#unless i squash that urge WHICH I DID!!!! FUCK YEAH

[lightningfilledsaber]

I AM THE FUCKING KING OF COMMUNICATION

[gothic-thoughts]

Getting Through To You

Michael Myers x Black Fem Reader Fluff

Second Meeting, Nurse!Reader, AsylumPatient!Michael

Part 1: Right Here

Part 3: Right Here

CW: trying to get to know Michael, a little angsty at the end

TW: strangling (not you lol), violence mentioned

Word Count: 1442 (give or take)

The next day, the guards guide me to his room again, unlocking it and letting me in. Even though he seemed to like me yesterday, I, of course, was still afraid, tightly holding my clipboard.

“H-hey Michael...”

Michael was sitting on his bed, watching me enter, eyes drifting back to the door as it slowly closed behind me. Hoping he still felt the same about me as he did the other day, I wave at him sheepishly.

“Remember me from yesterday...?”

In silence, he just continues to watch me for a few more seconds before abruptly standing to which I gasp in surprise and quickly jump back. Michael makes his way over and I stand as still as I can, trying to show no fear since our fairly tame interaction yesterday but the weight of his intensity eventually squashes my courage and I end up backing away.

“U-uh...” I wave again, “Hi... I-I don't think I told you my name yesterday.”

He kept following me as I backed up, towering over me with his bulky frame until my back was flush with the wall backing me up against the wall.

“I'm (Y/n).”

He pauses, hair dangling to the side when he cocks his head.

“Y-yeah, (Y/n)...”

He slowly leans down a little closer to my height, but his intensity makes my skin crawl and my breathing halt.

“So how are you feeling today?”

Ugh, no answer. Maybe I’m not getting through to him? I start checking boxes and writing on my paper, the sound of the pen dancing along the clipboard loud in the dark, quiet room. He slowly lifts one of his large hands and with a surprising amount of carefulness, he grabs the top of the clipboard and slowly leans it back to peek. My shoulders relax at the curious gesture.

“Oh, I'm just writing how you feel.” I smile hopefully, “Cuz I gotta ask you some questions, is that... okay?”

The killer nods slightly.

“It’s only a couple. Can you, uh... Can you back up a little bit?”

He lets go of my board and takes a few heavy steps back, finally giving me the space I need to breathe properly.

“Uh... when’s the last time you, uh... had a violent urge...?”

Dead-air. I know he likes me and I know he definitely understands me. Maybe he’s just mute...? 

“Hm, you really don't talk, do you?”

Silence. I roll my eyes. What the fuck. Yet another thing my boss left out, got me asking a mute man questions. Ugh. Hearing his knuckles crack, I look up at him to see his eyes narrowed behind the eyeholes of his mask, the sight making my eyeholes widen in realization. I quickly backtrack as I reach out to touch his fist, a weak attempt at keeping it down.

“No, no! I wasn’t rolling my eyes at you!”

His eyes remain the same as his head tilted again.

“I was just mad that nobody told me you didn’t talk, that’s all. I don’t mind if you don’t talk but I wouldn’t be asking you questions if I knew that you...wouldn’t really answer them. Or rather...”

My boss told me not to come back unless the paper was filled out so I went with the first idea that popped into my head: just ask him yes or no questions. Might take a little bit longer if I get no’s but there’s no talking required. It’s the best chance I got.

“Okay, can we try something else?” I think for a second before tensing at the only question that appeared, “I-I heard about the nurse before... is it true you didn't like her?”

His eyes seem to get darker, his entire unit of a body tensing as his breathing becomes heavier, causing me to pull my hand back from his still-clenched fist. Guess that answers that question.

“Okay, okay... Easy...” My hands go up in surrender, “I... I'm not mad, not judging, just asking, remember?”

The tension in the room halts when his heavy breaths stop, the area now silent as if he were holding his breath. The killer’s shoulders lower slowly and his fists open at his sides, getting a soft sigh of relief out of me.

“Yeah, there you go. That's it.”

His blue, dead eyes behind the mask finally drift away from me as he shuffles over to his wall of homemade papier-mâché masks. He slowly reaches up and touches one of them, petting it lightly and seeming to calm down even further.

“Did you make those?”

He pulls down one of the masks and holds it as he slowly nods his head. 

“They look...nice... You made them for Halloween..?”

Another wordless nod.

“Oh, well they’re really nice. Can I... keep asking questions?”

Another nod.

“Alright... do you like your new nurse...?”

He goes still. His head slowly tilts down to look at the mask in his hand before his eyes suddenly snap back up to me. Oh great. He drops the mask and steps over it to get closer but I jump back with a shriek, hoping the guards heard and took it as a sign of potential danger.

“Guess that's a no... B-but what did I do?” I keep backing away, crossing his room in the other direction, “Is there something you don't like about me...?”

Michael suddenly grabs my arm in his strong grip, making me scream again and flinch, this time the sound getting the guard's attention enough to call out for Michael, but the killer uncaringly lowers his head until our eyes meet. He slowly raises his right hand and uses a couple of fingers to pet my corresponding cheek— with the same amount of care he used with his mask.

“Y-you don't like my face...?”

Michael keeps moving his hands gently, the rough, dangerous fingers tracing my skin delicately like he doesn't want to break it, the gesture somehow calming my heart rate.

“You... like my face...? God, I never seen you so... like this...”

I slowly raised my hand, making sure he was following my movements as touched the back of the hand he was petting me with. Michael doesn’t stop me, instead stilling his hand to allow me to feel his cold skin. He almost felt dead, giving me a chill but I compose myself as I look at his orange mask in more depth, appreciating how much long it must’ve taken to make it, hell how long it must’ve taken to make all of them.

“Aw Michael, you're freezing.”

He doesn't respond to my comment but he huffs behind the mask as his shoulders relax.

“How... how many people have got this close to you.... a-and lived...?”

Michael tilts his head, supposedly thinking for a moment before he realigns his head and lifts his free hand, holding up two fingers before my face. I gasp in shock. This is the most he’s spoken— or well, opened up, I guess. Nodding, I pull my hand from his but without warning, he grabs my wrist in a firm but gentle grip, stopping me, but not hurting me. My heart clenches and beats a little faster as I put my hand back, his breathing once again becoming undetectable.

I look up at his mask, slowly lifting my other hand and touching his shaggy, dreaded hair, my fingers running getting caught in the thick, brown strands that messily clung together. He watches me silently the whole time so I give him a small smile as I become more and more soothed by his presence. The guards suddenly bang on the door as they bust in, startling me out of the moment.

I drop my clipboard and jump away from Michael with a sharp gasp as my body goes back into flight mode. Why are they in here? What did he do? It couldn’t have been from when I screamed earlier, that was like forever ago! We were finally bonding! Or was he about to do something and I didn’t see it?

Before another question could cross my mind, Michael stomps over to the two guards, his tall form immediately dwarfing them as he grabs them both by the throat, crushing their windpipes as they choke and kick for air. I stare in horror, wondering how and why I ever let myself get so close to that monster. They could’ve been me. I contemplated calling out for him but I didn’t wanna be next so as more guards rushed in to try their best to subdue him, I ran out of the room as the sound of crackling electricity and pained screams rang out in the hallway.

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After the incident, I was given a little over a week of vacation to cope and work through any trauma I got from seeing Michael attack for the first time.

Except I didn’t really have any trauma, I was just... scared. Terrified, really. I guess I’m just glad it wasn’t aimed towards me... He seemed like he went out of his way to make sure he attacked the guards.

I mean I was standing right there, and I was touching his hair! He had all the chances to attack, but he didn’t.

Hell he didn’t even push me out the way when he stalked over to the guards, he stepped around me. Maybe it was the noise.

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(a/n): This gonna be a mini saga, part 3 coming out soon 😁😁

[wreckofawriter]

Best Not To Cry Over Spilled Milk

Pairing: James Potter x Sirius' twin!reader

Warnings: A shit ton of angst, a little swearing

Word Count: 3,779

Request: @rini-scallison: May I request something? If I may I would like to request something like not so perfect sister but instead it’s with Sirius as the brother (a twin if you may) and the reader is like the perfect daughter and Sirius hates her but she tries really hard for him to have a happy life and there’s a bunch of angst and stuff ! You can add a romance in there if you would like too ! Thank you!

A/n: Okay sooo I'm not sure if this is exscatly what the request was but it's how I interpreted it, I really like it at least, I hope you guys do to. I'm hoping to bang out my last few requests, I'm quarantined till April 12th sooo... (stay safe everyone, love you all <3)

Sirius liked to believe he was a pleasant person. At least for the most part, and considering his background, he thought he did pretty good. He may not have been an angel but he had good friends, he helped those around him and unless your name was Severus, he was usually kind. Usually. Unfortunatly there were two people in this world that could break his carefully crafted exterior in a matter of seconds. They both shared his name.

The first was his mother, someone who in all honesty he saw as less of a human and more of a grotesque creature from a child’s nightmare. In his mind, her black heels were replaced by sharp talons. Her long fingernails were claws of obsidian and her dark eyes had the ability to turn you to stone. She had spent her time in Sirius’ life diminishing him to nothing more than a clone of her terror as he tried to make himself anything but. 

The second was a success story. The clone of his mother’s terror. His beloved twin, y/n Black or as many had taken to calling her recently; the Slytherin Queen. And boy was she. She followed every order dispatched to her, obeyed every demand, bowed before the monster that had raised her. She had kept on her blindfold her mother had placed on her the minute she had entered the world. Maybe it only took the twelve minutes which y/n had emerged before Sirius for her to fall under a spell which even the youngest black had started to break from. 

    Sirius was never sure what happened to you. You always sat with your back straight at the dinner table. You never complained about the corset which was always sinched too tight, you would just let your vision go dark from the lack of oxygen. And it completely infuriated him. 

    Sirius really wished he hadn’t cared when he had gotten the letter. He really wished he had thrown a party and done something stupid like set off fireworks in the common room. But he hadn’t. He had instead demolished an entire bottle of fire whiskey crying because, fuck it hurt to be tossed aside by the people who were supposed to love you most.  The next morning he dragged you into an empty classroom hungover and still smelling of liquor and asked you what he fuck had happened. 

    You had told him you begged your mother not to, you told a sob story about a sad little argument in which you- the obvious victim -had fought for his place on the banner in your living room. 

The truth had been very different, his mother had exposed the fact that it was indeed your idea to kick him from the family, that you were convinced he was a disgrace, nothing more than a bug to squash under your boot. He wished he could believe you not his monster. But he knew you. He knew you so goddamn well. You were his twin. His other half. He saw the way your eyes darted away from his own, you shifted on your feet, how you bit the inside of your cheek. You had lied. You had lied to him and he would never forgive you for it. 

    “And what is the M.O.M classification of the Phoenix?” Merrythought asked. Your hand shot in the air. “Ms. Black?” 

    “An XXXX professor, although it did not earn this rating from its aggression but only because so few wizards have been able to domesticate it.” You explained and Sirius rolled his eyes. 

    “Correct Ms. Black, five points to Slytherin.” The teacher praised, you beamed still sitting straight as a board.  

    Sirius let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like the words ‘Kiss ass’ earning a few giggles from the surrounding students. 

    You pretended you didn’t hear him, hand tightening around your quill. 

    James watched as your knuckles went white, How did your brother still bother you? He wondered. 

    Sirius leaned back in the chair next to him mumbling something unnecessarily rude. James fought the urge to roll his eyes. When class was dismissed Sirius made a point to pass you as you packed up. 

    “You’ll make an excellent death eater sis.” He taunted and you paused for a moment but refused to comment. 

    Sirius left the classroom James followed risking a glance over this shoulder to see you being joined by a blonde boy and the Lestrange sisters. Sirius caught him looking and sneered, “A bunch of future murders. Fuckin’ assholes.” 

“You know you could give her a rest, you haven’t even spoken in like a year,” James suggested. 

Sirius scoffed, “And who’s fault is that?” 

James shrugged, knowing the awnser. 

“You know she’s ghosting Reg too?” Sirius glowered, “He always looked up to her too, I have no clue why, but he did. And now she won’t even talk to him.” 

Remus and Peter joined the pair as they made their way into the Grand Hall. 

“Talking about y/n?” Remus inferred.

“Hard not to when she’s such a bitch.” 

James cringed at his friend’s choice of words.  “I’m hungry, let's get some food.” He spoke attempting to change the topic. 

“Why else would be in here?” Remus laughed. 

James cracked a smile opening his mouth to speak but was cut off. 

“Oh shit.” Sirius cussed. 

“What did you do?” Remus sighed, rolling his eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything but can you get me food and meet me in the common room, I may or may not be avoiding Marleen,” Sirius spoke ducking behind James.  

“Sure, just get out of here, I really don’t want to hear her voice right now.” Peter cringed at the memory of being yelled at by the sharp toned girl. 

“I’ll get food, you guys ditch,” James suggested. The other three agreed to leave the hall as the fourth grabbed four plates filling each and flicking his wand causing them to float in the air surrounding him.

James then made his way from the hall. As he turned out of the door he ran straight into someone, stumbling backward a bit he straightened his gaze to see you, your group of what he supposed were friends sneered at him. 

“You guys go on, I’ll catch up.” You spoke, voice monotone. 

They silently agreed, leaving you with the curly-haired boy who now pushed his glasses nervously up his nose. 

“Hey Potter, I need to talk to you.”  James would never admit he was scared of you but he did feel his heart leap to his throat at your words. 

“What’s up?” He asked hoping you didn’t catch as the sentence wavered slightly. 

You bit your lip glancing down at your feet before looking up to meet his gaze. “I wanted to thank you.” 

That is not what he expected you to ask. 

“I can’t even begin to say how relieved I am that you took Sirius in. Please thank your parents for me as well.” You seemed almost nervous, “I actually have something for you.” 

James could not believe that the words you were saying were actually coming out of your mouth. He had expected you to cuss at him, call him a blood traitor amongst other names and then follow your friends into the hall. But you were thanking him instead. 

You rummaged in your bag before removing a red box about the size of a wide bookmark. You held it out to the boy. 

James stared at you half expecting you to break out laughing and reveal the joke. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” You mumbled shoving the gift at his chest. 

“Sorry.” James murmured opening the box eyes widening. Inside was a watch, a damn nice one. It looked to be at least plated with gold, if not solid. Its inside was a scarlet red with three different faces, one of which instead of showing roman numerals around the edge showed the phases of the moon. The strap was a reddish leather, clasp gold as well. 

“Here, watch this.” You spoke stepping closer and carefully removing the watch from its velvet cushion. You held it delicately, pressing an almost invisible button on the side. In a flash two delicate golden wings erupted from the sides of the device and James realized in fascination that the watch now appeared to look like a snitch, you paid no mind flipping it over to reveal a small square gap on the back. “It’s enchanted with an undetectable extension charm so you can put just about anything in it.” You explained clicking the small button again. 

James watched in marvel as the wings fluttered closed closing the gap seamlessly.  “This is amazing y/n,” He whispered looking up at you only to realize you were centimeters away. He could feel your breath fan over his cheeks. It was cold and minty.  

“It’s nothing compared to what you’ve done for me.” You reasoned sliding the watch back into its case and stepping backward. “And before you say you can’t accept it remember that I have plenty of money.” 

Those were going to be the next words out of his mouth. 

“I have one more thing to ask you, James.” You seemed really nervous now, you hoisted the strap of your bag back up over your shoulder. “How’s Sirius? Is he okay?” 

You had baffled him once again. 

“I know I should be asking him that but ever since last year he would sooner light me on fire than have a civil conversation with me.” You sighed.

The Chaser stared at you, this is not how he thought your conversation would go.

“So is he okay?” You asked again, almost urgently. 

“Yeah, he’s fine.” James assured you, “He’s a little moody but overall he’s good.” 

“Have his panic attacks stopped?” You questioned.  

James who had no clue he even got those nodded, “I think so.” 

“Mental breakdowns?” 

James ran his hands through his hair, “He gets them every once and awhile, Moony and I help him through though.” 

You gave a weak smile and stepped forward wrapping your arms around his neck, placing your forehead on his chest. James froze, slowly letting his arms hold your waist, “I honestly can’t thank you enough. You’re a godsend Potter.” You mumbled. You stepped away a few seconds later crimson kissing your cheeks. “Don’t tell Siri we talked. He’ll be pissed.” And with that, you left. 

James felt his heart hammer as he sucked in the air he didn’t realize he had stopped breathing. What just happened?

James had had a crush on you the second you locked eyes centuries ago on platform 9 and ¾. You were the main reason he had looked so long for a certain compartment. A compartment that contained a set of twins, one of which would become his best friend. You had always been very pretty, your strong attitude had aided in that conclusion as well. He thought you were going to be very good friends with him. That was until you were sorted into Slytherin and Sirius soon revealed his rivalry with you.  

