into your bones.

You put on a mediocre impression of Thor’s booming accented voice, shaking your head back and forth and rolling your eyes, “Loki can assist you with that mission! He is the God of Mischief, and you will require stealth to successfully enter the base undetected.”

You let out a shriek of frustration and kicked at the snow. It was a dumb gesture, and you knew it before you did it, but it didn’t stop you; it only ended up with you sprawled on your ass, snow surrounding you on all sides. It immediately wetted down the rest of your clothing that had somehow remained relatively dry despite the light snowfall. Not anymore.

You had the sudden and intense urge to just give up and throw a temper tantrum.

“Didn’t account for their anti-aircraft missiles shooting us out of the sky, did you, Lightning Man?” you snarled and shook a numb, trembling fist at the cloud-covered sky.

Loki turned around and lifted his brow in a smirk at your defeated prone figure. “I am not coming back to retrieve you. There is what appears to be an abandoned building up ahead. We can use that for shelter until Stark can send another jet for our retrieval.”

The promise of shelter from the elements spurs you on, and you scramble to your feet and book it towards the small wooden cottage standing against the washed-out gray horizon. Behind it a dense forest of evergreens, blocking out the mountains that dotted the Siberian wilderness. You could only hope there’s a bit of firewood somewhere around it, or you could very well get hypothermia before help arrived.

Loose floorboards creaked underneath your combined footsteps as you both rushed into the cabin and slammed the door behind you against the howling wind. Your eyes darted around the room hopefully in search of firewood, a blanket, anything to keep warm. You’re left wanting when the only thing to be found is a worn rug that had seen better days at least a decade ago.

“Got any space heaters up your magical sleeve that I don’t know about?” you asked bitterly as you rushed over to pull the thick shutters over the two front windows to stop the worst of the wind blowing into the tiny space. Even with the shutters drawn and windows closed, a draft still blew in through near-invisible cracks between the logs. There wasn’t anything you could do about that. You peered around, using the faint light filtering in through the gaps in the logs, in one last-ditch hope that a change of clothes, plush couch, firewood, and a hot bath would have suddenly appeared in the few seconds you back was turned.

No dice. Damnit.

“Unfortunately I do not, no. It is not an issue I worry too terribly about,” he replied with a dry chuckle, walking over to the nearest wall and sliding down until he was seated against it.

You mimicked his position on the opposite wall, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them as tightly as you could manage. You tucked your chin between your knees and chest and your blue-tinted mouth found a home against the sodden fabric of your thin light gray pants. You had dressed to blend in if you had the misfortune of getting spotted, either inside the Hydra base or outside, and the thin layers you wore did nothing to protect you from the elements even before you had been forced to abandon the downed Quinjet. Now that they were soaked through with snow, you shivered uncontrollably in as tight of a ball as you could manage.

“Lucky you, Asgardian. Just scrape me off of the floor when they get here,” you bit back, dropping your forehead onto your knees. Your breath barely warmed the small pocket you’d created between your thighs and chest, but it felt better than the frigid air of the cabin, so you closed your eyes and tried to focus on that small bit of comfort instead of the ache of your extremities from the lack of blood flow.

If only you’d gone on this mission with Nat, or Sam, or even Cap, they would know what to do. But you had no choice but to stick it out with Loki. He was unbothered by the cold, and most likely too far up his own ass to notice that you were freezing to the wall you huddled against.

A gasp of surprise left your chapped lips when a heavy arm settled over your hunched shoulders. You had been so fixated on the tremors wracking your body that you hadn’t noticed Loki’s heavy footfalls as he crossed the space to sit down beside you.

“Wh-what are you d-doing?” you asked, brow furrowed in concentration and indignation as you tried to get the words out around your chattering teeth. He radiated delicious heat that you long to curl into like a kitten but you held onto the last bit of dignity with your fingernails. You’d freeze to death before you accepted help from the asshole Asgardian who seemed to revel in nothing more than when he caused you endless amounts of frustration.

“I won’t be viewed favorably by our colleagues if I allow you to freeze to death. Hush and come here stubborn mortal,” he grumbled, velvet voice full to the brim with exasperation.

Your muscles seemed to have solidified in the short time you’d sat there, so you didn’t even try to uncurl when he lifted you like you weighed nothing and deposited you in the circle of his lap. Your jaw dropped to sputter against the forward action, but you instantly shut up at the blissful heat accompanying the actions of his arms wrapping the both of you in his green and black cape and pulling you into his chest.

A soft moan of pleasure rushed unbidden from your lips at his intoxicating warmth enveloping you, and you were powerless to resist the urge to bury your face into the hollow of his neck. The heady, masculine scent of spice and leather that perfumed to his skin and clothing washed over you, and you breathed it in greedily. His fingers tensed on your back briefly, but soon he relaxed and allowed his gloriously toasty touch to permeate your icy clothes.

“We tell no one about this,” you commanded quietly, words muffled against his racing pulse point.

A breathless laugh blew against your damp hair plastered to the crown of your head. “As if I would speak of it. No one would believe it if you deigned to inform anyone of your rescue by the dashing Asgardian Prince, so settle your nerves and be still.”

You bit back your retort to wrap your hands out from around your shins and up to cup his jawline, unfeeling fingers seeking the heat that you so desperately craved. In any other situation it would mortify you to act so boldly with the god, but it was just between the two of you, and he had started it. You were simply staving off hypothermia.

Well, you were trying. Despite the impressive heat his body gave off beneath his cape, it wasn’t enough to combat your water-logged clothes, and the tremor rattling your bones.

“You will not approve of this suggestion, but you will never warm properly while you remain in those clothes.” He patted his hand against your back to punctuate his statement, the wet slap of his palm loud in the almost unnatural quiet of the dimly lit cabin.

You closed your eyes and sighed drowsily. “Not happening.”