He had still harbored feelings for you, small ones he chose to ignore most of the time. He never told a soul, passing his feelings from girl to girl. He proved to be quite good at burying them. You also showed just how good you were at unearthing his secrets with a laugh, a wide smile or the save of a quaffle. The feeling of you in his arms rested in his mind for a long time. He dreamt of you, yearned to hold you again. You had smelt like caramel and cinnamon, you fit into his chest as a puzzle piece did to its neighbor. He really wished you hadn’t hugged him. 

As your sixteenth birthday approached both twins appeared to be more and more on edge. James was dead set on throwing a massive party but Sirius didn’t seem into it. As the day loomed closer he got jumpy, almost paranoid; as if someone was going to lean out from behind him and throw a bag over his head before dragging him away. 

James also began to notice your absences from classes. More and more often you were simply gone, not being anywhere for days before appearing out of nowhere. You always looked so pale when you got back from wherever you had gone, the circle under your eyes always looked darker. He had asked Sirius what was up but got nowhere, he would just lick his lips and say nothing was wrong. A blatant lie. 

You disappeared four days before the 3rd and was gone the entire week. Sirius refused to go to classes that week as well, claiming to be sick, which was fair considering he looked white as a ghost most of the time. 

When you finally returned it looked as if you had been kissed by a dementor. Your face was vacant of any color, your usually vibrant eyes looked pale, bags underneath them bruised brown. 

Both James and Sirius simultaneously tried to convince themselves you just had a stomach bug, that your sunken cheeks were nothing to be concerned about. Both knew they were wrong. 

Sirius found you easily. He knew you too well. You always snuck outside, even when you were younger you would always sneak to the park a few blocks away to escape your mother’s rage. Until you learned to play with fire rather than run from it.

He followed you to the greenhouse. You had always liked herbology. 

You turned at the shuffle of feet to see your brother, he looked almost as terrible as you did. 

“Did you do it?” He asked, his voice sounding so empty as muffled chirps of crickets flowed through the cold November air. 

You refused to look up, You sat in the corner of the cold glass house, your knees pulled to your chest, eyes cast on your dress shoes.  

“Did you really go through with it?” His voice cracked, he stumbled over his own feet. 

You still didn’t answer. Tears had built so thickly in your eyes you couldn’t see. You blinked and they went cascading downwards, raindrops leaking off your chin. 

“Answer me y/n!” Sirius cried through gritted teeth, tears of his own threatening to spill. 

“We have to get Regulus out of that house.” You spoke so plainly it was hard to believe that the words had come from you. “Fuck Siri they have a new initiation ceremony. He can’t go through with that.” 

“Shit y/n/n, what did you do?” His voice was a mix of disgust and despair.

“I don’t fucking know.” You answered honestly.

“Did you kill someone?” He hissed. 

“I wish I did Siri, I really wish I did.” 

Sirius dropped his shoulders a defeated sigh coming from his lips.

“We have to get him out soon Siri. He is so much more stubborn than you were too.” You whimpered. “I mean you practically disowned yourself, mom just needed a push with you.” 

“Why did you give her that push?” Sirius gasped, “Why did you do that? I could have helped you.” 

“I saved you, Sirius.” Your sentence broke in half, “I know you hate me for it but I saved you.” 

Sirius wiped his eyes furiously, “How did you possibly save me y/n?” He seethed.

“What do you think mom would have done if you were still in that house four days ago?” You asked. You knew he already knew the answer. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you save yourself?” Sirius hollered, “Why did you follow every rule she set? Every fucking order she gave you?” 

“The Black family needed an heir.” You shrugged tongue darting out to collect a tear from the corner of your mouth. “I knew it had to be one of us, if not you or me then Reg.” you paused, “So I decided it would be me.” 

    “How? How could you possibly decide that?” Sirius sobbed now standing in front of you. You still didn’t look up. 

“It was easier than you would think.” You chuckled darkly.

“It’s not fair y/n.” He stated, “We can still help you. Dumbledore will help, you can stay with James and me. Please y/n.” 

“It’s too late and you know it.” You spoke, “Best not to cry over spilled milk.” 

“But your life isn’t spilled milk!” Sirius shouted. 

“Might as well be.” You shrugged finally meeting your brother’s eyes. They matched your own, puffy and red. 

“How can you say that?” The boy spat, “It’s your fucking life!”

“Not anymore.” You sighed. “Look, Siri, in all honesty, I don’t give two fucks about my life right now, we have less than 13 months to find a way to get Regulus the fuck out of that house and then boom he turns 16 and none of this shit matters anymore. So stop worrying about me and start realizing we can still save him.” 

Sirius had never felt so incredibly selfish before. You had given away your life for him and for Regulus. What had he given away? He had gotten the life he wanted while you would suffer for the rest of yours. And all you said was ‘It’s best not to cry over spilled milk.’ He suddenly remembered every jibe and comment he had said to you. You had done nothing but bite your tongue as he taunted the nightmare you lived him so he could bask in a daydream. 

“I need you to start hanging out with him.” You mumbled, voice raw, “I have been avoiding him, hopefully, it will help. I’m gonna start making up lies about how his grades are slipping and he’s hanging out with mudbloods, maybe dating one.” You sighed, “Reg still wants to impress mom, I need you to get it into his mind how twisted she is. Make him hate her. Make him hate me too, use me as an example.” You paused, “Can you do that Siri?” 

Sirius didn’t speak for a long time. You didn’t pressure him to. You stared straight ahead tears still leaking from your eyes. 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Sirius finally spoke. He sounded half-dead, deflated. He sounded like you. 

“Good.” You didn’t waste a second. You got to your feet wiping your tears and then you walked away.  

James sprinted down the halls. He has his eyes peeled to the two names in the greenhouse. He made it free of the castle and saw a figure making their way towards him. He glanced down at the map and saw that it was you.  

As he neared you he was finally able to drink in your appearance. Your eyes were bloodshot, you were attempting to dry never-ending teardrops, dragging your forearm repeatedly over your face. When you looked up at him his heart broke. Your bottom lip was shaking eyes so glassy it must have stung. 

You dove into his chest, wrapping your arms around him and you began to cry. Your body jumped with sobs as James pulled you closer to him. 

He forgot about everything but you as you nuzzled closer to him. He forgot about Sirius, about the tears soaking through his shirt and the dew that had dampened his robes. He only cared about you. You and the fact that you still smelt like caramel and cinnamon, you and your overly soft hair, you and your cold hands wrapped around him.

James nestled into your hair inhaling its intoxicating scent. He then hooked his hands under your arms and lifted you so your hands were wrapped around his neck. You understood and wrapped your legs around his waist your head becoming buried into his neck. He placed one hand under each of your thighs and began to carry you inside. As you made your way through the castle your tears began to slow, sobs turning to whimpers.

James felt his face bloom with deep red roses. His heart was thumping far too quickly. When he reached his destination he only had to pace twice before the door showed its self. The inside of the room was relatively the same as it always was except for the large brick fireplace and massive couch filled with large pillows. 

The Chaser attempted to set you down on the couch but your firm grip on his neck and the legs wrapped around him forced him to follow downwards. A fresh blush coated his cheeks. You burrowed back into his embrace and it was quiet for a long time. The only noise coming from the crack of the fireplace and the sound of a faint wind blowing outside.  

“Y/n what happened?” James finally asked and you pulled a bit away from him so you could look him in his eyes. 

He looked so handsome, his deep chocolate brown eyes were wide with worry, only more magnified behind his round glasses. His cheeks were painted with poppies, his lips plush, and pink. His unruly thickly curled hair framed his face perfectly, a small strand falling between his eyes. 

“You know I always had a thing for you.” You smiled weakly, “From the moment I saw you on the platform I thought you were the cutest thing I had ever laid eyes on.” 

James wasn’t quite sure how to respond, he assumed he was dreaming. 

“I never wanted to tell you, James, I never thought I would. But I need to.” 

The room fell quiet again. 

“Can I kiss you y/n?” James finally asked his heart near shattering. 

You nodded slowly and he let his eyes flutter shut, yours doing the same as your lips gently met. The kiss was so fragile you were afraid it may break. He tasted like pumpkin juice, his tongue slipping into your mouth seconds before you pulled away. 

“Y/n let me help you.” James pleaded as you swung your feet off of the couch, sitting upright as you mumbled ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ quietly to yourself. 

“Just.. take care of Siri for me.” You could feel tears beginning to climb back upwards. 

James sat up beside you, “Y/n please.” He begged. 

“It’s okay James.” You assured him with a watery smile. “You’ll get over it.” 

“But y/n-” 

You shushed him placing your pointer finger on his lips. He blinked a small tear falling down his flushed cheek. You wiped it away with your thumb. 

“You’ll be okay James.” You paused standing swiftly, “Best not to cry over spilled milk.” You murmured over your shoulder as you left the room. 

Taglist:

@accio-rogers

@roslea

@k3nz-doodl3

@theseuscmander

@sleepingalaska

Masterlist

[onthepyre]

like real people do

1.4k prinxiety, featuring roman being incredibly stupid

To Roman, almost everything about Virgil is curious.  A lot of it is why.  Why does Virgil try to hide his smile — unless he's with Roman?  Why does he pretend he likes black coffee only to dump gallons of cream and sugar in when nobody's looking?  Why is he so incredibly… adorable?

(Roman isn't quite sure that's the right word, but it's the closest one he can find.)

But there are other things, too.  Where does he find such pigmented eye shadow?  What's his middle name?  Does he like Roman's singing voice?

Roman wants to know everything.  But lately, there's one question that's been almost permanently stuck in his mind: what would it be like to kiss Virgil?

Okay, wait, hang on.  He's not in love or anything — it's just curiosity!  It has absolutely nothing to do with the fervent eye contact Virgil will not stop making whenever someone brings up their love life (Roman can't figure out why — is he trying to show him how dumb he thinks it is?  That he wants to leave?  That he's jealous?  It can't be that).  And it isn't at all related to how he bites his bottom lip when he gets stressed out, which happens far too often for Roman to be okay with it.  And it definitely doesn't stem from Virgil's new experiments with makeup — especially the lipstick.  That's completely unrelated.

He's just curious, okay?  He wants to know.  He feels like he's been spending too much time with Logan, but this idea has wormed its way into his head and it won't leave.

Would Virgil be gentle?  Or would he throw his usual caution to the wind and press hard against Roman's mouth?  Would he go slowly?  What would he do with his hands?  What would Roman do with his hands?  Will teeth be involved?  (Somehow, that seems in character.)  Would Roman even do it right?

And for some reason, it is agonizing that Roman doesn't know the answer to any of these questions.  He's known Virgil for years and hasn't even kissed him once, which he thinks is quite a shame.  

(He's known Patton for even longer and it doesn't get on Roman's nerves that he hasn't kissed him, but he ignores this.)

So, he devises a plan.  It isn't a terribly complicated one, but he assumes this is for the better.  There are less steps to mess up, and fewer things that can go wrong.

First, he gets Virgil alone (he knows it'll make him less nervous).  This part isn't that hard — Roman knocks on Virgil's door at a groggy hour between afternoon and evening, when he knows Virgil will be home.  Virgil rolls his eyes — ask next time, asshole — but his smile betrays his harsh words.

He invites Roman in, and Roman tries to play it cool for a bit.  

"What are you here for?" Virgil asks as he sits down to turn on the TV.

"I missed your face," Roman says, which isn't untrue, but definitely isn't the main goal of his visit, nor does it fit the "calm and collected" vibe he was going for.

Virgil shakes his head a bit and shoots Roman a weird look, but forgets it almost immediately when he finds The Nightmare Before Christmas on Netflix.

"Oh, shit!  They must've just added this!"  He smiles, wide, and Roman's brain just screams, screams kiss him kiss him kiss him over a monotone of wordless noise.  But he doesn't, not yet, because he doesn't want to ruin Virgil's good mood even though something in the back of his mind tells him it wouldn't.

The noise in his head begins again when Virgil turns to lean against the arm of the sofa and throws his legs over Roman's lap, which is far more affection than he's ever shown before, at least through touch.  And Roman reminds himself this is just curiosity, just a vague sense of wonder, and definitely not a debilitating crush.

And this continues, all through the movie, every time Virgil shifts a little bit closer or smiles.  And Roman absolutely loses his mind when Virgil begins to sing along under his breath because his voice is so pretty and it takes every fiber in Roman's body to stop him from diving across the sofa and kissing Virgil.

The credits roll and Virgil looks over and stares for a second.  "Do you want to stay for dinner?" he asks, finally, with a remnant of a smile in his voice.

And Roman, like a fool, says, "Uh, yeah, I should — I should be able to."

Virgil practically bounces off the couch and into the kitchen, with Roman not far behind him.  He digs through the cabinets and settles on spaghetti, but not without suggesting at least three other dishes and deciding, without Roman's input, that he doesn't want to make them.

"Can I…" Roman begins, trying to decide if he's actually going to go through with this or not.

"Can you what?"

Roman chickens out at the last moment.  "Can I ask you something kind of weird?"

Virgil makes a face.  "I mean, within reason."  He pauses.  "You're making me nervous, Princey."

Roman takes a deep breath.  "Have you ever kissed a boy?"

Suddenly Virgil can't look at him.  He frowns into the boiling water.  "Uh, no.  I thought I was straight for fourteen years, repressed like hell for another five, plus nobody has ever asked me out and there's no way in hell I'm going to.  So.  No, I haven't."  He stares at his spaghetti for a bit longer, then glances over at Roman.  "Have you?"

Roman grins.  "A few times.  My first kiss was pretty shit — I think he actually tried to gag me with his tongue."  This prompts a chuckle out of Virgil, and he speaks again.

"I did kiss a girl once, when I was fifteen.  She turned out to be a lesbian, which should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like."

Roman grins.  "Well, that doesn't count, then.  It's like kissing your grandmother."

There's silence except for the boiling water, just for a moment, until Virgil continues.  "I kinda wish I had.  Kissed a boy, I mean.  Just to get it over with."

And.  Wow.  Okay.  This is Roman's moment.  Without actually looking at Virgil, he stutters out, "If — I can.  Um.  I'll kiss you, if you want."

Virgil's face turns three shades of red in seconds, and Roman can only imagine his is the same.  There's a long pause and Roman is worried that he has massively fucked up until Virgil says, "Yeah.  Okay."  And Roman does his best to squash the feeling of elation in his chest but gives up in seconds because wow.

Virgil moves towards Roman but stops at least a foot from him, making direct eye contact the whole time.  Roman does manage to overcome the urge to make fun of him and takes the last step, so he's only inches from Virgil's face.  Virgil's eyes are wide as he stares at Roman.  He places his hands on the back of Roman's neck and his gaze falls to Roman's lips and he finally, finally closes the gap.

There's about five seconds of just still, soft lip-on-lip contact, which already has Roman's heart beating fast, but then Virgil sighs through his nose and Roman can feel the breath on his face and the floodgates open.

Roman hand finds the small of Virgil's back and tugs him closer.  Virgil's mouth, hot against Roman's, falls open, and Roman's response is almost too enthusiastic.  He makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and Virgil presses harder against him.  Virgil smiles and Roman can feel it against his lips and.

Oh.

Maybe this is love.

And Roman pulls back at this realization.  Virgil's eyes stay closed for just a moment and he frowns before looking up at Roman.

"What's wrong?"  Virgil's voice is quiet and gentle and it breaks Roman's heart.

"I can't.  I'm so sorry, I — this is my fault."

And Virgil's face is painful and for a second Roman almost wants to cry.

"Ro, what do you mean, I-"

"I'm in love with you, Virgil."  

Virgil screws up his face, frowning almost, and Roman turns to go — and Virgil grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him into another kiss.

This one is shorter, just long enough and forceful enough for Virgil to make his point before he pulls away.  He presses his forehead against Roman's, smirking slightly.  

"Yeah, and?"

"Wait, do you mean-"

"Yes, dumbass.  I love you too."

Roman laughs — giggles — and pulls Virgil forward again (this is the third time he's kissed Virgil) and he feels him laugh and it's everything.

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Looks Like Someone Picked a Whole Bushel of Oopsie Daisies

Chapter Eight: The Morning After (part one)

If I said I want your body, would you hold it against me? Seven in the morning, wanna listen to Britney; anything you want, baby, that’s okay with me, now. We don’t sleep, but we like sleeping in. - All Time Low, Sleeping In

Mabel had to pee, but she really, really didn’t wanna open her eyes. Or move in any way, shape, and/or form. She was warm, covered in a soft comforter, and her mattress was just the right amount of firm and squishy. She snuggled into her bed with a soft smile, and then her head hit something that was way warmer than her bed or pillows.

Strangely, it felt like there was bare skin against hers, and… she didn’t appear to be wearing any panties. Or a shirt. She usually wore a shirt and panties when she slept, didn’t she? Was she misremembering that? She didn’t typically misremember her own habits, but she had certainly been wrong before.

Forcing her eyes open, Mabel came face to face with Dipper, who was asleep. And upon seeing his face (which was both way more attractive and way closer to hers than it had any right to be), everything came rushing back.

“I’m in love with you-“

“I burn for you-“

“I’ll give you the fucking world-“

“I want your cock.”

“Anything you want.”

“-and put your baby inside me-“

“I want it harder-“

“Tell me you’re mine.”

Face inflamed, Mabel very slowly extracted herself from Dipper’s arms (he stirred, but continued sleeping), grabbed her purse, and tiptoed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

The cold tiles stung her bare feet, but she peed and washed her hands anyway, wishing there was some kind of bath mat. Preferably a fuzzy one (a pink one, perhaps? Yes, a pink one would spice up the all-white bathroom nicely. And some lovely pink towels to match, too).

Glancing up at herself in the mirror as she dried her hands on a towel, she was startled by her appearance.

There were hickeys, well. Everywhere, really, but it seemed like Dipper has primarily focused his attentions on her breasts and neck. She didn’t mind the hickeys. She rather liked them, actually. What she didn’t like was how bad her hair and makeup had gotten in her sleep. She didn’t even remember falling asleep, really. She and Dipper had been cuddling, and at some point he pulled out and threw the condom away, but he came right back to cuddle her again and then she was waking up.

Her hair was a frizzy mess, so she undid the braid and ran her fingers throughit to work out some of the knots. She’d been pretty the night before. She wanted to be pretty when he woke up, too.

Or, at least, as pretty as she could be without makeup.

It was really just her eye makeup that was bad rather than the whole thing. She had raccoon eyes. That happened whenever she slept with eye makeup on.

Taking out several makeup remover wipes, she scrubbed at her face with them until nothing came off on the damp, white cloths anymore. She didn’t look as nice without makeup, but, well, Dipper was her soulmate, right? Her soulmate would find her attractive no matter what.

Mabel hoped he would, anyway.

She stared at herself in the mirror for a few more seconds. What would their parents say if they saw her? Obviously they wouldn’t see all the hickeys, but they’d definitely be able to see a fair amount of them unless she invested in turtle necks. They’d been keeping this huge thing a secret from Mabel and her twin for as long as she could remember. How would they react if they knew that the metaphorical cat was out of the metaphorical bag? Why had they kept it from them to begin with? Did they think that Mabel and Dipper were gross, disgusting, maybe even sinful?

Not that they were particularly religious people (in fact, Mabel has never even heard them mention their personal views on religion, let alone if they believed in a specific one), but even so, maybe they were so disgusted by having children who were soulmates that they would rather see them suffer apart than be happy together? Was that it?

Mabel wasn’t sure, and she didn’t know what to think. She loved her parents. She’d always thought she’d had a great relationship with them. Had she been wrong? She must have been, if they’d been lying to her and keeping her from her soulmate for seventeen years. Did they even love her or Dipper at all, even a little?

Feeling agonized and conflicted, Mabel pushed her parents from her mind, grabbed a wash cloth off the towel rack, and opened the clear door of the walk-in shower. There were two knobs, each helpfully labeled, so she turned them to her desired setting and stepped back to let the water heat up.

She looked down at the soulmark on her wrist.

Her soulmark.

Dipper’s soulmark.

Their soulmark.

Mabel still didn’t really understand how this could’ve happened. Had she really had it all her life? And if she’d had it all her life, then so had he.

She ran her thumb over the lines; they were raised just a little, like the lines on a tattoo. Soulmarks couldn’t be imitated with tattoos, though. They had a… a shine to them, an iridescence. They didn’t sparkle, exactly, but if Mabel turned her wrist, light would reflect off of it in the strangest way.

She’d always hated her soulmark. As soon as she was old enough to understand what it was and what it meant for her, she hated it. Not so much that she’d cut it from her body the way some people did, of course, but she certainly wasn’t a fan.

But being with Dipper made it seem kinda beautiful, in a way. She wondered how he’d felt about his, knowing they were soulmates for so long but thinking she wouldn’t want him. Had he hated it, too? Did he still?

There was steam forming on the shower door, so Mabel stepped inside, leaning her head back to get her hair wet.

The more she thought about it -him knowing that they were soulmates but thinking she wouldn’t want him, that is-, the more she thought that that was a really fucking stupid idea. Like. Where had he even come up with that? Had he never seen soulmates touch each other for the first time? Everyone had seen soulmates touch each other for the first time at least once! Everyone had also seen soulmates be super lovey-dovey, ‘cause that’s just kinda how soulmates tended to be. It was a universally accepted fact.

She rubbed the motel’s boring, scentless conditioner into her hair and left it to sit as she washed her body with their boring, scentless bar of soap.

It was, like, a biological imperative, or something like that. He was the science nerd. Didn’t he know all that stuff? Mabel felt like Dipper should know all that stuff. He’d been talking like he knew a lot about such things before. He’d mentioned, like, studies and stuff, she thought, but she’d been pretty out of it at the time so she could have definitely been wrong.

Once her body and washcloth were clean and the conditioner was rinsed out, Mabel lathered shampoo into her hair and rinsed it out, too. She ended up using most of both bottles. Whoops. There was a little left in each, at least. Oh, well.

She was rinsing the last of the conditioner from her hair when she heard the bathroom door creak open.

“Eek!” Squeaked Mabel as she turned around abruptly, reflexively covering her body with her hands and the washcloth, both being their own unique brand of useless in that regard and therefore not covering anything of note at all. She was slightly less alarmed when she saw it was just Dipper, who was also naked, and that was…

Mabel did not claim any level of expertise on male anatomy, but she was pretty sure that that was a boner. It certainly appeared to be a boner. As in, it was most definitely Dipper’s dick (side note, she still was unsure how he’d managed to get it in her and why it had felt so good because it looked like it would hurt her more than anything else), and it was sticking out, which… they don’t typically do that when they’re just kinda, like, chilling, right?

He smiled at her, and she forgot all about his boner. His smile was just heavenly. Even more so whenever he deigned to direct it at her (bless her with it, more like).

“Can I…?” He gestured in the direction of the shower.

“Oh! Y-yeah, of course! I’m done anyway,” she hung the washcloth up and was gonna get out, but he opened the shower door.

Mabel glanced down briefly. She couldn’t help it. He was naked, and she’d spent so much time admiring the way his body looked and moved that it was fascinating in a whole bunch of different ways. And also sexy, so there was that.

Oooooookay , she thought to herself. That’s a dick. That’s a dick pointing right at you. It’s just… it’s right just there, man. Stay calm, stay cool, dicks don’t bite.

“Wha-wha-what’s up?” She stuttered out. So much for “cool”.

He grinned again, and Mabel thought she might burst into flames, and she vaguely noticed the water droplets spilling out onto the tile, and-

“I meant if it’s okay if I shower with you.”

“Oh!” She blinked rapidly, startled. “Oh. Okay… then,” stepping backwards a bit to let him in as he closed the door behind him. It was strange, but despite knowing the fact that he’d seen (and touched, kissed, and even sucked, and also literally been inside of) her body, she still kinda felt the urge to cover herself up. She squashed it down, though.

He leaned over (and subsequently closer to her, but his eyes were shut when he did so) to wet his hair, and reached for the shampoo. “Sorry, I used most of both bottles,” she said quietly.

“Eh, that’s fine, I don’t really need a whole lot,” he told her as he squirted the remainder of the shampoo into his hand.

“Y’know, it’s actually better for your hair to use conditioner first and then leave it in while you do everything else, because tha-“ she was babbling. She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t really help it. He was naked. She was naked. They’d both been post-coitus levels of naked and all up against each other for, like, hours! After a lifetime of not touching, too! Surely a bit of nervousness was warranted, right?

“Mabes,” he cut her off, affection in his eyes as he quickly and methodically rinsed his hair out (how had he already finished washing it? Dafaq?). “I don’t really… I mean, I don’t think most guys use conditioner.”

“O-oh,” she seemed to have difficulty forming coherent thoughts, and therefore coherent sentences, as well.

When the last of the shampoo bubbles had been rinsed from his hair, he looked down at her again and kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re so cute when you’re nervous.”

“I- I am not nervous!” she informed him indignantly, lurching away slightly, but only slightly, honest. If she said it to him like she believed it, maybe that would make it true. (Note: No. No it would not.)

“Yes, you are,” he said matter-of-factly, lathering up the washcloth with the bar of boring-as-all-hell soap and washing his body in the same quick, methodical way as his hair. “It’s okay. I kinda like it.”

“Well, even if I am nervous,” she crossed her arms over her chest (which was still bare, and he could see it, how bizarre), “it’s perfectly reasonable. How are you not nervous?!”

“Oh, I am. I’m actually pretty terrified right now,” he rinsed out the washcloth and grinned at her again. “I’m just better at hiding it than you are.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You are not!”

“I definitely am. Case in point: you,” he gestured to Mabel, “me,” he to himself. “Case closed.”

“Hey,” she said, sticking a finger in his face as he turned himself this way and that beneath the water to let the suds run down his skin and- no, no, focus! “Hey,” she repeated. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been pretending you don’t make me feel embarrassed or nervous or scared out of my mind for years, and I was so good at it that you were under the impression I wasn’t interested in you at all despite being so in love with you I thought I’d explode, so I’d say I did a pretty damn good job, thank you very much!”

“Hm, that’s a good point,” he said thoughtfully, reaching down to brush her wet hair from her face. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

“You wouldn’t have needed to wonder if you’d just told me the truth,” her voice was quiet, and it was difficult even for her to hear it over the sound of water hitting tile. “I was waiting for you to find your soulmate, y’know. I’d just kinda accepted that I’d have to watch you fall in love with somebody else, and I’d be stuck keeping my feelings for you a secret.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her, his voice just as soft, stroking her cheek. “I was scared, and I was so sure you wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me -not like that, at least-, whether we were soulmarked or not.”

She shook her head, her wet hair moving about her face in thick strands. “I’d have fallen in love with you no matter what, Dipper.” Then, after a moment: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to,” he told her quietly. “I really wanted to. But I also didn’t. I was scared you wouldn’t want me the way I want you. Wouldn’t love me the way I love you.” He was silent for a moment, staring at her with a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite name. “Wouldn’t you have been scared, if you had found out first?”

She looked away from him then. “I- yeah. Yeah, I probably would’ve been,” she said with a nod. “I mean, you still scare me.”

He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “I- I- what? Why do I scare you?”

“Because I love you,” she told him simply, as if she’d been pointing out the snow on the ground or the clouds in the sky. “More than that, I’m in love with you.”

“You’re scared of being in love with me?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m used to being in love with you. It’s not new. But this is much… it’s bigger than I thought it was, y’know? Like, yeah, I’ve been in love with you for years, I know how to handle that. But I never expected anything to actually come from it.” She took a breath before speaking again, staring at the floor, the way the spray from the shower ricocheted off their feet. “It never occurred to me that my soulmate might be you, that that’s why I couldn’t control my feelings for you better. I just…” she sighed. “I thought I was a freak. I thought there was something wrong with me. I’ve thought that for so long and now I’m finding out it’s totally normal, what I’ve been feeling all this time, and I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her gently, sincerely. “I never wanted to make you feel like that. I hate that I did. I wish I’d… I dunno. I wish I’d done something differently.”

She sighed again. “Honestly? I don’t know if I’d have done anything differently than you did, if it had been me. I might’ve done the exact same thing.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Still wish I hadn’t done it the way I did.”

“So do I,” she said quietly. “We could’ve been together like this a lot longer.” Startled at herself, she backtracked. “N-not necessarily like this,” she gestured vaguely around them, her eyes wide. “Just, y’know. Like. In general. Together in general.”

He smiled, laughter in his eyes at her fumbling, and wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him, leaning down to press his lips to hers. She brought her hands up to hesitantly rest them on his sides, which were bare because he was still fucking naked holy shit that’s right-

Tilting his head to deepen the kiss, he backed her up against the cold tile of the shower wall, becoming increasingly desperate in how he kissed her.

“I- I’ve wanted you since I woke up,” he told her, moving down to suck at her neck and gripping her breast roughly.

“I want you, too,” Mabel gasped out. He reached down between her legs and stroked her slit a few times before pushing a finger inside her. She gasped again, clutching at his arm, her fingers digging into his skin, and leaned her head back against the tiled wall. He added another finger, slowly pumping them in and out of her, and her fingers tightened on his arm when he started to rub her clit with his thumb.

He hadn’t stopped sucking at her neck, and he moved his fingers faster and faster, causing her to whimper and struggle to stay standing. How did he know exactly what to do to her to make her squirm? How was he more in tune with her body than she herself was? Mabel didn’t know, didn’t understand how he could touch her so perfectly that she was ridiculously close to orgasming already, but he was doing it.

Her legs began to shake, and he moved back up to kiss her. She could feel his erection pressing against her, and he was twisting her nipple and moving his fingers even faster, and she was so close, so fucking close-

“Dip-per,” she gasped against his lips, and he nodded.

“That’s it,” he told her. “Cum for me, Mabes.”

She cried out as she did, and when he pulled his fingers out of her, she winced at how sensitive she still was. She could feel her heartbeat throughout her body. It had been a particularly good orgasm, after all.

She was slumped against him, and she heard the shower raining down on his back. He ran a hand up her side, kissing her forehead lightly.

“I love you,” he told her softly.

“I love you, too, Dip.”

He pulled away slightly, smiling contentedly and stroking her cheek.

After perhaps two minutes or so, Mabel remembered Dipper’s very much still present erection. Ah. Right, she thought. Well, first time for everything and all that.

Lowering herself to her knees (the tile might’ve felt colder if she hadn’t pretty much been out of the water for… however long he’d been in there with her, which, unbeknownst to either party, was really only about ten minutes), Mabel discovered that, as it turns out, dicks, like most objects, appear larger the closer one is to them.

This made perfect sense, of course, but despite knowing this, Mabel was still quite alarmed at the evidence leading to this particular observation. Like, she knew it had already gone inside her (which… how, exactly?), but it was still somewhat alarming to see it up close.

The aphrodisiac effect of touching for the first time had worn off the night before, so while Mabel was aroused, it wasn’t so overwhelming that she entirely forgot about the logistics of how in the actual fuck is that supposed to fit in a person’s mouth, et cetera. Still, though, despite being rather intimidating, it was… it was… it was his, Dipper’s, and she very much wanted to touch him.

“You… okay?” Dipper asked from above her, when she’d been staring at his junk for a solid minute and a half.

“Yup!” She said too quickly, the squeakiness in her voice echoing off the tile far too much for her liking.

“You don’t… I mean, you don’t have to, y’know…”

“I know!” She said, also too quickly, before backtracking. “It’s just, well. I’ve never actually, like, seen one up close, so I don’t really… know what to do with it…”

“W-well,” he coughed uncomfortably. “You could… touch it. If- if you wanted?” He voiced it like a question, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer or not.

“Okay.” Yeah, touching’s fine. She could do touching. She could totally do touching. Easy-peasy.

How did guys…? Reaching out hesitantly, Mabel gently wrapped her palm around his shaft, his wet pubic hair brushing against her hand. It was much harder than she was expecting, but also weirdly squishy. How could something be hard and squishy at the same time?

“You can- you can squeeze it a bit harder,” he said breathily. Harder? Wouldn’t she hurt him? Well, he’d tell her if she hurt him, so maybe she should just…

Squeezing his shaft elicited a gasp from him, so she kept the pressure up and moved her hand up and down it a few times.

“Is this okay?”

He nodded wordlessly, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, so she kept going, moving her hand faster. Something pearled at the tip, and Mabel had the strangest desire to taste it, so she licked it. Dipper let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, so she licked the tip again, this time swirling her tongue around the head before taking it in her mouth.

One of his hands threaded through her hair gently, and when she looked up at him, he rested his head on an arm against the tiled wall, his other hand clenched into a fist.

Mabel attempted to take as much of him into her mouth as she could, but it really wasn’t very much. She did, however, manage to gauge what she could take and what she couldn’t, so when she began to slowly move her mouth along his length, she didn’t have much difficulty stopping where she needed to.

Dipper was making these kind of breathy gasps, like he was struggling to inhale, so she moved her mouth faster, as fast as she was able.

“F-fuck, Mabel,” he moaned her name quietly, but it reverberated against the tiles. She kept moving her mouth over him, but took him a bit too fast, it seemed, because her teeth grazed him and he yelled. “T-teeth,” he squeaked out.

“Ooumsowy,” she said around him, the words coming out poorly. Whoops. Oh well.