The answering shake of his head pulled your hands back and forth as they clung to his jaw. You stilled the abrupt movement by running your thumbs over the hollows of his cheeks. Subconsciously you continued the soothing movement. You couldn’t feel your fingers anyway, so what did it matter?

~~~

Loki’s hands shook your shoulders roughly, pulling you from the light doze that you had fallen into. It was so hard to open your eyes, but you forced yourself to when he called your name and cupped the sides of your neck so his thumbs propped your head up by your jaw.

He looked worried. His shining emerald eyes narrowed with concern and he cursed quietly under his breath. Your forehead fell onto his shoulder when he adjusted you on top of him so that your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms were wedged between you so your hands splayed across his broad, bare chest.

He was so warm. You could really feel it with your chests pressed together as they were. Your heels dug into his lower back and you tightened your fingers into his pectoral muscles to leech as much of his body heat as he had to give.

“Such a fragile little thing,” he murmured. The quiet words brushed his lips against the frosty shell of your ear and sent another wave of heat through you, but this time it went straight to the faint stirrings at the pit of your stomach.

Slowly, you came back to your senses as painful pins and needles pricked at your hands and feet. You groaned - more unhappily than pained - at the unpleasant sensation and lifted your head so you could visually inspect the offending body parts.

In the shadows of Loki’s cape, though, all you got was an eyeful of the half-naked god beneath you. Your wide eyes shot down to take in your own lack of clothing, and you were at least slightly relieved to see that you’re both still wearing underwear.

But that doesn’t explain where your clothing and your bra went. How had you not felt that happening?

Damn wizard.

“Loki, where the fuck are my clothes?” you exclaimed, crossing your arms over your bare chest and leaning away from him.

His hands remained firmly rooted to your back, not allowing you to gain more than a few inches of distance between your underdressed bodies. “You were succumbing to hypothermia. I made the decision to save your life at the risk of upsetting your delicate sensibilities about partial nudity,” he stated matter-of-factly with a shrug of his shoulders, having the gall to look bored with the entire conversation.

Your head shook side to side erratically. “Well, that’s not. I mean, you-”

He cut off your sputtering with a sharp shake of his head, raising one brow while he looked at you expectantly. “-I saved your life. You’re welcome.”

You shifted on his lap, and the innocent motion rubbed across the beginnings of his arousal, restrained by almost indecently thin underwear. The warmth that flooded out from between your legs had nothing to do with the toasty bubble created from your bodies beneath Loki’s cape, and everything to do with the lust shining in his eyes mere inches from your own.

This close, you took a moment to actually look at the god pinned beneath you, at the regal line of his nose, the jawline so sharp it could cut glass, brows furrowed together and tilted slightly downward, and green eyes with pupils blown, darkening them and adding a hint of danger to his expression that sent a jolt of electricity to your core and made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

Your hand tentatively flattened itself onto his chest just beneath his collar bones. A muscle in his jaw fluttered at the chill of your firm touch. Curiosity drove you, and you leaned forward, eyes focused on his lips that parted when you stopped your advance so close that you heard his breath hitch in his throat when your thumb caressed the pulse fluttering beneath the closure of his cape.

Sating your sudden intense need to know what the god tasted like, you tilted your head and brushed your lips across his experimentally.

His lips were softer than you expected. His large hands found the dips of your waist and anchored there, not pulling you in or pushing you away, just holding you. You pulled back just enough so that the tip of your nose nudged the length of his, searching his eyes for his reaction. His face was guarded, revealing nothing, but the growing hardness trapped between your bodies said everything his face did not. It cast a spell over you, ridding you of logical thought, removing your intense dislike of him, and you dipped your head to kiss him more thoroughly.

He tasted of the coffee he had on the jet, bitter and sweet, when your tongue darted out to trace his bottom lip. His answering groan rumbled out of him and settled low in your stomach, tightening the muscles there pleasantly. He finally returned the kiss with equal fervor, melding his lips expertly against yours in a languid, teasing dance that did a much more complete job of easing the chill from your bones than a fire would have, and at a faster rate to boot.

Fire blazed in the wake of his caressing fingers as they skimmed from your waist to smooth over your underwear, taking as much of your backside into his hands as he could and grinding you down onto him eagerly. Your tongues tangled together, fighting for dominance in a frenzied battle that you both simultaneously won and lost. Each generous squeeze of his hands into your pliant flesh and stroke of his tongue stole more of your breath.

You were both panting when you finally broke the kiss to press your foreheads together. His eyes were glazed over, heavy-lidded, and his hips bucked into you when you let your fingernails barely scratch along the flexed muscles of his torso to come to a halt just above the hem of his underwear.

“This is a terrible idea,” he whispered hoarsely even as his lips pulled back into a mischievous smile.

“Wouldn’t want me to get hypothermia, would we?” you breathed with a matching grin.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ― Chapter 20: The City of Shadow

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

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ⥽

While struggling with nightmares of lives she’s never lived, a shadow from the past looming over her city, and the proposed idea that her life may just be a little bit too weird to handle alone, Nadya makes sure to tell herself that everything is perfect just the way it is. If only. When the self-proclaimed King of Vampires (and Maker of her sometimes-girlfriend and always-boss, can’t forget that little tidbit) Gaius Augustine returns intent on claiming Manhattan as the throne that was promised, she and her friends find themselves forced into the task of saving the world. But with millennia-old vampires and an Order of hunters on their heels as well as allies hiding catastrophic secrets at their backs… it won’t be an easy task. Too bad destiny didn’t exactly ask for her input.

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

TAG LIST: @googlesentmehere, @cess02

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny II tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The key to defeating Gaius lies deep beneath the streets of Paris, beneath the famous catacombs to the once-revered jewel of the Vampire King's Court. For over 400 years the crypts have waited, abandoned. But if they want any chance of saving their home, they have to be willing to risk whatever may slumber within.

[READ IT ON AO3]

It doesn’t bode well for her peace of mind that not even twenty minutes into their journey, Nadya can feel the beginnings of the all-too-familiar headaches starting to knock at her temples. Worst. houseguest. ever.

“Does this mean we can just… get this over with here?” Nadya grinds out. Serafine looks back at her from where she leads the metaphorical charge; her smile is sympathetic, but not at all reassuring.

“We’ve just hit the Seine, that’s all. It will pass.”

Great, just great. Water pressure is screwing her around before the actual creepy mojo. Why couldn’t they have packed aspirin in one of these dumb bags? “What about further on?”

Serafine doesn’t have an answer for that, though. And that says it all.

Nadya stops counting the minutes after that. For her own sanity if anything.

Lily is nearing the end of her shot-for-shot recount of The Fellowship of the Ring (because she is personally offended by the fact both Adrian and Cadence lived during Tolkien’s lifetime and have neither read the books nor seen the movies, and also because Jax told her not to) when the narrow corridor widens out just enough to give her a little breathing room. It’s not much of a difference for the more broad-shouldered of them, but they don’t even need to breathe anyway.

Where the beginning tunnel was rustic and just a path carved out of the ground, this leg of the journey is noticeably different. The ground is more flat; earth packed from decades of footsteps long gone. The dug-out walls are cemented in place with limestone, and above their heads the ceiling curves up on both sides to end in an arch with a pointed tip.

Eventually they come across the first sconces laid into the wall masonry; metal dark and rusted over the years but sturdy and undisturbed. Serafine grabs a match book from her pack with one hand and brushes cobwebs from an ancient torch with another. It takes several matches to catch and hold a flame but once it does the effect is immediate — the path suffusing with flickering yellow light and a heat Nadya didn’t know she was already missing.

Adrian follows suit and lights the torch on the opposite wall. When they reach a new set every few minutes they always stop and help coax the fire to life. “To help guide us back,” is the explanation she offers; but the way her voice catches thick in her throat tells a different story.

A story none of them have quite gotten the full picture of, yet, and that may have been okay before — when it was lost to history. But now they are lost to history.

Serafine makes sure of that.

“When your entire immortality is spent living in the ebb and flow of tidal fear, it can be so very easy to succumb to the despair of it. To this day I would not be surprised to learn that was part of the Holy Knights’ doctrine calling for the faithful to purge the world of our existence. If it was not they who felled us with their own hand, then they sought to make eternal life so full of loss, of misery and death and fear, that we would do their work for them.

“There were many whom I called companions that succumbed to those very thoughts.” The way she says it; like she blames herself. “Those of us who remained did so for more than just ourselves. Many were like myself — we had seen the world change so many times with our own eyes it was no longer the one we were born into. And we knew we would see it again.

“We found ways to seek the proverbial light in the darkness. Many of us had fled to La Cité Sombre from the richest courts of the mortal world. We brought our passion and fine taste here and to the crypts. The mortals hastened to be rid of their infected dead, so we took them off their hands.”

While Nadya tries to think of several polite ways to casually mention that something like that isn’t something casually mentioned, Lily beats her to the punch.

“What did you people do with the dead bodies? Do I want to know? I swear to God.”

“Careful up ahead here, mes amis, we’re getting close.”

It takes the combined efforts of all five vampires to pry open a set of double doors. The rotted wood practically crumbles to the touch, and the hinges barely bend half of the doorway before they snap and clatter to the ground.

Immediately a pungent foulness, thick as a wall whether it was tangible or not, assaults Nadya’s nose. A hair-curling stench of decay — of death — Nadya is all-too familiar with by now. What an unsettling notion.

The open doorway empties out into a near-pitch black room. The last torches were too far back to give it proper lighting, but the bright blue-white of their flashlight beams reveal some kind of atrium. An outpost, maybe? Though it isn’t much taller than the path they just left it’s spacious enough for them to spread out for the first time in hours; that’s not something to take for granted.

Serafine crosses the space in long and purposeful strides. She already knows what she’s looking for; another set of sconces and torches framing the exit. The familiar hiss-snikt of the match and the blessed warmth that follows is more than welcome.

A warmth that’s instantly sucked away; replaced by a cold wave of realization as the rest of the atrium comes into light around them.

“My god…”

Nadya doesn’t even recognize her own voice; feels the back of her clammy hand press up against her lips as if that might contain her shock.

It doesn’t.

Skeletons litter the flagstones at their feet. She looks down to see one a hair’s width away from the toe of her boot and instantly recoils; presses herself back against something solid she’s too horrified to immediately recognize. Adrian’s arms come around her protectively; but he can only do so much.

Old-fashioned armor, ancient and the real-freaking-deal, must once have fit snug and secure on these bodies. Not anymore; not with the flesh long since rotted away, along with whatever ate the rot itself. But without exposure from the elements they’re pristine and almost bleached. All except for the places where a thin blanket of grey dust coats the sharp jut of bone exposed in the armor’s gaps.

Objectively Nadya had known they were essentially entering one large burial tomb but… it isn’t until this moment that she’s faced (quite literally, eye sockets hollow and black as the void) with the gruesome reality of it all.

She’s just glad she’s not the only one.

Serafine recovers first. Lowering her head deep and reverent, words whispered on her lips so faint there isn’t even a trace of them in the stale air. A prayer, Nadya slowly realizes; and she averts her eyes out of respect for the woman’s mourning.

She steps out of the safety of Adrian’s comfort, fingertips tenderly brushing his forearm.

Go to her, that touch says, because she can see he wants to. A want bordering on need. In a blink he’s across the room and hovering just shy of the woman’s trembling shoulders. Less confident here than he was just moments prior. Nadya’s heart goes out to the guy.

Jax comes up on Nadya’s left. He rests a hand on her shoulder something just shy of tender; a hesitance in his furrowed brow she’s not used to seeing on that normally cocky expression. He coaxes her back with just his fingertips; she’s more than willing to trade places with him if that’s what he wants.

Lily wraps her arms around herself; isolating herself like an island in a sea of bone. Somehow Nadya has a feeling there won’t be as many violent video games in the apartment when all this is over.

If they survive it, a morbid part of her thinks.

In front of her Jax takes a knee, brushes the same fragile touch over the nearest set of remains. Not reverence, but not fear either. All it takes is the slightest pressure and the skeleton’s bottom jaw clatters to the floor. Only it’s not the bone that Jax can’t look away from. But rather the grey smeared on his fingertips.

A choked noise comes from Cadence. He clears the distress from his throat and looks away out of respect. And it’s in the weighted silence and dancing shadows that Nadya realizes why they’re all so distressed.

“Vampires don’t leave skeletons.”

Nadya cringes; she hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Stating the obvious that everyone else had already come to understand maybe even from the moment they entered the atrium. Yet here she is, stupid human Nadya, who finally understands far too late that it isn’t dust blanketed over the dead, under their feet, silky on Jax’s fingertips.

It’s ash.

However small this room might be the dead inside are countless. More than the preserved armor and bone, they hang in the air; caught by the eye in the firelight like dust motes in the early morning sun.

It’s only going to get worse from here on out, isn’t it?

“The continent was stricken with Plague. As the dead multiplied, so did the faith of the desperate grow. The Holy Knights used that to their advantage; they used the dead and dying to lure our kind out with false hope, and starved the rest. What started as a refuge from the onslaught grew—flourished. It was more than a place to hide — it was, for the first time, a community.”

Her voice cracks and wavers more than a few times, but Serafine doesn’t let the emotions stop her. In fact they give her the strength to keep going; to tell a story long overdue. Not just to relieve the weight of it from her soul, but to fill in the spaces the Knights had tried to destroy — and prove their failure.

“For over two hundred years we had this.” Even with tears shining in her eyes, Serafine manages a wistful smile. “Long enough for some to have never known a life on the run. And long enough for a culture to flourish and grow within our ranks. To this day I still cannot fathom how so much was taken from us so quickly.”

She buries her face into Adrian’s shoulder, seeking a comfort he gives open and freely. He buries a kiss on the crown of her head, face almost lost in wild curls.

“Kamilah only mentioned it once,” he murmurs, “I don’t even remember what for. But it was one of the only times Vega agreed with her without a peep, so it’s hard to forget.”

Serafine hums, nods. “He was still newly Turned when the City fell. Were he not a child of Gaius I doubt he would have survived.”

Nadya and Lily exchange glances, and they must be riding the same train of thought. One that goes to one town only: Wouldn’t That Have Made Our Lives Easier-Ville, USA.

Cadence eases himself from the wall with his foot. “I’ve read sparse accounts of the City, but all of them date prior to 1570. And none of them actually… say what happened.”

Whether Serafine is going to answer him is really anyone’s guess. When Nadya had first noticed it seemed like she was pointedly ignoring his (admittedly very hard to ignore, on account of his tree-like status) presence, she wrote it off without a word to anyone. Probably just too involved in her own drama, right?

But now… now Nadya’s not so sure. And that’s probably why she does respond; because if she doesn’t then there’s nothing but surety.

“The Holy Knights raided the City.”

“Didn’t you have defense measures in place?” asks Jax with a frown. It earns him a harsh glare.