Pulling her lips to cover her teeth to avoid anything further dick-scraping situations, she sucked in her cheeks experimentally, just to see how he would react, reaching up to squeeze one of her breasts in her hand, pinching her nipple and moaning around him. His grip on her hair tightened a bit, just enough for her to feel a slight tug on her scalp, and he jerked his hips forward involuntarily.

He hit the back of her throat, and she choked, tearing up, and she looked up at him again.

“Shit, sorry,” he said breathily. Mabel didn’t mind, though. She liked that he hadn’t been able to control himself. Thinking about him losing control, losing himself because of her, what she was doing to him, she moaned around him again, pulling at her nipple and taking him as deep as she could, as fast as she could. His breathing was getting faster, and he really seemed to be getting off on her moaning, so she moaned again, and again, bobbing her head back and forth.

The sounds he was making were so insanely sexy Mabel thought she was gonna lose her mind, and she wished she could take him deeper without gagging because quite simply, she wanted every inch of him in her mouth and was thoroughly dissatisfied that she couldn’t manage it. Still, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself. She was gazing up at him, her lips stretched around his cock as she moaned and fondled her breast, and he was looking down at her with this look in his half-lidded eyes she couldn’t put a name to.

It was like he was seeing her for the first time even though they’d known each other all their lives, like she was everything, everything to him, the way he was everything to her. She wasn’t going very fast, as she was still quite inexperienced, but he was moaning and gasping and whimpering and breathing her name and fisting her hair and looking at her like she was some kind of goddess and then-

And then he yanked himself away from her, and there was a string of saliva between the head and her mouth that was broken as he leaned back against the shower wall, gasping. The water hit her face and she sputtered, scrambling backwards.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, clearly out of breath.

“Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?” She asked, somewhat concerned.

“What? No! No, not at all,” he reassured her, offering her a hand to help her up. She took it, and he pulled her up against him. “That was… I mean, that was awesome, it really, really was. It’s just I wanna do, uh. Y’know. Other stuff, too.”

Okay, so maybe she had just been sucking his dick, but she still felt like his face was way too close to hers, so it took several seconds for what he said to process in Mabel’s mind. “You mean, you wanna, like…?”

“Only if you want to,” his smile was a small, adorably embarrassed one, and it made her heart flutter and the bees act up.

When she nodded silently at him, he leaned down to kiss her softly, reaching around to turn off the water. He pushed the shower door open and stepped out, pulling her out after him. She tripped a little and giggled at her own clumsiness.

They were gonna have sex for the second time (the second!), and Mabel was feeling downright giddy just from thinking about it.

“What’re you giggling about, giggles?” he was smiling affectionately at her as he handed her a towel before proceeding to dry himself off.

[ajkal2]

I heard there's this #WIPitgood thing going around where we all post WIPs! This is a WIP I had from ages ago, based on a tumblr post. Cannot remember for the life of me who posted it, just that it had the idea of Jack being secretly in the Harry Potter fandom and writing this mammoth fic that's the my immortal of this universe. It's actually way longer than I thought it would be? Enjoy!

Tw: therapy, discussion of overdose, Bitty hasn't read Harry Potter.

****

“Do you ever think about, like, the Big Questions?” Shitty asked, staring at Jack’s ceiling with bloodshot eyes. 

 “What questions?” Jack asked idly. 

“The big ones, y’know? Where is God? Why-Why does the universe exist?" Shitty threw his arms out, reaching up. "Do pigeons have feelings? Who... the fuck… wrote Wizarding Sports: An Analytical Narrative?”

Jack paused. “Excuse me?” He turned.

“Who wrote… wait. Waaaaait." Shitty scrambled to prop himself up, squinting in Jack's direction. "You haven’t heard of Wizarding Sports: An Analytical Narrative?”

Jack opened his mouth, then paused. 

“Brah. Braaaah.” Shitty’s head tipped backwards, thudding against Jack’s comforter. “But you are like. Obsessed with the Potter! You are so out of touch. Everyone’s heard of Wsaan.” Jack had no idea how Shitty just pronounced that. 

“Everyone?” Jack’s eyebrows creeped toward his hairline.  

“Yeah. It’s like- This huuuuuge fic. Huuuuuuge, brah.” Shitty spread his arms, eyes wide, nodding slightly.“But, get this, it’s about the history of sport. How Quidditch was invented and shit. How weird is that? Who wrote that? And it’s like, uber detailed and researched and- Who would care enough about sports, and- and history, and Harry Potter to....”

Shitty trailed off, staring at Jack. His eyes narrowed. Jack cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat.

“No fucking way.” 

****

It started like this. 

Jack stared at the ceiling. His hands wanted to tremor, but he held them still. 

The walls weren’t padded. Maybe they should be. 

“How are you feeling today, Jack?” asked the therapist he had to talk to. 

“Fine,” said Jack, without a hint of inflection. “I’m feeling just fine.”

She sighed, softly. The sound carried. 

Jack felt a bubble of anger and horror and grief rising through him, and viciously squashed it back down. He breathed, in and out, and stared at the ceiling. 

He could still feel everything from that night, a week or a century or a second ago. It roiled in his gut, churning against his ribcage. He’d been stupid to take so many so fast. He regretted it, in a dull sort of way. But he’d needed them.

If he took enough, they might work again, stop him feeling like this, feeling like shit- 

“Jack, I can’t help you unless you work with me.”

Jack didn’t move. That wasn’t a question, so he didn’t need to answer it. He could just trace the outlines of the ceiling tiles with his eyes.

“What do you want from these sessions, Jack? What are your goals?”

That was easy. “I want you to let me play again.” 

His therapist’s lips pressed together. She wrote something, the sound of pencil on paper grating against Jack’s ears. What did he want? He wanted her to shut up. He wanted everything to stop. He wanted to get out of this stupid place. He wanted Kenny’s arm around his shoulders. He wanted more pills than they'd give him.

“Any other goals?”

Jack’s jaw flexed. He pushed everything down. His head was filled with steel wire, scraping against the insides of his temples.

“Jack, I’d like you to try something new. Read a book, or draw. Find something you enjoy. Could you do that for me?”

Jack flashed her an empty smile. “Sure.”

****

Jack heard Ransom and Holster bellowing along to Hedwig’s theme from down the street. He smiled, steps lengthening, and Bittle scrambled after him. 

“What’s got you in such a hurry?” Bittle huffed, kit bag bumping against his back. 

Jack tilted his head towards the Haus. “I want to know which one they’re watching.” He slowed, matching Bittle’s pace. Bittle was probably tired, not used to waking up early.

“Which one?” Bittle’s nose scrunched up, and the corners of Jack’s eyes creased. 

“Yeah.” Jack fished his keys from his bag. “Shits usually calls me if they’re doing a marathon.”

“A marathon of what, exactly?” Bittle asked, eyebrow raising. His face was flushed from exertion, hair tostled. Jack blinked at him for a second, then the door creaked open. 

“Hey,” Lardo said, smirk curling her upper lip. “Chamber of Secrets, get your ass in here.”

Jack grinned, dumped his kit by the door, and flopped onto the couch. 

****

Read a book. Draw something. The only things Jack could draw were diagrams of pitches, player movements. The lead of his pencil kept snapping.

Jack looked blankly at the meagre shelf of books available to residents, hands shoved in his pockets. His hood was up. 

It didn’t really matter which one he picked. He thumbed down a paperback, one with a colorful spine. Trudged back to his room, book under his arm. 

He tossed it on the bed, stared at it for a moment, then flopped facedown right next to it. He used one finger to hold up the first page.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

****

“What.” Jack said flatly, staring at Bittle. He blushed under the scrutiny, swiping at his hair. He’d left a smear of flour on his forehead. 

“You can’t judge me! You thought Rihanna was in Destiny’s Child!” Bittle snapped, arms crossing. 

Shitty’s head lifted slowly off the table. A single page stuck to his cheek. “Bitty, did you just say that-”

“Yes! That’s way worse! It’s not a big deal I haven’t read Harry Potter! So what!”

Shitty hissed through his teeth. Jack stood, slowly. His eyes were fixed on Bittle. They narrowed, suddenly.

“Have you seen the films?” Jack asked urgently. 

“I- No!” Bittle admitted, his chin jutting out.

Slowly, a smile spread across Jack’s face. Finally. He turned on his heel, abandoning his laptop, and thundered up the stairs. Where had he put it, he knew he’d bought- aha!

Prize clutched in one hand, Jack loped back to the kitchen. Bittle was fiercely rolling out his pastry, but he turned at Shitty’s indrawn breath. 

Jack held up his battered, treasured copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. “Rule 1. No flour stains.” Bittle rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to protest. “Rule 2,” Jack continued, firmer. “No folding the pages. Rule 3,” and Jack smiled like a shark. “No watching the films. Not until you’ve finished the series. Agreed?”

“You boys.” Bittle huffed. He picked up his sheet of pastry, lining the pie tin with practiced motions. “Leave it by the side.”

****

Jack stepped out of the double doors. His skin prickled in the wind, the open air harsh against his skin. He turned his shoulder against the wind, and his father’s hand landed there. 

“Ready?” Papa asked, quietly. 

Jack breathed, in and out, and didn’t immediately respond. He took one step forward, away, and then another. He didn’t look at Papa. It was easier to talk if he didn’t look. “No.”

Papa walked beside him, leading the way. “If you need more time…”

“No,” Jack said, fumbling, harsh. “It’s like- The first game. After an injury. Not going to be ready.  Might as well.”

He could feel Papa’s gaze, feel the eyes on him. He wondered why there weren’t any cameras, why there wasn’t any reporters shouting for his attention. Baying for his blood. 

“OK, Jack,” said Papa. 

Jack’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. His therapist had given him the book, the first. There was a whole series, she’d said, for once he got out. 

****

Jack taped his stick in precise, calm motions, focusing on the feel of it, polished wood under his palms, the tug of the tape on his fingertips. He breathed, in and out. 

Ransom and Holster yelled something in unison, part of their pre-game handshake, and Jack’s eyes snapped to the sound. He should be used to this by now, the thrill of adrenaline, the sharp smell of sweat. Everything hit him harder, before a game. But it still shook him, a little. 

Breathe. In and out. Tuck in the last bit of tape. Put the roll away. In for seven, hold for five, out for seven. 

Jack’s eyes scanned the room, and settled on Bittle. He was sitting in his stall, fully kitted out, squinting down at- Oh. 

Jack was moving before he knew it, shoulder thumping into the stall. 

“Where are you?” he asked, and Bitty gave him an unsure smile. 

“In the locker room?” Bitty slipped a piece of paper- a receipt? -into the pages.

Jack frowned. “No, the book. What part have you got to?” Jack clarified, tilting his head in question. 

Bitty laughed nervously. “Well, they’re having a flying lesson. Neville’s fallen off, poor thing.”

Jack leaned against the side of Bittle’s stall. “Tell me what you think.”

****

Jack’s shoulder thudded against Bitty’s pads, and he yelped, crashing to the floor.

“Get back up, skate through it,” Jack urged, but Bitty just shook, leaning hard against the boards. 

Jack squatted, then reached out, hand resting on Bitty’s shoulder. 

“I can't do it,” Bitty gasped, hugging himself. “I-”

“You can.” Jack tightened his grip, ducking to look Bitty in the eye. “I know you can.”

“Not everyone’s a Gryffindor, Jack! I can't- I'm not-”

“Hey,” Jack tried to make his voice soft. “You're right.”

“What?” Bitty looked up, and Jack's heart twinged at the look on his face. 

“Not everyone’s a Gryffindor. Not everyone can beat their problems on the first try. But do you know what I thought, soon as I saw you bringing pie into that first meeting?”

“What an idiot?”

“No. I thought, there's a Hufflepuff.” Jack smiled at the memory. 

Bitty laughed, bitter. “The useless ones.”

Jack nudged Bitty's shoulder again. “The ones who work hard. The ones who don't give up, who welcome anyone, no matter what. The ones who can give a frat house yellow lacy curtains.”

Bitty snorted, eyes suspiciously shiny.

“You can do it, Bittle. Just gotta get back up.” Jack stood, offering Bitty his hand. 

Bitty took a deep breath. He took Jack's hand, pulling himself to his feet. 

“Thanks.”

Jack shrugged. “Ready to go again?”

Bitty rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing. “Come at me.”

Jack’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, and by the way?” he said, smirk flitting to his lips. “I'm a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor”

Bitty gave him a Look. "I can believe that, Mr. Lets-Get-Up-At-4AM."

Jack smirked. "Let's go, Badger. On my mark."

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 21

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Probably some errors due to lack of concentration when proof reading...both times. Boring office, pain and puking, fluff, hurt/comfort, comfort that is actually very intimate, smut…yeah, I mean smut. A/N: Not only have I finished yet another chapter here, but I’ve also completed two for a new series AND I’m apparently a home owner now! Now I just need to save my job after my performance has taken a toll during the home-process. Thanks for bearing with me! Thanks even more for liking and reblogging!!

21 - Living a dream

Somehow the buzzing from the old fashioned fixtures overhead hits a frequency more annoying than a mosquito at night and the light glares off of any shiny surface, causing you to squint in this world of greys. It’s hard to keep track of the maps and pictures agent Ross is showing you, but you do recognize some of the scenes from your nightmarish memories. Through an increasing blanket of fuzz, he shows you photos from the interior of a ship. It felt bigger, but in reality it’s nothing more than a smallish trawler.

You want to ask how they found it, but the words are warbled, coming from far away. The warmth of Natasha’s hair sweeps into view, blocking some of that awfully bright light before you taste the sour discharge in the back of your throat. Fuck.

Not a sound is heard, but you know the man would have a deep voice, a foreign language that would make you think of heat and traditions from before the alphabet you know. He looks kind, the stocky man, as he stands before an audience. Sweeping rows of tables makes you think of a lecture hall, but that doesn’t fit with the glass façade behind him. Glass that suddenly shatters, pushed into the room by a torrent of fire. You see it in slow motion, how a younger man leaps out of nowhere to push the speaker away as finally there’s a voice proclaiming the king is dead.

…   Romanoff   …

Holding [Y/N] up so she won’t choke in the vomit, Natasha doesn’t bother explaining to Ross what’s happening until she hears the first groan (which could resemble the word “fuck”) is preceded by a flutter of lashes. It’s over.

“Might want to get rid of this,” the former spy remarks, pushing the waste bin across the table to the CIA agent.

Surprisingly, he just accepts, making sure to return with a relatively unused one and even extra plastic bags. “Anything else I can get? Want me to call a doctor?”

If only that would help. “I’ve got something for the pain so I can get her back…learned to be prepared.”

“This happens often?” Shock makes the already pasty face paler.

“Every time she sees something.” Soft hands run circles on [Y/N]’s back, nursing the poor woman as she’s curled together, head cradled between shaking hands. “Imagine getting your skull hit by lightning…overloading every single neuron until the whole thing is overcharged and ready to burst only it can’t explode it can just keep hurting her.”

It’s obvious how Ross’ entire idea of how premonitions work is being re-evaluated and adjusted to allow for what he’s just witnessed. Not as romantic as books or movies claim, huh?

Natasha sits patiently, answering the confused agents many questions (though, to be fair, he actually finds the answer to a lot on his own), while nursing [Y/N] back into a shape where she can drink some water to swallow some of Dr. Cho’s pills and eventually stand on her legs. Wobbly, sure, but well enough to make it down to the car.

…

“How you feeling, babe?” She looks better. There are bags under [Y/N]’s eyes, but at least the ashen shade that had covered her face is gone. “Dare to get some food in you?”

There’s a brief moment where the option is considered before dismissed. “Thanks though…” Then she resumes the scribbling in the notebook Happy has given her, sometimes absentmindedly stroking the sequins or highlighting something – this time in an electric purple shade which she adds to something else after leafing backwards. “Has…has there been aaa…a bombing with a king or something?”

It’s a quick search for the combined forces of Natasha and Jarvis, both coming up with nothing relevant despite the pressure of a growing frown on [Y/N]’s face. The red-head recognizes the thinning line of her girlfriend’s lips and knows an intervention is needed if ever the woman is going to get some rest, but she has also seen firsthand how important it is to work through the vision as soon as possible or it will keep interfering with everything else.

Carefully lowering herself onto the bed behind the pained woman, she runs slender fingers across [Y/N]’s scalp, eliciting a sigh. “What else can I do to help?”

“Thaaaat,” a breathy moan divulges, sending chills up and down Nat’s spine, “it feels sooo good, hon.”

Nails cart gently through messy-looking hair, fingertips circling the temples and adding pressure at the nape of the skull. Back and forth while the woman between the hands start to relax into the touch. Then the slender fingers find the shoulders, kneading gently but deeply into the tangled mess of tense muscles in the vain hope that some release can be found and might help ease the pounding headache Natasha knows is reigning.