“Of course we did! But they were well-informed, or well-prepared. They sealed off the main gates to the surface and ambushed us when we were the most congregated; when our guards were lowest, during a night of celebration.”

Nadya’s voice is thick in her throat. “You were sitting ducks.”

“We were lambs, and the slaughter was led to us.”

“What does that mean?”

Serafine’s eyes glow from the nearby torch, but the look of them is nothing but cold; as dead as these forgotten skeletons.

“The Knights were told where they could find us; they were challenged to do so. A fool’s attempt at posturing; hundreds of lives sacrificed for petty glory.”

Cadence blanches. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Who indeed…”

Adrian keeps close even when Serafine pulls away; ready to be there, however she needs. But despite his kindness all it takes is one look for Nadya to see the uncertainty hidden right under the surface of him. Something to talk about later — if they can.

“Come —” the vampiress hikes her bag higher on her shoulder and makes for the only way forward, “— the City is vast; we have a long way to go.”

Which… yeah, that’s fair. They are on a time crunch and all, and the sooner she’s back up where there’s sky and clouds and birds the better in her opinion. But that doesn’t mean Nadya doesn’t keep her little butt propped against the wall until the last possible second.

Only she’s not the last one to get moving.

“Cadence, you coming?”

He startles and jerks his hand away from the top half of a breastplate. More like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar than a vampire touching dead people armor. “Yes, I am. Sorry… this sort of stuff, you know,” he dusts off the knees of his jeans and stands back to full height, “it’s practically pseudo-porn for a vampire historian.”

He tries to laugh it off, but the attempt is as nervous as it is short-lived. Nadya’s pretty sure he’s frowning when he looks at her and asks “what’s the matter?” but she can’t be certain — not with the ridiculous carnival mask he’s decided to put on.

“Why are you wearing that?”

His hand flies to his face. Like most habitual glasses-wearers, more than once Nadya’s caught sight of him pushing up something no longer there. She feels that way right now — but better to rely on contacts for the first leg of their trip than trip and break her only pair before they really got going.

“What, my glasses?” — confusion slowly shifts to concern —  “I’m not… wearing anything.”

“Okay, pull my leg, but really.”

But really he feels around like he’s got no idea what she’s talking about. Which is frankly just dumb. It’s gaudy and gauche and some other g-word that means silly probably. But most importantly it’s there.

Isn’t it?

“Maybe you hit your head in the alley a little harder than I thought.”

He’s halfway to pulling a small pin-flashlight out of his jacket pocket when a voice behind her makes Nadya practically leap out of her skin.

“What’s going on here?”

The hairs on the back of Nadya’s neck stand straight up; not the first time she’s ever felt that happen when there’s a vampire at her back — she’ll take being biologically cautious over potential predators over obliviousness any day. But it’s never happened with someone she knows — someone she considers a friend.

Worse still, she’s heard that tone from Serafine before. Biting; borderline cruel even. Filled with centuries of contempt that Nadya hopes — on some level — she’ll never get advanced enough in her Bloodkeeper powers to understand.

It’s how she spoke to Gaius in her memory of Versailles. And it’s how she’s speaking to Cadence now.

Fortunately (for him), he doesn’t take notice.

“Give us just a moment, Miss Dupont,” he clicks the flashlight on and coaxes Nadya forward, “I’m checking Nadya for a concussion.”

She tries not to tense at the woman’s touch on her shoulder. Luckily Serafine is too fixated on the situation to notice. “Has something happened?” Then, her lilting voice practically in Nadya’s ear—

“Did you see something?”

There’s too much at stake for her to start lying now. “It wasn’t a big… I probably just saw shadows or something.”

“Regardless, it could be important.”

Eventually Cadence angles the light away from her eyes. Nadya has to blink the spots away quickly because he’s barely finished when Serafine’s hands are on her shoulders and turning them to face one another. Away from him, her mind supplies like an instigating little jerk.

Serafine sweeps a long look over their skeletal audience. “Did you see what happened here?”

“No. It wasn’t a memory, that’s why it’s probably nothing.” And judging by the look that gets her, if Nadya tries to brush the woman off one more time she might not get a choice in telling. Okay… fine. “It was a mask.”

“A… mask.”

She isn’t asking. “Yeah, some dumb dingy gold Phantom of the Opera thing. But that’s probably my imagination.”

For the first time since she laid eyes on him, Serafine turns and takes Cadence in fully. He towers over her; but he towers over most. But there’s something in the way she stands that puts her at an advantage, and leaves Nadya wracking her brain to try and understand it. Is it her years; does she wear them like Kamilah does? Or is it her confidence; a personality loud and full of life that outshines the muted greys of Cadence’s identity issues?

Or maybe it’s the one-sided recognition.

She knows.

“Is she well enough to keep going?”

It takes the historian more than a moment to realize it’s him she’s addressing; directly this time, too. He nods. “No signs of a concussion, and if it were something worse we’d see signs by now. I’m not well-read on psychic abilities by any means… but, Nadya,” offering her a shrug and an apologetic smile, “if you saw anything… that’s on you.”

Right now she’d admit to just about anything to cut through this tension.

“It was a shadow, I’m sure of it.”

“I agree.” Serafine says, and wastes no time urging both of the stragglers out of the atrium.

Adrian and Lily are three torch-lengths down when they finally catch up. Serafine resumes her place at the lead.

But this time Cadence keeps several paces back. Trailing along after them in silence; the more intentional cousin of quiet.

Lily takes her place back up at Nadya’s side and links their arms together. “Everything good?” she asks.

“Of course,” Nadya lies, and meets her eyes with the truth.

No. Not at all.

It comes as no surprise that her headaches keep getting worse. Nadya tries to trick herself into believing it’s the pressure from their increasing depth, but eventually she’ll have to accept her tiny human fragility has nothing to do with it — it’s the Bloodkeeper thing.

So long as it makes itself useful when the time is right, she reasons with herself—silently and in her own head; she’s not foolish enough to say it aloud, then everything will be worth it.

“The King’s Manor and the heart of the City are just up ahead!”

Despite all of her earlier grief Serafine can’t control the swelling crescendos of excitement in her voice. The vampire’s equivalent of a heart beating faster and faster. Nadya’s relieved either way — how haven’t they walked all the way to Rome by now? Another ten minutes and she was this close to sucking up her pride and asking Adrian to let her piggyback.

But putting the emotional sentiments aside — it’s just another network of tunnels. Hopefully taller and wider than the last but she’s not putting any money on it. There are only so many ways someone can style what’s essentially a person-sized anthill.

Suffice to say the sudden rush of fresh oxygen in her lungs leaves Nadya lightheaded for more than a few reasons. She swallows it greedily, fully intent on taking advantage of the fact she doesn’t have to share. Which is a good thing.

Because when they all finally stop it’s at the edge of a balcony carved into the side of a natural cliff, with a set of twin stone stairs winding down on either side to the vast expanse of a hollowed-out cavern. And the view punches the breath out of her anyway.

Jax digs the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“Tell me the claustrophobia is getting to me and there’s not a giant French castle in the middle of Deep-Fuck-Nowhere, Underground.”

They can’t. Because there very much is a giant French chateau in the middle of Deep-Eff-Nowhere, Underground. It just sits down there unassuming and strange; looking like someone could have plucked it from the surface world and just dropped the entire estate down a very deep hole to fall right here. Gardens and all. The back of the building is set into the cave wall, and a winding, sloping path cut into the face of the rock spirals up to a natural plateau where a waterfall rushes softly behind. As her brain finally manages to process more of the underground chamber Nadya notices many such paths all curving up and out across the echoing space; almost all of them leading to archways similar to the one above their heads.

Cadence whistles low under his breath. The sound carries, bouncing from stone to stone until a hundred Cadences are seemingly all in concert. “Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Adrian finally manages to pick his jaw up from the ground from sheer awe.

“To think all of this was under Paris’ feet for so long… untouched for all these years.” He glances to Serafine with another compliment on the tip of his tongue, but it dies quickly when he notices the wetness welling up in the corners of her eyes. “What is it — what’s wrong?”