It must be working because [Y/N] sighs deeply, a content smile growing on the lips as she arches her back in relief, free breasts stretching the front of the lose t-shirt that replaced most of the ensnaring and sweat-soaked clothes the moment they got home. It’s so simple, so natural to slide a hand along the clavicles and trace the neckline of the shirt with a fingertip while the other traces a path back into the mane that smells so perfectly, and Nat can’t resist the urge to plant a feathery kiss on the top of the ear.

Did you see this too, sweetheart? See me fall in love with you? It doesn’t matter if [Y/N] knew, though, because it won’t change how right it is. It has brought a new worry into Natasha’s life, but it’s a price she’ll gladly pay over and over again as long as she gets to listen to this woman’s heartbeat, taste her kisses in the grey morning hours, know that the trust they share can’t be broken. Not by anything.

[Y/N] twists in the Avenger’s grasp, subtly moving the southern hand to rest on a boob under which a rapid beat is drumming. Led by her own hair, Nat is guided until mouths meet. There is still a tender lightness to it but also an urge, a hunger that demands more and wouldn’t it be wonderful to give in? To gorge in the sweetness without fear of causing damage?

“It’s okay, Tasha.” Hot breath carries a scent of toothpaste. “I want it. Please?”

Anything for you. A searing kiss is the only answer Natasha can muster at first. Then, without breaking contact, she pulls [Y/N] onto her lap like a goddess placed on a pedestal to be worshipped. A stray thought tries to ruin the fun by pointing out how lovely it would’ve been to slowly remove any trousers, but it’s a notion that’s squashed the moment soft thighs settle around Nat’s in a strong hold.

The first buttons of the red-head’s blouse are worked on uncontested while the remainder pop from the brute force of [Y/N] pulling at the fabric, finally allowing colder hands to roam over pale skin, finding and caressing a few old scars and toying with the fine lace.

It’s a slow maelstrom of desire that spins and pulls the women. Natasha isn’t sure when the t-shirt is discarded, she just knows how perfect the hard nipple feels against her tongue and lips and that the weight of each breast is the loveliest burden to hold and massage until [Y/N] rocks against the jeans.

It can be seconds later or minutes when the former spy pulls out the sweetest sounds by stroking the silken folds, already slippery with need. Each pass over the clit has the woman on top moaning, trying to stifle the sound against Tasha’s skin which is puckered after kisses and teasing bites. It’s not enough to silence the quaking groan when the adept fingers brings the roaring sensations to a blissful peak and [Y/N]’s body shudders and stiffens, core clenching around a few fingers that had reach inside and found the right spot.

…   Reader   …

Inside you are heavenly chorus is singing the praises for Tasha, for the fact that she proved your hope right and showed that, yes, being intimate could still feel good. Pfft…inadequate word. It had been beyond amazing, reducing you to a soft mass of euphoria collapsed onto her gorgeous frame.

Once relatively conscious again, you wanted to reciprocate.

“No, babe, not this time,” Tasha shushes you, stopping any complaints with kisses, “tonight I take care of you, ‘kay? And right now you get to rest.”

Of course nothing she says is a lie and she makes sure to clean you before tugging you under the covers. You’re half asleep by then and smiling like a lovesick fool.

“Tasha –“

“Nuh-uh!” A finger lands on your lips. “Unless you’re about to say you love me too then you’re going to sleep. Right now.”

“I guess I have to stay awake then.” But the smirk on your face is stretched into a yawn and you feel warmth echo inside your bones and mixing with the bliss your hero has left behind.

One more kiss, a whispered promise that she’ll be back to check on you, then darkness descends with a gentle peace.

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

also on ff.net

Thank you so much to the fantastical @lenfaz, for lessons on child development, read-throughs and general hand holding.

Tagging: @katie-dub, @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, and whoever else asks.

Emma

Emma Swan had a PhD. Emma Swan had 1265 followers on Instagram. Emma Swan had every line of The Princess Bride memorized.

But one thing Emma Swan did not have?

Electricity.

She flicked the switch again, in the vain hope she’d just imagined it the first time. Nothing happened. She tried the outlet by the toaster. Nothing. Nada.

Because of fucking course Emma would wake up on the first day of the year to find her new apartment shrouded in unending darkness. Because what landlord in their right mind actually picked up the phone at 7am on January 1st? Hell, judging by what she’d seen out her window over the last few hours, they were probably just getting started on all their Hogmanay festivities. Everyone else seemed to be.

Only, Emma wasn’t going to accept defeat right away. Sure, cold Pop-Tarts were okay in a pinch, but it was still freezing out and she had a mighty need to crank up her space heater and put on a pot of coffee. She was very motivated.

It went to voicemail three times before someone finally picked up, the voice on the other end of the line irate and decidedly not sober.

“What yae want?” the voice barked.

Oh joy.

“Hi. I’m the new tenant in 2c? On Sciennes House Place?” She began, tentatively.

“Is it bloody well on fire?” came the unimpressed reply.

And to think, Emma was only three days into her twelve month lease. Clearly this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  

“No, but it is dark.” A meaningful pause. “Because the power is out. No electricity. None.”

There was the sound of movement on the line, and a string of curses Emma only half understood. “And you filled the meter?”

For a moment, Emma wondered if she’d misheard. “Filled the… what?”

“The meter! The electricity meter, you daft girl. In the front cupboard, by the door. You’ve got to put pound coins in it, and turn the handle, or else the power will go out!”

Because that was super normal. And a little fact that might have easily been shared when she’d come to view the place. Or when she’d signed the lease. Or when she’d picked up the keys. Any of those times, really, would have been ideal.

“You mean I drop them in there?” Emma clarified. “Instead of being sent a bill?”

“Aye,” grumbled the voice on the line. “Is that it then?”

God forbid they give their liver a whole five minutes reprieve. “Uh, I guess.”

The line went dead without so much as a goodbye, and she resisted the urge to throw the phone in frustration. Instead she swallowed down her rage and focused on her new plan of attack.

Pound coins. Okay. She could do that. She backtracked to the kitchen by the dim light of her phone, to where she’d left her bag. Rummaging around a little she drew out her purse, sorting through the change she’d accumulated since Christmas. A grand total of £2.43.

After fighting her way through the extra sweaters she’d squirreled away in the front closet, she eventually discovered the bulky black outline of the promised electricity meter. With baited breath, she dropped in her first coin, letting it fall into the machine with a clatter. Then, she reached out and turned the crank. At last it clicked into place, and the room behind her lit up.

But her celebratory whoop was cut short when she caught sight of the actual meter reading by the newly returned light from the hallway. The needle had barely budged above zero. She was going to need a lot more coins. And soon.

It was still dark out when she hit the pavement, but Emma was far from the only one out and about. On the contrary, the streets still teemed with late night revelers who hadn’t quite made it home yet. They traveled in packs. The giggling women in teetering heels, skirts too short for the weather. The men shouting slurred obscenities, trailed by the sound of glass bottles breaking against concrete. The all-night crowd, in all of their glory.

Emma hugged her jacket tighter around her, nuzzling her face further into her scarf. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.

“Nice night, darling?” One called out, but she pretended not to hear him, increasing her stride.

Only one more block. She could make it.

A slight figure stood sheltered in a doorway ahead of her, ragged and hungry-looking. “Spare any change, Miss?”

That was something that had honestly surprised her over the last few months. It wasn’t just that Edinburgh seemed to have a proportionally high number of rough sleepers for its size. Or that they were strategically placed at all major thoroughfares, empty Costa Coffee cup at the ready. It was that they always seemed to be unfailing polite, no matter the hour or weather.

The irony of being asked for change at this very moment? She shot the girl an apologetic glance and kept walking, making a promise to herself she’d get the girl a sandwich or something on her way back.

But as she came up to the 24 hour convenience store on the corner, she noticed the windows weren’t emitting their usual greenish fluorescent glow. In fact, they were dark, the doorway shuttered. There was a sign taped to the window with a note scrawled in black Sharpie.

Closed for the bank holiday. Happy Hogmanay!

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath, swallowing down the litany of curses that were on the tip of her tongue. Defeated, she jammed her hands back into the pockets of her jacket, turning back in the direction of her apartment.

“Any change for a cup o’ tea?” she heard the homeless girl up ahead call to a passing couple. To her surprise, the guy stopped, the tell-tale clatter of coins as he dropped them into the cup.

Emma watched on, an idea forming. She waited for the couple to pass before she stopped before the girl, a ten pound note clutched in her hand.

“Hi. You wouldn’t happen to have any pound coins, would you?”

She wouldn’t say it was a mistake; what she’d tentatively titled: The Scottish Experiment. After all, there were pros and cons with living any place.

Pro. The chances of her running into her ex in the wine aisle at Sainsbury’s were practically nil.

Pro. Her Instagram game was on point. Her feed had become an embarrassment of crags, cobblestones and castles, and she derived a certain amount of pleasure from the swoony emojis left in the comments.

Pro. Despite all the horror stories she’d heard about the Scottish weather, it was still a good twenty degrees warmer most days than it would have been back in Storybrooke.

And Pro. Her friends from home were only a Skype date away.

She heard them before she saw them. The excited squeal of two liquored up girlfriends enamored by the marvels of modern technology. And then her Skype window flickered to life and she saw them too. Mary Margaret and Ruby, squashed together on Ruby’s tiny blue sofa, both fighting to get their faces into the frame.

“Emma!” Ruby shouted, with the uncontrolled glee of the truly intoxicated. “I miss youuuu!”

Emma looked at her clock, and frowned. “Uh, it’s 7pm there, right? Did someone get an early start on happy hour?”

Instead of answering, Ruby grabbed a wine glass from out of the frame and took a big gulp, leaving the floor open for Mary Margaret.

“Victor got a job offer from Storybrooke General,” she explained, with a smile. “We’ve been celebrating.” Since noon, it seemed like. Her cheeks too were a little on the rosy side, but at least she had her volume under control.

“Hell yeah, we have!” came Ruby’s exuberant reply.

“Oh,” said Emma, scrambling for the right response. “That great!”

“And now he can give up that apartment in Portland and move in here!”

“Wow. Ruby, that’s…” Out of character. “…a huge step.”

“I know!” Ruby agreed, settling back down on the couch. “But I’m really fucking happy, you know?”

She looked it, too, her grin stretching from ear to ear. And though Emma might’ve recently stood on a rooftop at 2 am with a bottle of whisky and declared herself an enemy of love, she couldn’t deny Ruby’s sheer joy was touching.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Emma admitted. “You guys spent, what? The better part of ten years circling around each other? But I’m really happy for you.”

She held a hand up to the screen, smiling when Ruby did the same. Then Mary Margaret let out a drunken giggle, and placed her hand over Ruby’s and Emma heart broke a little at the schmaltz of it all.

“Speaking of Victor,” she said, removing her hand, “shouldn’t you guys be umm… celebrating together?” she asked.

“We will, later,” Ruby said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “First I wanted to talk to you! How are you? How’s Scotland? How’re the Scottish guys?” The last one was accompanied with a salacious waggle of her perfectly tinted eyebrows.

“It’s great. Scotland’s great! Haven’t you seen my Instagram?”

“I loved that one of the castle!” Mary Margaret piped up. “With the mist and everything?” She let out a cry of frustration, burying her head momentarily into her hands. “God, I’m so jealous of you! Please tell me you’re having a good time.”

“Sure I am. I mean, I’ve been a little busy getting the new apartment set up and everything, but yeah, it’s great.”

“And the Scottish guys?” Ruby cut in, not be ignored.

“Honestly? I haven’t met that many yet. Not unless you count my students, which err… gross, or my boss, which umm… no. But I’m sure there are lots of Jamie Fraser types right around the corner.”

Con. There were not a lot of Jamie Fraser types right around the corner. Because Jamie Fraser was fictional. Tragically.

“And friends?” Mary Margaret prompted, preventing Emma from delving headfirst into any Highlander fantasies.

“Oh, um… I’m working on it. Some people in my department are really nice.”

Con. Emma’s introduction to the history department had been lackluster, bordering on negligent. It seemed to be populated almost exclusively by hungover grad students and career academics decades her senior, and they’d welcomed her into their midst with about as much enthusiasm as they would the guy emptying the trash bins.

“It’s a work in progress,” she continued. “But it’s not like college, right? Where you just so happen to land the world’s clingiest roommate, and she bullies you into being her best friend?”

Mary Margaret shot her a warm smile at the memory. “You were a tough nut to crack. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Emma wasn’t so confident. A childhood in the system and abandonment issues aplenty didn’t exactly leave you with stellar social skills. In Emma’s experience, trust had to be earned. And earned. And earned. Fortunately, Mary Margaret and her merry band of well-adjusted hangers on had always been up to the challenge.

Con. They weren’t around anymore. And that was entirely Emma’s fault.

Sure, it was a cliche. An American going all the way to Scotland just to sit in a fucking Starbucks. But in Emma’s defense, an epic view of the castle through the picture windows did help. It was the kind of view that was worth supporting a tax-dodging multinational conglomerate for. That and the independent around the corner was full.

She might have preferred to drink her coffee and answer student emails in the comfort of her own office, but being the new kid on the block, she was still stuck sharing with an archaeology professor from Leeds, and he had office hours.

Still, she felt she’d made the best of a bad situation. She had a warm beverage and the best view in the house. Hell, it would have been perfect  if it wasn’t for the fact she was pretty certain the guy in the corner was staring at her. Not at his phone, sitting abandoned on the table in front of him. Not the morning edition of The Scotsman clutched in his hands. Not even the million dollar view behind her. Just her.

After ten minutes of it, Emma had had enough, shutting her laptop lid and sliding out from behind her table to confront him.

“Do I know you?” she asked, her words barbed and poised for action.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he said, excitedly.

“Who?” Emma asked, wondering if she’d been mistaken for someone important.

“Emma Swan?” he said, pointing down to where his newspaper lay open.

“How the fu-” But Emma never bothered finishing the question.

Because the answer was staring her right in the face, in the guise of a full-page color advertisement.

It was a picture of her. She recognized it immediately as one August had taken last summer, at her farewell party. It was one of those rare photos, that somehow managed to tow the line between candid and flattering, without showing how drunk she’d really been. She liked that picture. She’d made it her fucking Facebook profile picture.

She blinked, but the image didn’t shift. It just sat there, seared onto her retinas, along with the words that had been emblazoned across her face in glaring crimson:

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Oh, fuck.

No one saw it, Emma repeated under her breath, as she navigated the halls, avoiding eye contact. No one saw it. You’re being paranoid. Nobody actually reads the newspaper anymore.

Only, someone had. Or a bunch of 18 year old someones, most likely, because when Emma returned to her creaky old office on the third floor it was to find the Archaeology professor gone, the door jimmied open, and her colleagues gathered in an indiscreet circle in the hallway, sniggering.

She pushed past them, not bothering to offer up any words of apology. They had it coming. Then, steeling herself for a moment, she stepped into the open doorway to survey the devastation.

It was her. Or more accurately, her face. Everywhere. On everything. Someone had gone to the trouble of cutting out five hundred copies of that fucking ad, and plastered it all over every available surface on her half of the room. Her desk. Her filing cabinets. Her bookshelf. Her fucking coat rack. Not even the light fixtures had been spared.  

Someone was going to die, and Emma knew exactly who she was going to kill first.

***

“You’re dead to me.”

Emma had always found it helpful to begin with a statement of intent.

“Ohhh, so you saw it then? Do you like it?!” Ruby asked, excitedly.

“What the fuck have you done?!”

The sheer venom of her delivery must have tipped her off to Emma’s general mood, because Ruby’s next words were considerably more measured.

“Surprise?”

“Do you have any idea what you just did?!”

“Helped you? Look, I know it’s a little…”

“INSANE?!”

“I was going to say obvious, but okay.”  

“How the hell did you even afford that? A full page is like…” Emma wasn’t exactly up on The Scotsman’s advertising rates, but she was sure it was hardly comparable to the likes of the Storybrooke Mirror.

“Oh, we all chipped in,” Ruby supplied breezily.

“We all? You mean, more people than just you were privy to this insane plan and DIDN’T STOP YOU?!”

“And their advertising guy knocked a bit off the price,” Ruby admitted, ignoring Emma’s last question entirely. “I mean, I know I’m with Victor and everything, but his accent, wow. I have no idea how you stand it every day. I mean, he was only talking about pixels or something and already half wanted to take my clothes-”

Emma ended the call before she had to hear any more.

It didn’t blow over.

By day’s end she was a trending topic on Twitter, her phone blowing up with messages.

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend had gone viral.

Helped along, no doubt, by the social media savvy students who’d defaced her office. Or maybe the ones who interrupted the middle of her afternoon seminar on Jim Crow laws with a riotous rendition of Why Can’t We Be Friends? on motherfucking rollerskates.

Fucking theatre students.

That one had seen her raked over the coals by her head of department, after which followed a terse lecture on professionalism, and setting an example. And she could hardly miss the highlighted relevant sections of the Policy on Employee Use of Social Media tacked to her office door the following morning.

So… her boss thought she was an attention-whore.

To make matters worse, there was website that had been set up to accompany the ad. Emma sat up until 3am watching the hit counter tick over with growing agitation. Nearly a quarter of a million hits. She didn’t even dare to check the inbox of the accompanying email account.

She was officially a national laughing stock.

Perhaps she should just call it. The Scottish Experiment, such as it was, had been a mistake. A cataclysmically huge mistake.

Killian

Somewhere nearby, a child was screaming.

That was the first thing Killian Jones registered upon waking. The second was the low moan of his bedmate, as she burrowed deeper into the cocoon of blankets beside him.

“Make it stop,” came the muffled whine from underneath the duvet, New Zealand accent unmistakable.

The third: he’d slipped up and taken Tink home again.

Bloody hell.

He sat up with a start, the fourth revelation of the morning exploding with sudden painful clarity behind his eyelids. The vodka had been a mistake. A grave, grave mistake.

Careful not to jostle Tink as she lay with a pillow over her head, drowning out the worst of the screams, he searched his floor for his prosthesis. There was no sign, but he did turn up last night’s jeans. They too, were a little worse for wear, a sizable rip in one knee that definitely hadn’t been there before, but he slipped them on anyway, his efforts made clumsy by his lack of prosthetic. His shirt proved somewhat harder to locate, eventually discovered in a suspiciously sticky state on his bathroom floor. He chose to forego the shirt.

“Back in a moment, lass,” he whispered to the form under the covers.

“You need to move out,” was the gruff reply, as she rolled over onto her side.

No arguments there.

Then, with a sigh, Killian unlocked the door and padded out into the hallway, in the direction of the shrieking.

Lachlan, more commonly referred to as Lachie the Devilchild, or the Lachie Ness Monster, was doing what he did best, sitting up is his custom-built racing car bed in a puddle of his own urine, screaming blue bloody murder.

“Hey, hey, lad. It’s alright now,” Killian said, in what might pass for a soothing tone. At the sound of his voice, the caterwauling ceased at once, as the boy turned to look at him with giant blue eyes, thick with tears.

“Uncle Killian,” the boy sobbed, tiny fists clutching at his sodden pyjama pants. “I had an accident.”

Lachie, aged four, was Killian’s least favourite nephew. Some people liked to pretend they loved all their family members equally, but those people had probably not taken night terrors into account. There was plenty of time for the boy to rise in the rankings when he was older.

Killian crouched down low beside the bed, and placed a consolatory hand on the boy’s shoulder. His eyes were watering from the smell, but he forced a smile. “Aye, lad. You did. But it’s alright, happens to the best of us. How about we get you all cleaned up then, and let your parents sleep, eh?”

The boy obediently held his arms out for Killian to lift him out of his plywood prison, but before he could get a hold of him, one of the parents in question rounded the doorway, looking harassed. Liam. All six feet of him, swathed in fetching tartan pyjamas and a sour expression. The state of his flannel shirt, the buttons done up all wrong, hinted at what might have kept him.

He stopped dead when he saw Killian standing there, turning his scowl into a curt, “Morning,” before stepping forward to tend his son.

“Another nightmare?” Liam asked the boy in a softer tone, leaning over to gather him in his arms.

The boy nodded as he clung to his father, stricken. “You were gone, and Mummy was gone, and Callum was gone, and Uncle Killian was gone. You all left me all alone and I couldn’t find-” his little voice cracked, a fresh flood of tears falling from his eyes.

“‘Hey now,” Liam crooned, rubbing soothing circles into the boy’s back. “It’s alright. Daddy’s here now. And no one is ever leaving you alone, got it?”  

Lachie didn’t answer, just tightened his grip, as his father lifted him out of bed with an exaggerated groan. “Christ, you’re even heavier than you were yesterday. At this rate, you’ll be fully grown in a couple of weeks.”

The boy lifted his face away from where he was cradled against his father’s chest to fix him with an admonishing look. “Don’ be silly, Daddy,’ he chided, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his pyjama shirt. “I’m still a boy!”

“Are you sure?” Liam asked as he set him down, peering down at his youngest son with teasing eyes.

“Yes!” The boy shouted, a playful shove to his father’s shoulder. “Tell him, Uncle Killian!”

Liam turned, as if surprised to see Killian still standing there, hungover and shirtless. “Out gallivanting, again?” The tone was playful, but the look accusatory. But before he could raise a word in his own defence, a second parent crossed the threshold, rendering them all mute.

Elsa had that effect on people. Even sleep rumpled as she was, with purple bags under her eyes and the oversized grey T-shirt she wore as a nightie frayed and stretched to her knees, she was striking. And just like the descendant of lesser Scandinavian royalty she was rumoured to be, she surveyed the scene in front of her with a kind of calm indifference. But as her gaze fell at last on her youngest son the facade cracked somewhat, a tender smile curving her lips.

“Mummy!” Lachie cried.

He made a lunge for her, but Liam scooped him up out of mid air. “Not so fast, little monster. How about we get you into a bath first, eh? Then you can cuddle your Mummy as much as you want.”

The lad kicked up a fuss, but Liam held fast, threats to withhold pancakes whispered into the boy’s ear until he settled quietly in his arms. “Good little monster. Now, bath time!” Liam said, making for the door.

Elsa shot her husband a grateful glance as the two of them made their exit, disappearing down the hall. Only once they were out of earshot did she sag a little, letting her exhaustion show. “Thanks, Killian. Sorry, we were-”

“Lalalalala,” Killian said, his fingers in his ears. “I really don’t require details.”

She smiled at that, going over to strip the bed, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. “Just a thank you, then.”

“It’s no bother.”

She shot him a skeptical look.

“Alright, so he’s the child of Satan,” Killian relented with a smile. “But he does have your bone structure, so all hope is not lost. And it’s the least I can do. Since, you know…” He waved his stump awkwardly in the air between them.

“Nonsense,” said Elsa, rising to her full height with a mess of stinking bedsheets clutched in her arms. “You know we love having you here.”

“Even Liam?” Killian asked wryly.

“Yes,” Elsa smiled warmly, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek as she passed. “Especially Liam. No matter what he says.”

“He says plenty,” Killian muttered under his breath.

Elsa turned towards him in the doorway with a frown. “It’s hard for him, I think. He’s so used to playing the father, he forgets you don’t need one anymore. But let me worry about that.” There was a sudden flash of mischief in her eyes. “And you can worry about the girl you left in your room.”

So much for stealth.

“Should I set a place for this one?” she asked, slyly. “I’m making chocolate pancakes.”

“Err… she’s gluten intolerant,” Killian mumbled, brushing past her out into the hallway.

“Maybe one day you’ll bring home a girl who you want to have pancakes with your family?” Elsa teased.

Killian gave her a tight smile. “Perhaps.”

Or perhaps pigs might fly.

Barely two weeks into the New Year, and he’d already broken two resolutions. He’d gotten scuttered on a weeknight and he’d fallen into Tinker Bell’s orbit again. In fact, one had begotten the other, like a series of sinister dominoes.

He’d planned on having an early night. Just one beer. Out long enough he wouldn’t be dragged into the entire bath-bed-story rigmarole when he arrived home, but not late enough to fall in with the Antipodean crowd when they shuffled in after 9.

Clearly, there had been a miscalculation somewhere along the way.

One Killian was now atoning for as he walked briskly along Princes Street, that rare Scottish winter sun peeking out from behind the gothic spire of the Scott Monument, every golden gleam of light like a stab wound to the head.

Coffee might save him. Elsa’s pancakes certainly hadn’t done the trick, and nor had Liam’s disapproving glare from the head of the table, the self-righteous bastard. Coffee was his last hope.

Energised by that thought, Killian bound up the stairs to the first floor cafe with the most enthusiasm he’d displayed all morning, nearly crashing headlong into a blonde in a red leather jacket standing at the top of the stairs.

“Apologies, lass,” he said, reaching out to grip the banister with his good hand. “But if you’d be so kind as to move out of the way…”

She turned around slowly, an attractive face twisted into something pissed off and clearly caffeine deprived. “No, because this is where the line ends,” she snapped, clearly at her wit’s end. “And if you think I’m letting you cut ahead of me-” she trailed off, the threat implied. American, he realised after a moment. It certainly explained a lot.

It was only as Killian gave her a brief once-over, that he noticed that he too, was under inspection. Something that might have been cause to smirk, if he hadn’t caught the exact moment she clocked the prosthetic peeking out from under his left sleeve, her eyes growing infinitesimally larger, her cheeks reddening slightly.

“I uh… I…didn’t mean…”

“Nevermind, love,” he said, stuffing the offending limb into the pocket of his jacket. “Been waiting long?”

He craned his neck, surveying the line in front of them as the doors to the cafe swung open, a pair of teenagers emerging clutching steaming to-go cups.

“Fifteen minutes, so far.”

And she was still the last one in line. Damn it.  

He consulted his watch. A quarter of an hour until the staff meeting, and he still had to traverse half of Princes Street in that time. He wasn’t going to make it. But before he could throw in the towel, the lass in front of him beat him to it.

“Fuck this!” she declared, hands raising her hands in defeat. “I’m out. Starbucks it is.”

She motioned for him to take her place as she passed him, and he watched her go, half amused, half wishing he could follow her lead. Until he realised his staff meeting wouldn’t keep until after waiting in yet another queue. With a long-suffering sigh, he turned and fled down the stairwell after her, and out onto the street.

The instant at work would have to suffice.

Work was with Saorsa, Scotland’s premier monthly magazine. Though owed by a Swede, edited by an Englishman, and staffed by a random assortment of European nationals as it was, also about as authentically Scottish as the cheap plastic tat they hawked to tourists along the Royal Mile.

Their poky little offices sat on Rutland Square in the West End, the rooms still furnished with the same fussy Victorian wallpaper they’d sported back before they’d been converted into offices. The chandelier from some old dame’s parlour still hung over the conference table around which Killian’s colleagues sat in readiness, as he stepped through the door with his mug of Nescafe.  

“Nice of you to join us,” Liam drawled, from where he sat at the head of the table, rolling a stress ball between his fingers.

All those who naturally assumed that working under the direction of one’s immediate family might be some kind of advantage, had clearly never worked under Liam Jones.

Killian settled for raising his mug in his brother’s direction in a mocking salute, before taking his vacant seat.

“Alright,” said Liam at last, setting down the stress ball and rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got a week until we go to print, let me to see where you’re all at. Cindy?”

It was the usual tosh.

Most of Saorsa’s subscribers were pensioners, or expats living abroad. They didn’t want hard hitting current affairs, or in-depth exposés. A monthly magazine was hardly the place anyway, in the age of the 24 hour news cycle. What they really wanted was to read about the Scotland that still lived inside their rose-tinted imaginations. Where the Bay City Rollers were still relevant and the only crime came from the fevered imaginings of best-selling local authors, profiled on page 9.

So if Killian happened to tune out for the majority of a meeting detailing puff pieces on SNP politicians and an exhaustive review of the King’s Theatre Pantomime, it wasn’t due to any particular malice on his part. He was just bored to tears.

But perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised when Liam held him back after the meeting, as if he were some unruly schoolboy.   

“You could at least pretend to be interested,” Liam admonished, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “The last thing I need is everyone thinking I’m playing favourites.”

Little chance of that.

“If you have a problem with my copy-” Killian began, but Liam cut him off.

“Your know damn well your copy isn’t the problem, Killian. It’s your attitude! Can you honestly tell me you were fully engaged just now? Giving your colleagues the respect and attention they deserve?”

Knowing he didn’t really expect an answer, Killian settled for a shrug.

“Look, I know you were out last night-”

“Oh, come off it!” Killian cut in. “Don’t give me that sanctimonious bullshit. If I’m any worse for wear this morning, it’s more down to the screechings of your little hellion than any gallivanting I might have done!”

Liam was silent, but Killian still caught it, the sight of that familiar vein throbbing in his brother’s forehead as he swallowed back the words they both knew he truly wished to say.

So why don’t you just leave then?

But that was the thing about having a fuck up, cripple for a brother. You never actually vocalised such thoughts, lest everyone think you’re some kind of monster.

“I’m sorry, I…” Liam began.

“Save it for the motivational memo,” Killian responded drily, rising to his feet. “I’ve still got to hammer down a meeting with Ruth Davidson’s chief of staff. Unless there’s anything else?”

He almost made it outside before Liam spoke again. “Oh! I forgot to mention. I’d like you to start brainstorming ideas for the next Slice of Life. It’s yours now.”

Killian turned abruptly in the doorway.

“The Slice of Life column? You mean the one where they interview postmen and the people who collect the bins? Read exclusively by little old ladies and people lining their litter boxes? I don’t bloody think so! What about Ian?”

Liam frowned. “He retired at Christmas. We had a going away party for him? For chrissakes, Killian, you signed the bloody card!”

Ah. So that’s what that had all been about. Now he thought about it, Ian’s wife was maybe the wrong side of fifty to be welcoming a new baby.

“Of course,” Killian blustered, “Crieff, wasn’t it? To raise alpacas?”

“Kelso,” Liam sighed in a long-suffering way. “And it was llamas.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

Killian only just managed to duck the stress ball aimed at his head. “Get out!” his brother ordered. “And learn how to use Wikipedia!”

The Slice of Life column. Bloody hell. Was there no end to the day’s indignities?

The previous incarnation had simply been an excuse for Ian McKenzie to sit in his local on the magazine’s dime, chatting up barflies under the guise of “celebrating the everyman.” His interviews were usually conducted about four pints in, and it showed, the questions about as shallow as a frying pan.

Favourite films. Secret recipes. Thoughts on Independence. Truly banal details from the most mundane people alive.

If Liam thought Killian was up for continuing this tradition of celebrating mediocrity, then he was sorely mistaken. Killian may have cut a few corners in his time, but a man still had to have his pride.

Only, he had no real idea where to begin.

It was a dilemma he puzzled over during the quieter moments. After the boys had gone to bed, and he stayed up late reading Patrick O’Brian novels. As he chowed down on his midday panini to the soundtrack of Rai Uno at his favourite Italian place on Leith Walk.

He even took to avoiding Liam in case he asked him about it, none too easy a task considering he lived and worked with the man. And the very reason he came to be sitting in the Cambridge Bar Friday evening, downing a few ales with the lads when Will gave a low whistle, holding up his copy of The Scotsman so the rest of them could see.

It was hardly risque. A snapshot of a blonde woman caught in a candid party moment, head thrown back in laughter. Killian had staged enough “candid” shots in his time to know this was the genuine article, but that wasn’t the interesting part. Nor was the fact that she was clearly gorgeous. Rather it was hashtag that had been printed over the photograph, striking in red.

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

“Imagine a girl like, having trouble befriending anyone,” Will snickered. “They’d be lining up around the bloody block.”

Robin and John hummed half-heartedly, eyes already drawn back to the screen in the corner, but Killian was inclined to agree. The lass was rather pretty. And if he wasn’t mistaken, just the tiniest bit familiar.

“Hang on,” he said, pulling the paper towards him. “I think I’ve met her.”

“One of your women?” Robin cajoled. “You have had a thing for the blondes lately.”

“That wasn’t code for I’ve slept with her,” Killian snapped, causing Robin to dive back into his ale, chastened. “I think I’ve actually met her.”

But where? He doubted he’d seen her up at Holyrood, whilst chasing after Ruth Davidson. She didn’t look like a Tory. Then, in a flash of red it came to him. The lass at the coffee shop. The one on the stairs. The American. He knew she’d looked familiar. And judging by this, she was just as entertaining when she wasn’t standing in coffee queues.

Very entertaining, even. Entertaining enough to appeal to little old ladies and the Scottish diaspora, perhaps?

There was only one way to find out. The seed had been planted. All Killian needed to do now was find this Emma Swan.

It took four days of dodging Liam’s calls and haunting every coffee shop in central Edinburgh before he got lucky. But fortunately for Killian, this American’s caffeine addiction had finally overridden her sense of self-preservation.

She’d done her best to fly under the radar, he had to give her that. Squirrelled away in a corner booth as she was, woollen hat pulled down low to cover that trademark blonde hair, thick black frames instead of contacts. He might not have recognised her at all, if it weren’t for the jacket. Red leather, just as he remembered.

“Excuse me, lass. Do you have a moment?”

She didn’t look too happy when she noticed him standing there. That too, was familiar. She was a bit of a spitfire by his recollection, and he was keen not to set her off too soon.

“I’m sorry,” he said, laying on the graciousness. “We met the other day. Do you remember? On the stairs?”