Hastily Serafine shakes the tears down her cheeks and away. “Ce n’est rien,” she chokes out thickly, “it is nothing.”

“Obviously not.”

Their hands meet at their sides; never too far apart.

“I had just assumed that the Knights had destroyed everything in the city. Even le Château de L’Ombre. If I had known that it survived the ambush…” She trails off when words can no longer equate to everything bottled up inside.

None of them try to imagine her grief. (Nadya tries her very best to think of anything else; even bordering on the inappropriate, because of anyone there she’s the one who truly could.) Something so beautiful, so captivating could only have been a labor of passion. And who wouldn’t miss the place they called home?

“But never mind the past — we cannot change it no matter how hard we wish or pray.” Nadya swears she catches a flicker of her dark eyes, but her curls make it impossible to be certain. “If the manor’s interior is as intact as the structure itself, I have high hopes for our mission.”

She takes the lead down one side of the steep stone steps. Adrian stays close at her side, and one by one they follow. Natural moisture from the close waterfall have left the steps slick and eroded unevenly; but while Nadya practically tiptoes down each one Lily looks ready to just slide down the banister.

“Finally,” she grins and stretches high up to the (finally) out-of-reach ceiling, “some good luc—ow!”

Rubbing her bruised upper arm, Lily throws a bewildered glare at Jax behind her. “Firstly; ow, rude! Secondly; that’s way no fair. You’ve got, like, fifty years on me you geezer.”

He just shrugs; doesn’t regret a thing. “Then stop jinxing us.”

“I’m using reverse psychology.”

“You can’t — that doesn’t make any sense.”

“You know what else doesn’t make any sense?”

Nadya tries to warn him as sneakily as she can, but the stubborn man ignores her and falls right into Lily’s trap. “What?”

“Your mom.”

Smack! Nadya facepalms so hard it echoes off the stone and follows them all the way down to the Manor.

Age and air thick with mist had rusted the front door’s metal hinges a long time ago. All it takes is the lightest push and the nails bend, groan, and snap in their anchors. Serafine had meant to open the doors. Instead she pushes them inward in creaking defeat.

The fallen wood kicks up centuries’ worth of dust—it’s just dust Nadya it’s just dust just tell yourself it’s dust—she tugs the collar of her sweater up over her mouth to keep from breathing it in. At least Serafine has the decency to look back at her with an apologetic wince. “Désolé, Nadya,” she whispers, and kindly waits until the cloud settles before venturing on.

They creep through the shadowy foyer; shuffling feet and the eerie lack of her companions’ breathing makes Nadya feel like a thief in the night. It’s eerie; predatory. But finally it dawns on her… that’s the point.

They listen; they wait.

Just before her heart can jump out of her throat Adrian gives the all clear.

“We’re alone.”

But that doesn’t mean they can spread themselves thin. Better safe than sorry. Serafine says something up ahead about the residential wing… full disclosure — Nadya isn’t really listening anymore. In her exhaustion she’s practically joined them in the ranks of the walking dead.

Thankfully for her aching feet  they don’t continue much farther. A right turn opens out to a different foyer with similar stairs to the ones outside at the far end. Between sweet sweet sleep and where they stand, though, is another wave of collapsed armor and skeletons. She whines and tries to breathe through her mouth as much as possible.

They navigate the floor like a minefield of bone. Lily couldn’t look more ecstatic — though she’s decent enough to keep it to herself for now. Nadya wouldn’t mind if, like the video games they seem to be living now, there was some reward or loot on the other side. But nope.

Just more walking.

Nadya’s stamina bar runs dry parallel to their arrival. She’s only lucky in the little things after all. “Pick a room at your leisure.” Serafine says, and motions with both hands to old half-rotten doors lining either side of the hall. “We shouldn’t waste more time than we already have, but this is not a venture to undertake without a rested mind.” Nadya looks up and finds the vampiress addressing her specifically. “Once we begin, we can’t risk stopping. Conserve your strength.”

Nadya yawns unabashedly. “Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

And she’s not the only one. Jax ducks into a room on the other side of the hall without so much as a “sweet dreams.” After a moment’s pondering Cadence takes the adjacent door equally wordless — though he at least offers Nadya a tight-lipped smile before closing the door.

Lily and Nadya take the nearest door; but hang back and watch as Serafine takes Adrian’s hand and coaxes him further on, teasing him under her breath. “My old chambers are close. Come along.”

“You know you guys should be resting too, right?” Nadya calls out; and doesn’t have even a lick of regret that the last of her energy is used for sass.

“Goodnight, Nadya.” Adrian says back; without looking.

Lily snickers beside her; puts one hand on the door ready to close it quickly before she shouts out to them; “Use protection!” And slams the door shut.

“What are you still doing here? I thought we agreed to abandon the first places he would look.”

“For you — yes,” she answers; but can’t seem to tear her eyes away from the wide stretch of the city out before her, “but for me it would be a fruitless effort. When the time comes he will find me no matter where I am. It is inevitable.”

The smuggler vampire hates talking to peoples’ backs. Just one of the many things she’s come to learn about Ms. Espinoza in their weeks working together. So she isn’t surprised when the woman comes into view at her side.

It is inconsequential in the end; as most things are.

A long moment of silence passes around them, between them — through them. Neither compelled to speak by any forces greater than themselves. And neither big fans of idle chit-chat, either.

Finally she pulls back; wraps long fingers around the rooftop railing still wet from that afternoon’s rain. Standing here in their melancholy, however mutual it may be, is not a luxury they can afford.

They have such precious little time as it is.

“Is everything in place?”

The younger vampire gives a curt nod. “My guys could only get two trucks. There were some suits nosing around the warehouse night before last; asking questions.”

“Human?”

“Couldn’t be sure. They definitely knew something was up.”

There are too many possibilities; too many variables. Each worse than the last. Centuries of battles and wars — both as a weapon on the field and commanding from the shadows — but it is here, in the middle of a city that could not be more oblivious, that all of her experience fails her.

“The governor agreed to give us until the end of the week before bringing forth her own measures.”

“Forgive how fuckin’ little I believe that.” Maricruz laughs bitterly. The disrespect alone in the look thrown her way would have been grounds for her to bring the brandless, no-name vampire to a heel once upon a time. But those times are long gone.

And here she is, trying with all of her might to keep them from returning. But the passage of time has never left her wanting for irony in any form before. Why would it now? She’s never been bored enough to pursue the universal theological truth, but whatever higher power was pulling her along really needed to back the fuck off.

“Regardless,” though she wishes desperately this weren’t the case, “we have no choice but to continue as planned. Make sure they are loaded and your men are ready to make the trip as soon as the riots begin. Our window of opportunity is smaller than I would like, but we’ll make do with what we have.”

“And if they don’t make it?”

A very real possibility; one she’s had to come to terms with against all else.

Against that familiar voice echoing in the back of her thoughts begging of her — demanding of her — that she do everything in her power to save everyone. That is what Nadya would do. That is the kind of person she is.

That is the kind of person Nadya believes her to be, and she intends to be worthy of it.

“Then we relocate those remaining and try again.”

Whatever argument Maricruz wishes to offer is lost when the first high-pitched wails of police sirens trickle up from the streets below. Little flecks of flashing red and blue weaving against the darkness and towards the heart of the city. Towards the first of many uprisings to come this night.

“Looks like it’s go-time.”

Indeed, she agrees silently; yet finds herself frozen. Kept still by the air and the voice; once thought of — never quite forgotten.

But she would not want to forget.

This is why she fights after all.

“You comin’ along this time?” Maricruz calls out to her; voice distant as she nears the rooftop exit.

She closes her eyes; feels the sharpness of the wind try to cut at her from this high in the heavens. Trying to chisel away at the eternity of her. It has before… but not this time.

“Are you coming or what?! Oi — Kamilah!”

Nadya can still taste the freshness of the city night air on her tongue. She keeps her eyes closed out of desperation; a longing that she knows is in vain but hopes she can power through regardless.

But it’s no use. The memory is gone… and Kamilah with it.

[soft---darkness]

Alone With The Dark- Bim Trimmer

Oof. I'm going to be honest with you guys, this ones rough. Its not the best thing I've ever made, but it was nice to write. I treated it a little bit like a vent and then twisted it into a sad story. Sorry about that lol. But I do think you guys will enjoy it! read the trigger warnings though!!

And again- this series is not going to be in any specific chronological order nor should you assume that future or past parts are related to each other. This is just me having some fun with the idea of Dark being the good guy

Trigger warnings- major character death, depressed thoughts, apathy/numbness, talk about death (stay safe my friends :) )

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

Bim collapsed onto his bed with a shaky gasp, his nearly transparent body wavering for a moment when it touched the solid surface. His room was barely lit but it didn't make a difference to him- his vision was blurry anyway. He whimpered slightly as he curled in on himself, shivering violently. He felt a deep and chilling cold in his bones, but he didn't bother getting under the covers. He knew it wouldn't help, the cold he was feeling didn't come from the weather or from an open window. It was the chill of death and Bim knew that it was unavoidable.

He knew what was happening and what was going to happen. He had been aware of what was going to come from the first moment he had been able to see through his fingertips. A week ago, he had been eating a late lunch when he went to grab his glass of water and realized that the very tips of his fingers were slightly transparent. Horror had caused him to drop the glass and stand up, stomach rolling in fear. He had run out of the room and thrown himself over the toilet, retching violently. A terrifying thought had rushed to his brain as he trembled in the bathroom. He, Bim Trimmer, was fading away after just a month of existence.

He had known it was a possibility from the beginning, but that didn't make it any easier. Their creator, Markiplier, had a habit of introducing a new ego and then never making another video about them again. The fans would be excited by the premiere at first and they would make fan art and stories about the new ego...but eventually the hype died down and the figment would fall into the background.

This wasn't an issue for most figments and they would stay popular enough to survive until their next appearance, but it seemed that Bim wasn't one of the lucky ones. He hadn't been quite as popular as most when he had first appeared and the excitement of his character had faded quickly amongst the fan base. He had also been introduced just before Google, who had generated much more excitement with the fans. So of course, it was to be expected that Bim would fade quicker than most. He just wasn't expecting it so soon…

The others hadn't been surprised either. A lot of egos didn't make it through their first year, so everyone tried to not get too attached to new arrivals. And while seeing semi-transparent egos fade around them was a sad sight, those that did make it got used to it quickly. It was expected that no one really mention or talk about fading, as if not addressing it would help keep the unlucky alive. Bim as starting to think that it was just everyone's way of dealing with the guilt. Because he knew that the others were secretly relieved that it was him fading and not them.

But there was no point in being upset or angry at anyone now. He’d be gone soon anyway.

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

Bim wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard a soft knock at his door. It had to have been hours since he had curled up on his bed in a pathetic heap. A quick glance out the window told Bim that it was nighttime now, but how late it was he wasn't sure. But whatever time it was, there was no reason for anyone to be at his door. Everyone knew what was happening to him right now, and they had all individually decided to ignore him. It was just easier that way, to pretend like he didn't exist. He wouldn't tomorrow anyway.

Bim waited for the person or other ego to go away. He didn't feel like talking and he couldn't stand the thought of seeing someone's pity-filled face right now. Some of the egos that did care that he was fading always wore the same piteous face around him. Dr. Iplier and Silver were the most guilty of it. They had talked down to Bim during the few weeks of his fading as if he was a kicked puppy or sad child. But he wasn't a child. He was a grown and dying adult that didn't want their pity.

So Bim ignored the knock. In fact, he barely shifted from his balled position, sans the constant tremors that were running through his wavering body. He stayed still and listened for the expected sound of retreating footsteps to disappear down the hallway. However, the ego at the door ignored his obvious wishes to be left alone. Bim scowled when he heard the door being pushed open without his permission. He lifted his head shakily, fully prepared to tell this person off, trembly voice and all. However, he paused when he saw who had entered his dim room.

He sat quietly and somewhat dumb-founded when Dark slid into his room and shut the door behind him gently. This was the last person he had expected to make an appearance. But there he was, standing by the closed door with a more casual dressing than Bim had ever seen him in before. He wasn't wearing his normal suit jacket and had even ditched his tie, settling instead to unbutton the collar of his dress shirt. Bim glanced down near Dark’s hands and noted that the entity had his cane with him, which was rare for the other egos to see.

Bim made note of these strange occurrences quickly and then glanced back up at Dark’s face, trying to seek out what the demon’s intentions were. He searched the entity’s eyes for the normal pitying look the others wore, but he didn't find it. Nor did he find any malice or look of aggression. So Bim settled back down again, deciding that he was not in any danger from this interaction. Dark could do as he wished. Bim was tired. But Dark didn't leave him be. Instead, the other ego cleared his throat and came a little closer to the bed, hoping to gain back Bim’s attention. The demon waited until Bim looked back up at him before he spoke, standing in a patient manner until the show host shifted slightly and glanced at him. He recognized Bim’s slow movements and the pained look on his face and frowned in response, but did not comment on it. Instead he made a small gesture to the bed with his free hand. “May I?” He asked softly, head tilted at a slight angle as he talked.

Bim raised a confused eyebrow, though he wasn't sure if Dark could see it due to his transparent nature. He wasn't completely sure what was being asked of him at the moment, but he supposed nothing terrible would come if he accepted the vague request. “Suuuure?” He answered the question with his own questioning tone, though his voice came out scratchy and rough sounding. It caused the show host to cringe slightly, but he tried to ignore it. He shifted slightly to the side, allowing room for the entity to sit. To his surprise, Dark instead slowly shifted on to the bed and laid down, propped up somewhat by the backboard. Bim slowly scotted up as well, mimicking Dark’s pose and staring straight ahead.

He sighed softly to himself as he awaited the normal cliche questions. He hadn't gotten to know Dark much in the month he had been here, but with the time he had spent with the demon he sure hadn’t pegged him as the therapist type. Bim didn't care much though. Perhaps it would feel nice to talk about how he felt about all of this anyway… He hadn't been able to talk it out with anyone else due to the taboo of the subject and Bim decided that maybe venting would be nice.

But the questions never came and the two sat in silence for longer than Bim could say. Eventually he glanced at the quiet entity apprehensively and studied the mans face. He looked to be deep in thought but peaceful, an odd crease in his eyebrows and a soft frown on his face. Bim hated to break the silence and peace, but the urge to talk to someone had gotten stronger. He wasn't used to the feeling of loneliness, but now that there was another person near him he felt the pain of it. It was cold and hard in his heart and his stomach and almost worse than the feeling of death that was slowly engulfing him.

So he cleared his throat roughly to try and gain the other’s attention, the noise worse than before in its hoarseness. He grimaced at the ragged sound, but continued anyway. “Aren't you going to ask me if I'm okay?” The question was voiced with more malice than Bim had intended, and he flushed with slight embarrassment. He kept his gaze forward, refusing to look at the other ego in the room even when he felt the demon’s eyes on him.