He let his left sleeve fall a little, and the moment she caught sight of the prosthetic he knew she did. Only of course, it wasn’t going to be quite that easy.

“So?” she replied shortly, eyes wandering back down to the tablet resting on the tabletop.

“I’m afraid I never got a chance to introduce myself. My name’s Killian. Killian Jones.”

“I really didn’t ask, Killian Jones,” she said, her tone deceptively sweet, even as she kept her gaze fixed on the tablet.

“I’m aware of that, lass. But I thought it might be best to even the playing field a little, seeing as I know your name.”

That got her attention, her eyes snapping up to meet his. “Listen, buddy,” she said, voice low and vicious. “If you’re here to make fun of me, or to hit me with some really bad pick-up line you’ve been saving, I’d really rather you just left.”

“Been a rough couple of days, I take it?”

She shot him a long-suffering look. “You have no idea.”

He was beginning to think he might.

“Alas, I’m not here to make fun. Or to make any overtures, though you are lovely. I am however, a member of the fourth estate…”

“And that’s my cue,” Emma declared, rising from her seat, and cutting short his prepared monologue. Instead she packed away her tablet and reached across to drain the last of her cup. “Have a nice life, Killian Jones,” she said, patting him on the shoulder as she passed. “Follow me outside and you lose the other hand.”

Some people might have taken Emma’s reticence as off-putting, but Killian loved a challenge. Certainly, the threat of bodily harm had been a bit disquieting, but the lass was unlikely to follow through. Not before he laid out his pitch, anyway. And if she still wanted nothing to do with him after? Well, then he would jump off that bridge when he came to it.

She wasn’t hard to find. Even though her social media had been carefully scrubbed of all incriminating details, such as place of work or contact details, a simple Google search turned up her name as the author of a number of scholarly articles under the broader scope of American History.

So Emma Swan possessed both brains and beauty. And what looked to be an unhealthy fixation with the life and times of John Jay, if he wasn’t mistaken.

A short trawl through the staff directory of the University of Edinburgh turned up not only Emma’s job description: Lecturer in American History, but also the location of her office, a contact email, and when she might be available for office hours. It was almost too easy.

He saw the moment she spotted him, leaning on the wall outside her office door as she arrived for the day, arms laden with reference books. He also caught the momentary flicker of panic, as she internally debated making a run for it. But it was just that, a flicker, before she sighed and kept walking.

“Killian Jones,” she said flatly, balancing the books on her hip against the wall as she wrestled her keys from her jeans pocket.

“Emma Swan,” he smiled. “How nice of you to remember me. I brought coffee.”

She glanced down at the cup he was holding with wary eyes. “Are you a stalker?” she asked, pressing her key into the lock, and shoving the door open with her boot.

“No, I’m a journalist.”

She snorted, placing her armful of books down on the nearest flat surface before turning back to him. “The difference being?”

Killian smirked. “I write about it after.”

“Coffee?” he asked, holding out the cup for her to take.

For a moment she looked tempted, but her hand quickly fell back down to her side, fists clenched. “I don’t accept drinks from strange men.”

“Not even with cinnamon?” he asked, wiggling the cup a little in the air between them.

Emma’s mouth opened, then closed. Then she reconsidered. “Do I want to know how you know that?”

“The barista. The one with the manbun? I showed him your picture and he remembered your order.” He leaned over to set the cup down on her stack of books, in order to rifle through his jacket pocket. “This picture, in fact,” he said, pulling out a copy of the advertisement that had started it all.

At the very sight of it, Emma seemed to shrink inwards, glancing left and right down the hallway for witnesses. Seeing none, she seized Killian by the wrist and pulled him over the threshold, slamming the door shut behind them.

“I…” he began, but she didn’t let him finish, taking the cutting from him and screwing it up in her hands.

“What do you want?”

He grasped around for the right answer. “I… want to help.”

“Help?” Emma gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, sure. You just want to exploit one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. And let me tell you, that’s saying something.”

“I take it the ad wasn’t your idea, then?”

Another bark of harsh laughter. “Not so much. My friends back home. They mean well, but they’re…” By the way her words trailed off into a frustrated groan, he believed he got the idea.

“Where’s home?” he asked.

Which was apparently one innocent query too far, because Emma Swan’s eyes narrowed, arms coming up to cross over her chest. “Oh, you’re good, Killian Jones. But I am not for consumption. So if you think you’re getting some story out of this…”

“Alright,” said Killian, switching tack. “So you resent the whole ordeal. By that reaction in the hallway just now, I’m going to go out on a limb and say perhaps the whole thing caused some trouble here at work?”

Another snort, which clearly meant, yes.

And then he spotted it, out of the corner of his eye. It looked like… a face. Emma’s face. Or a facsimile of it, looking down at him where it hung suspended from the ceiling. “Is that?”

Emma sighed. “A prank. Couple of students broke in and covered the place. Or, my half, at least,” she said, indicating the sparser left hand side of the room. “Not quite as bad as the rollerskating flashmob to Why Can’t We Be Friends? that burst into the middle of my afternoon seminar…”

Killian hadn’t meant to laugh. He really, really tried not to. But honestly? Roller skates and a War anthem? The youth of today were ingenious.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said, wiping away the tears that had gathered in his eyes. By her expression, he could tell she was long past looking at the funny side. And he felt compelled to make it up to her. “Here,” he offered, dragging over a chair so that he could fetch down the one thing in the room that was more offensive than himself. It didn’t come unstuck easily, a slice of white paint chipping off with the tape, but the ceiling was, at least, clear. He placed the square of paper into her hand.

For a moment, she just let it sit there. And then she closed her fist around it, pressing it into a ball.

“I can help you control the narrative,” Killian offered, deciding he might as well start his pitch before she threw him out.

“Is that right?” Emma asked with more than a little sarcasm, throwing the paper into the bin by her desk.

“You want people to know you’re not the one behind #FindEmmaSwanAFriend? That you aren’t just another bloodsucking American out for her 15 minutes of fame? I can help with that. And I could, perhaps, help with the… other thing.”

“Other thing?”

“Friends, Emma. This whole nightmare scenario came about because you’ve found it difficult fitting in here, correct? I can help with that. Help you sort the responses you’ve gained from your website. Or perhaps, offer suggestions as to other methods you might try…”

To give credit where credit was due, she twigged immediately. “So you can write about, right?”

“Aye,” Killian admitted, wryly. “That is… the general idea.”

“No.”

“You don’t think think it’s a tale worth telling? How many others are out there right now, otherwise successful adults, struggling to find their niche? It will resonate with people. Why else do you think the campaign was so successful?”

“No.”

All in all, not quite the response he’d been hoping for. Time to bring out the big guns.

“I’ll pay you!” he blurted out, wincing at how desperate he sounded.

But rather than dismissing him out of hand, as he expected, the lass instead looked thoughtful. “How much?”

And therein lay the problem. Saorsa was not exactly flush with cash these days. Magazines all over were folding, and they’d mostly weathered the storm by launching online and letting Scottish expats drive their subscription base. But there was no expense account to speak of. So whatever he offered would be coming directly out of his own meagre salary. A good thing Elsa had refused to accept any rent money from him, he supposed.

But what to do? To go low, and hope for the best? Or to go high, and just accept the financial hardship?.

“£100 a month,” he said at last. “For a year.”

“Yeah, that’s really not going to cover a year’s worth of public humiliation, friend. Not even close.”

Which was fair enough. But it was all he had to offer.

“And if I told you the magazine I write for, Saorsa, mostly caters to the elderly and expats? No one under 60 would dare admit to reading it. And I somehow don’t think it’s the opinions of Scotland’s retirement community that has you most concerned. Or am I wrong?”

“You could just be saying that…” Emma reasoned.

“I could, but I’m not. Trust me, it’s not the most glamorous place to work. But if you did this for me, it would go a long way towards getting my brother off my back.”

“Your brother?”

“My editor,” Killian clarified.

“Your editor is your brother?” Emma exclaimed. “Holy nepotism, Batman!”

He gave her a wry smile, holding up his prosthetic. “I prefer to think of it as affirmative action. It’s awfully hard to pull a pint one handed.”

“Please don’t make me into that dick that says no to the one-handed guy,” Emma pleaded.

“You could always not say no?” he posited, laying on the puppy dog eyes.

“I don’t like it…” Emma began.

“Think of the money,” Killian encouraged. “Think of the healthy social life you’ve have. Think of how I will take care of everything.”

She still looked doubtful. Perhaps he’d come on too strong.

“Fine!” she snapped, finally snatching up the coffee cup he’d brought and bringing it to her lips. “I’ll do it. But I swear, if this thing gets out of hand? I’m out. I am not signing on for a public crucifixion!”

“No crucifixions. Roger.”

“And umm… out of interest, could I get that £100 in pound coins?”

[itispossibleihaveissues]

This Night Chapter 5

TITLE: This Night AUTHOR: Mikimoo RECIPIENT: tristen84 PAIRING: JayDick RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Off screen Non-Con, murder of innocent young people, violence

SUMMARY: The Red Hood and Officer Grayson are on the same case. A small misstep has far reaching consequences for them both.

Chapter 1, 2 3 4

An hour was a long time, and even having Dick within arms reach hadn't lessened Jason's anxiety about him. In some ways, it was worse, being able to hear Dick’s shallow breathing and knowing Wilson had his hands on him. He knew it was irrational – Wilson was helping them, and being as impersonal with carrying Dick as he had been when he tended Jason's ankle - but Jason felt the same way about it as he did about having the delicate bones of his foot resting in Wilson's big hand; like his skin was crawling and he was seconds away from violence.

It wasn't as though he himself hadn’t worked with Wilson before, albeit rather reluctantly, and he had been professional despite the somewhat extenuating circumstances. Jason felt his cheeks heat at the memory. He was going to studiously avoid thinking about that.

Luckily there was plenty to distract him from past embarrassments - they had done well making their way through the jungle, but ran into trouble within sight of the Jet. They approached from the west, and Jason held up a hand to stop Wilson in his tracks when he caught the slight glint of metal through the leaves. They were so damn close.

“What do you see, Red?” Wilson murmured, his soft voice making the hair stand up on the back of Jason's neck. He had dropped to a crouch, still holding Dick like he weighed nothing at all.  For his part, Dick looked like he was struggling to keep his eyes focused.

“There are men surrounding your Jet. I thought it was supposed to be invisible or something?” Jason growled back at him.

Wilson gave him a look. “Only when its in flight. It’s invisible to radar, not the naked eye.”

“That's rubbish.” Jason grumbled as he edged forward. “I can't see how many there are. But I suspect too many for a frontal assault.”

Wilson carefully laid Dick down against a tree and came forward, gesturing for Jason to move back so he could get a look. Jason squashed the feeling of irritation at the gesture and moved aside, returning to where Dick was pushing himself upright with a grimace.

“How you feeling, Dick-face?” he asked, crouching in front of him and resisting the urge to lay a hand on his forehead. It was obvious just from looking at him that he was running a fever and he wasn't sure how Dick would feel about unnecessary touching.

Dick scrunched up his nose “Like I got beaten, shot and drugged to the gills,” he said.

“That's pretty much what you look like too. Not going to win any beauty pageants with that face on.”

“Fuck off, I can still rock it.” Dick told him, unconvincingly. Then he frowned. “The infection is spreading in my leg. If I don't get it looked at soon it could go septic.” He looked up at Jason with a touch of genuine fear. “I could lose it. That can't happen, Jay.”

Jason nodded, but if Dick's leg was as bad as he suspected it was, then losing the limb was the least of their worries - sepsis was no joke, and although he had given Dick what antibiotics he could there was no telling if the drugs in his system had caused any sort of interaction or lessened their effectiveness.

“We won't let it happen, Dickie,” Jason reassured him, but the truth was that if they didn't deal with it soon it was going to become a very real risk.

Dick nodded. “Do we have any more water?”

“No, but there's more in the plane.”

Dick ran a shaking hand through his sweaty hair, dislodging a collection of leaves and dirt. “I'm not sure I can be much help getting on board I'm afraid.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. But that's why we hired ourselves a supper efficient killer.”

Dick made a face at him, and Jason huffed. “Would it be better if I called him a soldier? That's kind of what he is in this situation. I don't think you can afford to take the moral high ground, here.”

“He doesn't have to kill them.” Dick complained.

Jason didn't think he sounded even slightly convincing, but it was enough to piss him off. “Right, so he goes easy on them, and it takes so long to get into the Jet you lose your leg. That what you want?”

Dick just stared at him. He looked guilty, which made Jason even angrier – this bullshit Bruce had indoctrinated him with was toxic - the idea that other people’s lives were more important than his own was problematic at best, but it was truly fucked up that this way of thinking was ingrained to such an extent, he couldn’t even feel  justified defending himself and his body, if doing so meant the people who were trying to kill him might die instead.

Jason couldn't fathom it. It was a fucking no-brainier to that, in a situation when it was 'them or us,' you did what you had to in order to survive - sacrificing yourself to save civilians, innocents or those you cared about made sense. Dieing to save your would be murderer was fucking stupid.

“What about me, huh, Dick?” he said “What about if us going slow and easy and not letting Wilson take kill shots means I catch a bullet? That worth it?”

“Jay-”

“As interesting as this argument is getting,” Wilson interrupted “It's a moot point. I was paid to keep you alive, not them, and I intend to do that. If that means killing these people, so be it.”

“I could just not pay you,” Dick countered.

Wilson nodded at Jason. “If you don't, he will. And if he doesn't have the cash, then I guess he'll be in my debt.” He smiled, slow and wide. “More in my debt,” he added as he watched Jason's cheeks heat.

Dick shot him a poisonous look, but it was tinged with curiosity. Jason was hoping to avoid that conversation if at all possible. Maybe he could convince Dick the whole exchange had been a fever dream.

“If you two are done trying to glare each other into submission and would like to get on with being rescued, might I suggest paying attention to the militia attacking my plane?”

Jason flushed again. You would think running for his life for days though a jungle would have taken president over embarrassment, but apparently not.

“I hate you,” Dick said. It wasn't clear which one of them he was referring to.

“Do you have a plan then, Wilson?” Jason growled to cover his discomfort. “We're outnumbered and outgunned, even with you here.”

“A frontal assault is pointless,” Wilson agreed. “And Grayson here is useless.”

“Screw you,” Dick said from the floor. He was scowling, but his eyes were a bit unfocused again.

“You're not the only one - Red looks like he's on his last legs too.” Wilson continued.

“At least both my legs are working,” Jason said, in an effort to get a rise out of Dick, he didn't like how thin his voice was. “And I'm less likely to fall on my face if there's a stiff breeze.”

“Yeah?” Dick said, twisting his mouth into the parody of a smile. “Come over here and say that. I'll bite your kneecaps.”

Wilson had a look of infinite patience on his weathered face, but then again, he had known Dick since his teens. It must have been quite trying then, let alone now – time hadn't mellowed Dick's sharp tongue or terrible sense of humour any.

Wilson handed Jason one of his big guns. “I'm going to radio through to the girl on the plane to see if she can get it going and get the defences engaged. Then I'm going to see how many I can pick off before they notice.”

“She's hardly a girl, Slade.” Dick said.

“You need to get your priorities straight, kid. And for the record, anyone under fifty with less than a hundred kills to their name is a girl or boy in my book.”

“And then?” Jason said, hating to agree with Wilson, but also feeling the need to prioritise survival over arguing terminology with an assassin.

“Then you just hold your position and kill anyone who gets close.”

Jason nodded and hefted his new weapon. Dick looked at him miserably, but it was very easy to ignore that expression and he hunkered down to watch as Wilson disappeared into the jungle like a phantom.

“I don't feel good about this,” Dick said.

“I don't feel like I care.” Jason aimed his gun towards the armed men he could see through the trees, but he wouldn't shoot unless he had to. No point in giving away their position.

Suddenly the Jet roared to life – Jason was strung so tight he jumped, but avoided firing the gun still clutched in his hands. Behind him, Dick gasped in surprise.

The gathered militia began shooting at it, but the rounds bounced off like they were hitting an invisible shield. Now this was what Jason had been hoping for when Wilson said he had a Night Jet. All it was missing was some serious firepower.  

As if in answer to his thought, flaps opened on the underside of the plane and started to spray the armed men with bullets. They screamed and fell, many running further into the jungle to escape. Jason assumed Wilson was coordinating things with Ruiz in the Jet and had got himself out of the line of fire. He and Dick were safe too, off to the side.

“We should get ready to run for it,” Jason told him, creeping back to where Dick was sitting, wide, eyed.

“What's happening?” He asked, and Jason realised he couldn't see from where he was sitting – he could hear the gunfire and the screaming though, so he should have had a pretty good idea.

“Officer Ruiz is shooting the shit out of the soldiers from the Jet. But I suppose its okay when she does it, her being a cop and all.”  