Dark pondered the question for a moment but then shook his head, well aware that Bim couldn't see it. “No. I already know the answer.” His tone was not sympathetic, nor filled with pity, but it held an element of gentleness that came only from a personal kind of understanding. Dark knew that Bim was not okay. He knew exactly what Bim was going through right now and that he was probably everything except okay.

The demon was content to let the conversation end there, but then he reconsidered. He spoke up again, this time asking a question of his own. “Would you like me to ask you if you are okay?” He glanced at the show host, a questioning eyebrow raised.

His tone didn't hold judgement though, and Bim decided that it was a legitimate question. So he nodded shakily, not answering verbally. He didn't want to hear his own broken voice in comparison to Dark’s smooth tone. He still refused to look at the demon, instead staring a hole through the wall straight ahead. If he still had a solid body than he would have been bright red in embarrassment. He felt silly asking for this, but it helped beat down the terrible lonesome feeling in his chest. And Dark didn't seem to be judging him. He had offered to ask, and he had come here on his own volition, hadn't he? The logical thoughts calmed Bim a little bit, and he attempted to shake off the lingering apprehension he felt.

Dark nodded after a brief moment and looked back at Bim, this time smiling slightly as the other met his eyes. “Alright. Are you okay?” He spoke naturally and somewhat lightly, treating this situation as if he was simply talking to a friend. It was a bit strange to speak so casually, especially considering the situation, but Dark assumed Bim didn't want to be talked down too.

Bim took a moment to respond, truly thinking about the question. He turned away from Dark again as his eyebrows curled in thought. He realized then that he had been trying to push down his feelings about dying and wasn't even sure how he felt. Perhaps the other egos might not be the only ones guilty of ignoring the topic of fading...

After a moment he let out a ragged sound, somewhere between a sob and a sigh, and stuttered through an unsure answer. “I don't really...know. I feel like I should feel something, but I just don't. I'm not angry or sad or even really scared.” It didn't feel like he was dying. The pain was there, but he felt...disconnected from it. Like he was watching a stranger die. It was then he looked back at Dark, his eyes expressing the turmoil he felt. He spoke again, voice much quieter and somewhat childlike. “Should I be scared?”

Dark was silent for a moment this time. He didn't know how to answer this kind of question. Emotions aren't exactly his strong suit, but he felt a pang of sympathy for Bim and felt as if he needed to find an answer someway or another. “No, I don't think so. It won't change anything. But I do think you have a right to be.” He thought for a moment before continuing, debating whether or not to disclose some private information about himself for the sake of comforting another. He decided quickly and continued, though he spoke in a more guarded manner this time. “I wasn't.”

Bim blinked in surprise at that, his eyes widening a bit. “You've faded before? How are you here?” He felt somewhat bad for asking about what must be sensitive information, but he couldn't help himself.

Luckily for him though, Dark seemed to be willing to talk about it. “Yes, i've faded before. Three times actually. Sometimes those that fade can come back, but only if the fans take interest again. It's very rare.” The demon put emphasis on the last part, not wanting to give the other false hope about his situation. The chances of him coming back were 10,000 to 1.

Bim just nodded, thinking over the information quietly to himself. He hadn't heard the others mention this, so he assumed that they didn't know. He frowned at this idea and glanced at the entity, an odd look on his face as he questioned him softly. “How come the others don’t know about this?”

He was afraid he had pushed too far when Dark made a soft noise in his throat. It was some kind of a grunt or a growl, and though it didn't sound too threatening Bim couldn't be sure. But Dark did not lash out or get up to leave, just layed on the bed and shook his head slowly. “I was alone everytime it happened.” He didn't elaborate any further, and Bim wanted to ask whether this was by his own choice, or if the others had treated Dark similar to himself. He didn't push it though, too scared that Dark would get angry and leave him alone.

He did have to ask one last question though, the one question he had had since Dark had walked in the room. “Why are you here? With me?” He made eye contact with the other ego, trying to understand what would motivate the demon to be here for him when none of the others would.

Dark huffed a bitter sounding laugh, holding Bim gaze with a pained one of his own. “No one should have to die alone. Not you. Not anybody.”

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

The two egos had lapsed into silence after that, content to simply lay together in a sort of vulnerable quiet. Eventually, Dark saw Bim’s shaking form start to flicker. Every time his form would blink back it would be weaker and the show host would look more transparent.

But eventually he didn't flicker back at all.

And Dark understood that he was alone once more.

[foramomentonly]

Nail In My Coffin, Part Four

Part One    Part Two    Part Three

Summary: Alex and Kyle are fashion designers on a Next In Fashion style reality show. Michael is their model. Dom/sub elements. Prompt courtesy of @signoraviolettavalery .

Author’s Note: This takes place between Parts Two and Three, but they don’t have to be read chronologically. I’m certainly not writing them that way! Hope you enjoy! I’m tagging these under Malex fashion au.

TW for discussion of chronic pain and loss of limb/amputation (but in absolutely no detail)

Read on AO3

It's a bad day. Alex knows it the second he opens his eyes. He tries to sit up in bed and feels his hip seize and a shooting, all-encompassing pain travel from the hinge of his joint all the way down his stump and into the empty space that still aches like it remembers what it felt like to be whole. He suffers through his morning exercises that do jack shit on days like this and showers. His crutch is leaning against the dresser as he searches a drawer for clean clothes, and even though he longs to say fuck it and take it with him, he steels himself and instead digs out his prescription painkillers—the ones you absolutely do not fuck around with—and swallows a single pill dry, stuffing the bottle in his pocket in preparation for a long, agonizing day in the studio.

When he and Kyle were first selected for the show, Alex requested a sit-down with the producers. He got fifteen minutes. He used them to explain, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be talking on camera about his prosthesis or his partial loss of limb in the line of duty. His feelings about his military service are ambivalent. It’s shaped who he has become in ways Alex both values and, on days when he disassociates and feels his grasp on his own humanity go slippery and loose, fears. But he would not allow himself to become a sympathetic poster child on a potentially global scale for streaming’s brand of heartwarming American nationalism—a decorated vet, a queer, Indigenous man who put his body on the line for a country that really does love and respect him after all. The producers played dumb at first, but in the face of Alex’s commanding insistence, they agreed Alex will never be asked directly about his time in the Air Force and, at his discretion, he will only be filmed from the waist up.

The moment they arrive at the studio, driven in from their hotel at an ungodly hour, Alex finds the producer on set and lets them know today is one of those days. When he meets Kyle at their work station he’s touched, but not surprised to find a low stool with a thin seat cushion waiting for him. He and Kyle have shared space for so long—and shared confidences for even longer—that his partner could no doubt tell Alex is in pain simply from the tight line of his mouth and the twitch of his brow when he hefted himself in and out of the large studio van.

“Thank you,” Alex murmurs, sliding onto the stool and adjusting himself so the pain radiating down his thigh is at a dull, insistent ache rather than a sharp, agonizing jolt. Kyle, a master class in discretion, barely spares him a glance.

“You let them know?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve got a lot of hem work to do, before and after Michael gets here,” he warns.

“I know.”

“I can take the bulk of it-”

“No,” Alex says, shutting him down swiftly.

Kyle purses his lips, but doesn’t argue.

***

Michael ambles into the studio with the other models a little after midday. He forces himself to play it casual, wandering over to craft services and making small talk with a designer taking a quick coffee break. But his gaze seeks out Alex across the room, and he grounds himself with deep breaths and the bite of his own nails against his palm to keep from dropping to his knees on the spot. Alex is working with a garment on their dress form, intent and focused, all broad shoulders and perfect posture. He runs a hand across the chest, smoothing the fabric in wide, sure strokes, and Michael licks his lips, misses whatever inane comment was just made in his direction, and he knows he isn’t going to last long.

The first time he’d seen Alex, Michael had assumed he was looking at a fellow professional. Alex’s dark features, his dramatic cheekbones and brow, and the toned body evident underneath an unassuming t-shirt all screamed model. Not to mention those lips. When he was introduced as a designer, one half of a buzz-worthy menswear brand made up of a former Air Force captain and a med school graduate, Michael secretly hoped he’d get a chance to work with them. He loves modeling for so many reasons. He craves the positive attention his looks and swagger bring him—nothing wrong with that—and he finds creative expression in being part of realizing an artist’s vision on the runway or in front of a camera. But the first time an impatient and harried designer had used Michael’s body like a life-size doll, manhandling him into positions and movements with little more than a gruff “up,” he had experienced a bone-deep satisfaction in relinquishing his body and his agency to another person that brought a whole new level of fulfillment to his work. It’s comforting and secure and, on occasion, incredibly erotic. He starts identifying parallel dynamics in his personal life—Isobel basically doms him into doing stupid shit every other week—and seeking it out in his sex life. Still, no professional experience or carefully-planned scene had ever felt like the toe-curling, mind-melting experience of receiving a command or a touch from Alex Manes. 

Michael manages to idle a few more minutes for appearance’s sake before heading over for his consult. Alex and Kyle stand side to side, dark heads drawn together over a what appears to be a task list at the same table Michael had found himself bent over just last week, surrendering completely to Alex’s precise, wicked whims. Just the memory excites him, and Michael practically skips up to his designers’ station. He reaches out a hand and raps his knuckles on the thick tabletop for attention.

“Knock, knock,” he drawls, grinning cheekily at Alex. Alex barely cracks a smile, but that’s hardly unusual. The more stoic Alex is, Michael’s coming to realize, and the more brusque his commands, the more gorgeous it is when he inevitably comes apart. 

Kyle smiles affably.

“Hi, Guerin,” he says, moving to take their garments off the dress form, and Michael lets his smile fall slightly when Alex keeps his back to him at the table, knuckles white as he grips the edge almost as if for balance.

“So, for now we’ll just ask you to try on the skirt-pants,” Kyle explains, leading him up onto the base, “but could you also take off your shirt? It’ll just be in Alex’s way while he’s making adjustments.”

Michael watches Kyle return to Alex’s side and speak low into his ear, a hand hovering over the small of Alex’s back. He knows better than to be suspicious of Alex and Kyle’s relationship—it’s clearly a deep, brotherly bond—but Kyle almost seems to be taking care of Alex and, well, Michael wants to be the one to do that.

“I’ll bring you a water,” Kyle says in a louder voice, heading off towards the back of the studio, and Michael fumbles to get changed as Alex turns abruptly towards him, supplies in hand. 

“I could have brought you something,” Michael says, “I was over there.”

“It’s fine,” Alex answers briskly, setting his materials on the edge of the base and lowering himself slowly into a squat. He glances up at Michael and maybe he senses Michael’s anxiety or maybe he’d just been preoccupied before, but his face softens and he offers a warm, soothing smile.

“I”m sorry, beautiful,” he murmurs, and Michael feels like his body and mind are sinking slowly into a warm, sweet-smelling pool. “Step forward for me.”

Michael steps closer and Alex’s fingers immediately curl around his ankle, squeezing lightly. 

“I’m gonna be down here for awhile,” Alex says, voice clear, but a tad strained. “Stay still for me, sweetheart.”

Michael breathes deep, lets the weight of the command sit heavy on his shoulders, straighten his spine, anchor his feet to the ground. And then he lets himself float, mind clear and body featherlight, Alex’s touch guiding his movements and keeping him grounded. Maybe ten minutes pass, maybe an hour. Michael is only sure of the light press of Alex’s grip on his ankle and the brush of his fingertips across a shin or up his thigh. Alex is quiet, diligent as he works, but the occasional gentle squeeze and soft, “There you go.” is all Michael needs to know he’s done good.

At some point, Alex’s hand slides up his leg, gripping tight on his calf. Michael expects to be guided into a different position or angle, but instead, Alex groans and adjusts his own stance, cupping the back of his right thigh and glowering when he briefly loses his balance and digs blunt fingernails into Michael’s calf to steady himself.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his palm over the crescent moons indented in Michael’s skin. 

“It’s okay,” Michael replies, looking down assuringly at Alex.

Alex begins to rise slowly, his mouth a tight grimace, and Michael realizes he’s sweating lightly. He lets his arm jut out subtly, bending slightly at the elbow, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Alex grips his forearm tightly to pull himself the rest of the way to standing. Circling Michael slowly, Alex slips behind him and grasps Michael’s hips. He could be checking the fit of the garment’s waist, but his usually busy fingers are still and he’s pressing into Michael where they’re connected, shifting his body weight from his right side to his left and using his grip on Michael for balance. In the silence between them, Michael hears his labored breathing, feels the heavy puffs on his naked back.

“Rest for a minute, Captain,” he says softly, “no one’s gonna see.”

Alex squeezes Michael’s hips and Michael feels the damp press of Alex’s forehead between the blades of his shoulders. Scanning the room, he checks that no one is paying them any attention; between the countdown to runway and the minor disaster happening with a team’s dress across the studio they aren’t on anyone’s radar.

“Take your time,” Michael whispers, “no one’s looking.”

Alex’s breathing steadies after another minute, falling in sync with Michael’s own. The rustle of a pill bottle is loud to Michael’s ear after the stillness of their shared moment; he hears the pop of a cap and feels Alex lift and tilt his head back, then more rustling as the bottle is capped and goes back into, Michael assumes, Alex’s pocket. He waits. Alex chances a soft kiss to the back of Michael’s neck, then appears in front of him looking rumpled and tired, but steady.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says.

He looks down, fixing his attention on the front clasp of the garment, and Michael wonders if that’s the most Alex is going to say. Michael’s already decided he’s not going to press him. But after a beat Alex begins to speak.

“I lost a quarter of my right leg, amputated just under the knee on my last tour,” he says, voice pitched low, tone detached and clinical. “That was a little over a year ago. I have a prosthesis and some days I use a crutch. I do physical therapy, but it only takes you so far.” He adjusts his shoulders, takes a quick look around, and continues. “There’s pain. Some days it’s manageable. Others…” He breathes out. “I’m private. I don’t want my personal business turned into some kind of after-school special.” Alex raises his head and fixes Michael with an intense, searching gaze. “This is a lot. You can take your time to process everything, and if you don’t want to continue our— as we’ve been, I understand. But I’m asking for your discretion either way.”

Michael meets his gaze openly, steadily.

“I’ll do anything you ask me to,” he says. “I don’t need time. I want you. I want to be what you need.”

Alex smiles and his hand twitches at Michael’s waist. His let the back of his fingers brush against Michael’s abdomen, a gentle caress that’s all warmth and no heat. 

Michael tilts his head closer and whispers, “What do you need, Alex?”

“I need fifteen minutes,” he answers, “and I need a reason to sit down.”

Michael grins, cocky and sure and drawing attention to himself as he rears back and says loudly, “I just don’t get this look, man. Maybe if I could see the sketches? You could give me some insight?”

Smirking privately at Michael, Alex lets a well-practiced annoyance pull at his features as he rolls his eyes dramatically and turn away.

“Over here,” he snaps, gesturing to his work station. Michael leans on the table next to Alex’s stool as he slides onto it, breathing a quiet, grateful sigh and taking a long swig of the water Kyle had left for him, subtly massaging his thigh.

“I’d do that for you, you know, if I could,” Michael murmurs, shifting closer under the guise of examining a sketch and letting his fingers dance over Alex’s knee. “I can promise a very happy ending.”

Alex snorts, pressing the back of his hand to his lips and swallowing a mouthful of water with a gasp, shoulders shaking with laughter. Michael shoots him a dirty grin.

From his place behind the dress form, Kyle makes a face like a carp and a noise like an offended bull.

He glares at them from around his work and says, “This is why I take so many damn coffee breaks.”