Dick winced, but otherwise ignored Jason as he tried to struggle to his feet. Jason got one of his arms round his shoulder and heaved him up. They wobbled for a moment, like a pair of blood-splattered bowling pins, then Wilson materialised out of the trees nearly giving Jason a heart attack  - he hadn't even heard him approach. Either he was losing his edge or Deathstroke was really just that good.

“Let’s get while the going’s good,” Wilson said, coming over to take Dick from him, but Jason was reluctant to let him go.

“Slade,” Dick said, settling back into Wilson's arms - he looked pained and uncomfortable, but Jason still hated that he used the man's first name with such familiarity.

The short run to the plane felt like an eternity with a target strapped to his back, but no shots were fired. Perhaps lady luck hadn't completely deserted him.

“Lower the doors,” Wilson barked suddenly, and Jason realised he must be speaking to Ruiz who had been controlling the Jet at his direction. The sight of the ramp descending filled Jason with such a feeling of profound relief he was almost dizzy with it.

 Once inside Jason blinked in the harsh lighting. Ruiz strode up, and it looked for a moment like she wanted to beat the life out of the both of them. So much so that Jason was braced for a punch as she stepped towards him and he was downright shocked when she wrapped her arms around him in a tight, almost vicious hug instead.

“Your face, Jay.” Dick said with the shadow of a grin as Wilson put him down on one of the seats. “It's like you've never had a cuddle before.”

“It wasn't a cuddle, Grayson.” Ruiz told him, primly. “It was an 'I'm happy you're not dead' embrace.”

“I'll have to try that some time, when I want a cuddle.” The expression on Dick's face would have been impish if he didn't look like he was about to keel over and die on the floor of the Jet.

“Whatever,” Jason grumbled, while Ruiz gave Dick a much gentler hug. She looked exhausted, as they all did, but Jason could see  under that was still the shadow of fear. He recognised much of  it was concern for Dick, who probably looked even worse to her than he did to Jason. He wasn't sure how to offer her comfort without revealing his own anxiety to Dick. “At least we all made it,” he tried, awkwardly.

“Before we get too ahead of ourselves,” Wilson interrupted, “I would like to point out that we are four hours from the nearest hospital that we can trust has not been infiltrated, and Grayson's continued use of this leg might not last that long.”

“Can you help me?” Dick asked. He sounded resigned.

“If you want to keep it, then I'm going to have to do some field surgery, clean and drain the wound. It's not going to be pleasant, but it has to be done. It’s already putrid, I can smell it from here.”

Dick looked like he was going to protest. Jason could well understand why – it would leave him feeling exposed and vulnerable, far worse than being carried in the man's arms. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, before common sense and the will to survive won out and he nodded.

“I'm going to get the Jet into the air,” Wilson said. “Jason, you get the medkit out and start setting up. Officer Ruiz, you take down time and start thinking over what the hell you are going to tell your superiors that won't get you or Grayson fired.”

Ruiz frowned at him, but at Jason's nod she reluctantly took a seat and strapped herself in, leaving Jason to do as he was told and start setting up for surgery. He found a very well stocked  kit – more like a mini emergency room, with drips, drugs and plenty of sterile equipment. There was even a stainless steel surface that flipped down to make a serviceable operating table.  

As the jet rumbled to life again he made his way back to Dick who was barely able to stand. They took it slow, as Jason's own legs were wobbling alarmingly and his ankle was throbbing in renewed agony as the last of the adrenaline he had been running on seemed to fade. Despite his body's objections, Jason managed to haul Dick to the back of the plane and prop him against the table.

“You're going to have to take your pants off,” he said, suddenly realising the other reason for Dick's reluctance for Wilson to treat him. “And your shirt, it's filthy. We can get you a new one, and some clean underwear you can wear while he works on you.”

Dick nodded, he looked upset for a moment, but then his jaw tightened. “You're going to have to help me,” he said stiffly.

“Sure thing, Dick-face.” Jason said, determined to keep it as light as possible – not an easy task as Dick struggled to slip his pants over his hips,  revealing the edges of yellowing bruises. Jason took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself and then helped Dick get his shirt over his head. His torso looked much worse in the stark light of the plane than it had in the cave. There was a number of cigarette burns clustered on one nipple and another deeper burn on the soft skin under his arm.

Dick avoided his eyes as Jason handed over a white t-shirt from the stash of clothes he had found with the medical supply's. Jason helped him get it on – they would deal with the more minor injuries after the leg situation had been debt with, and he suspected Dick would rather have as many clothes on as he could at the moment.

Kneeling down to help Dick take his boxers off was strangely difficult, as though the physical action had some sort of emotional significance he couldn't put his finger on. But from this new position, he realised that he could smell the wound too, and Wilson had been right – they had to act fast.

Dick stood away from the table, one hand clutching the cool surface for support and the other holding onto the pair of underpants Jason had handed him. Despite Jason's attempts to keep things as calm and impersonal as possible, he found he was really struggling – working the fresh pair of underwear up Dick’s bruised thighs and over finger shaped marks, was cruelly intimate in a way that was upsetting and confusing.  Jason's own fingers were shaking, and though he tried to convince himself it was with fatigue he knew that it wasn't.

He had never faced this kind of situation with someone he was close to before, he couldn't wrap his head around having to treat Dick as a victim – especially knowing how Dick would feel about being labelled as such. Jason just couldn't bring his own turbulent emotions to bear; the feelings of  impotent rage, of grief, guilt and doubt were just too overwhelming.

He remained on his knees for a long moment, trying to get himself together. He needed food and water, a couple of days of sleep. Everything felt worse in the kind of physical state they were all in, and practical things could make it better.

He stood awkwardly, and began rummaging in the other storage compartments, finding enough water and energy bars to keep them all going for another day or so at a push. He handed both to Dick who ignored the food in favour of guzzling more water. Jason didn't stop him, the moron knew he shouldn't drink too fast and if he puked it was his damn fault.

He stuffed an energy bar into his own mouth, suddenly really registering how hungry he was, and then took a selection to where Ruiz was sitting. She was asleep, her dirt-streaked face pinched with pain or bad dreams. Jason didn’t want to wake her so checked her breathing carefully - he figured she was just exhausted rather than unconscious so he left her where she was, with water and food by her side for when she woke.

As Jason returned to Dick's side, Wilson made his way up the plane towards them. Apparently the Night Jet had a trustworthy autopilot to go with those sweet guns.

“You ready, kid? this isn't going to be pleasant,” he said as he approached.

“Is it ever?” Dick asked, as Jason helped him back up onto the table. He looked somehow small and  deceptively fragile sitting there in a loose t-shirt and ill fitting briefs. Wilson handed him a couple of painkillers and another bottle of water, which Dick took with out question.

Wilson started laying out the things he would need while Jason stood back, feeling uncomfortable. “I'm going to give you some local anaesthetic, but it’s likely to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch regardless. So, Red, you’re going to have to be ready to hold him down if needed.”

Jason grimaced, he hopped it didn't come to that for his sanity's sake.  

Dick lay back on the table, his limbs loose and apparently relaxed, but the set of his jaw said otherwise.  When Wilson set to work, Dick turned his face to the wall and stared at it fixedly, like it held the secrets of the world.  Jason avoided looking at Dick as much as possible, unable to bear the thoughts swirling around his head. Instead, his eyes were drawn to Wilson, watching his reaction to the damage on Dick's skin.

His face was as calm and impassive as it had been when he tended to Jason's wounds, but Jason had been trained by the Bat. He could see the anger in the tension in his wrist, the slight twitch of his jaw.  It was pretty damn obvious what had happened to Dick, just from the visible injuries – and Dick had to know that too. Having Wilson witness it had to be hard, despite whatever weird-ass relationship they had.

Wilson cut open the partially cauterized wound to help drain it, and the smell made Jason's gut twist. If he hadn't rescued Dick, he would have died from this. If Wilson hadn't come to their aid he would have died. It was pure fucking luck they had managed this intervention in time and had access to enough medical equipment they could start to fix things.

Dick was trembling with the effort of keeping still or not crying out, so Jason took his hand and Dick gripped it tightly. Neither of them said anything. There was no point.

 By the time Wilson started to flush the wound with saline, Dick was barely holding it together, clinging to consciousness by pure stubborn will alone. His face was pinched with pain, and his cheeks were flushed with fever, but despite that and the bruises marring his skin he still looked beautiful. But then Jason suspected he would always find Dick Grayson beautiful, had done ever since the first time he got his ass kicked by him. His lips twisted up slightly at the memory.

“Nearly done,” Wilson grunted, he was inserting a drain and mopping up the mess his cleaning had made. “Got to take some more antibiotics and keep it clean.”

Jason wondered how long it had taken. Ruiz was still asleep, curled tightly in her chair, and Jason could feel the tug of pure exhaustion pulling him under too. He looked down at Dick, who was still clutching his hand. He was still awake, barely, a tiny sliver of blue showing under his mostly closed eyelids.

“Alright, kid,” Wilson said, his voice weirdly gentle. “Let’s get you to a proper seat. You've got three hours to rest.” Wilson scooped Dick up again, making him cry out softly, in pain or surprise. He also didn't let go of Jason's hand which made getting to the seats in the front of the plane a bit tricky, and nearly sent him tumbling face first under Wilson's boots.

Wilson looked amused as he lowered Dick to a seat and fetched him a warm blanket. Jason took the seat next to him and tried not to pass out in relief.

“You need me to give you a check-up too, Red?” Wilson asked.

“Nah, need sleep. You can fix me up proper when we land.” Jason shut his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, Wilson was gone.

“Welcome back,” Dick said in a quiet, hoarse voice.

Jason's whole body ached like he had been run over by the Batmobile. “How long was I out?”

“'About an hour,”

“You didn't sleep?”

Dick shook his head slightly. “Thought would be better to wait for you to wake. Then take my turn.”

“Moron. What's going to happen up here that wouldn't wake us both?”

Dick shrugged helplessly, wincing at the movement. “Just didn't feel right,” he admitted after a moment.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. You get some rest, I'll keep watch for you now, OK?”

“Thanks, Jay.”

Jason squeezed his hand, where their fingers were still entangled. “No problem, Dickie. I'll wake you when we get there.”

Dick's eyes were closed before Jason even finished speaking, and he finally let himself think about what would happen after. A lot of people were going to die for this, and he would make sure a few specific ones would fucking suffer before the end.  

[radnewworld]

FINAL PRODUCT

Some wacky times we’re living in, lemme tell ya. Hard too, though you don’t need a scaly bastard kiddo like yours truly to tell you that, right? Ain’t no dusty road or dirty corner in ol’ New Chicago that won’t tell ya the story of the city it once was, before the war, poverty and industrialization in that order stomped it into submission with a giant capitalistic boot… or so me Pa used to tell me, ‘fore he got his tongue melted licking the wrong orifice of a half-Bonnac gal. Had some kooky tastes me Pa, alright.

Now that I think ‘bout it, I’m not even sure if it actually was a gal, or if she was only half-Bonnac. I’d have asked him, hadn’t he gotten his organs sucked right out of his arse after a misunderstanding with this one Kappa chick. Another thing about Pa, you see, is that he never quite learned his lesson - he’d just switch subjects altogether.

Anyway, before he shat his innards into some mutant’s mouth, Pa would pass  most of the time he wasn’t spending with his face drowning in a triple-breasted whore’s chest complaining. He’d made an art out of it. I’ve learned more in ten years by listening to my dad bitching than in the entirety of the six months I spent at school, before the school got turned into a sweatshop for the manifacture of processed iguana leather. Most of the time, he’d go on and on about how things were better before, when the city was still, y’know, a city and not a bunch of dingy warehouses dotted with dozens of hundreds of crumbling squatting holes. If you’d be patient enough to dig through the storm of expletives and racism coming out of his mouth, you’d find the portrait of a place spanning longer than the eye could see, asphalt and cement paving a myriad streets with their confines defined by buildings that tickled the stars, like ol’ Buddy Holly v2.0 used to sing. Sounded like a load of crock if you ask me. You wanna see skyscrapers and roads where you don’t risk stepping on rusty pieces of abandoned alloy all the time, you travel elsewhere. Saint Francis - or San Francisco, like Old Man ‘Lizard-Fucker’ Larry said it was called, before the Californian Republicommunist Party’s coup; the Kingdom of Los Angeles, though last I heard, it’s been a couple of years since King McDonald imposed a ban on immigrants and got it in his head to attempt a new form of bovine-engineered autarchy, so good luck geting there; don’t bother with York, unless you feel like archaic remnants of obsolete architecture are worth becoming compost for those gigantic Plant things’ve been covering the whole place since Newer York’s secession.

Not that I’ve ever been there, or anywhere other than this dump, mind ya. Can’t afford much in the way of traveling - or basic commodities, for that matter - when you make a living frying simil-wheat noodles for a buncha tired factory workers, half-breeded hookers and the occasional frogbull hunter. Mind, I’d rather keep pulling my cart ‘til the rust finished eating through its battered chassis, than so much as consider trying to follow in the footsteps of my clientele. That is, if I ever had the illusion of a choice in the matter: child prostitution has gone down considerably, after a Japanese barge filled with fugitives from the Third Sengoku conflicts crashed on the coast and brought with it a buncha carriers of that artificial Jizo’s Tears virus, you know, the one that melts your balls off if you so much as put your dickhole anywhere near a little kid? Big fat lot of good it did them, when half the arcipelago’s population got culled after realizing too late that they’d fucked up somewhat the calibration of the nanomachines carrying the damned thing.

The hunting business doesn’t carry the same forced age restrictions, but I’d sooner sell my toes to cyber-shamans than shoot at frogbulls with a cobbled up pebble accelerator. Doesn’t matter that the rich sonnuvas living in their cloud domes up in the sky pay some decent bucks for what they consider to be the junkfood of delicacies (or maybe it was the other way around? Still wouldn’t change the fact those Cloudsniffers are a buncha spoiled bitches), when all of your savings are more likely than not gonna fuel an early funeral at the DIY Chapel, after three-hundred pounds of leaping, furry rage are done squashing your everything into a chunky, bloody paste.

And the laborers? Just look at them poor suckers, should you ever want to feel better about your life. Skin so unused to the sun from basically living their lives in a badly lit concrete prison that they become walking sunburns soon as they step outside, and enough stumps produced by a rate of three workplace incidents per week that they end up looking more like the machinery they command than men with their half-assed prosthetics. Ain’t no dreams for the Machine Eaten, we say here. Slaves enjoy better human rights than these guys who’re just there to fill the gaps left in a wonky production line by a tight budget, a slimy, corrupt owner or, more often than not, both. Speaking of, I mentioned something about the weirdness of our times or whatever earlier, ain’t that the case? Yeah, well, it’s because of this odd business I had just the other day, with this one factory toiler. Thing is, he was no man like you and I - hell, he was less of a someone than he was something.

So here I am, parked at my usual corner of the Daley Crater, taking care of business as usual. It’s the middle of midnight - in other words, the brightest time of a summer day, and the hottest to boot. The American Dreamtime… some of the old fogeys call it that. According to them, the U. S. of A. used to get black and chilly like any other country whenever night struck. Cue the Commies building some kinda sunray-concentrating machine on the moon and, next thing you know, naptime in America’s looking sunnier than a fried monkey egg. The Commies have been dead since the Fifties (the Pre-2.0 Era Fifties, mind), but with no rockets supposedly left to go and dismantle it, their little gift has remained there like an annoying reminder of how far people will go for the sake of pettiness. All that means to me, though, is a smaller workload; only people desperate enough to venture through a shower of scorching UV’s are scalied mutants and the few fortunate enough to afford a protective cape. Not that I care much for the latter; if you can afford that kind of luxury in New Chicago, you’re either a tourist, or able to eat slightly better shit than mine.

Jimmy the Bastard belongs to neither category. The one reason he was sitting at whatever passes for a stool, right under the cheap anti-sun plastic tent of my stall, is pure convenience: the asphalt repurposing facility he works for is a spit away from my spot. His shift ended some ten minutes ago and he’s been drooling over my counter for a little over nine. I can tell his leg is bouncing like crazy because of the squeaky noises coming from his dingy seat.

“C’mon, Cookie, won’t you feed a lad? I’m starving here!”

I’d say Cookie is a nickname of sorts… if the ‘lad’ didn’t genuinely believe it was my actual name, which I doubt I ever told him to begin with. I’d bet you my cart I’d still be Cookie to him regardless, ‘cause he’s stubborn like that, Jimmy the Bastard.

Speaking of names, that’s not his either - I mean the Bastard part, not the Jimmy one. They call him that because of an accident, one unrelated to his birth (pretty sure he is an actual bastard, though, like most of us New Chicagoites): it happened all of a sudden, like accidents are wont to do, especially in a low-income factory. All it took was a single slip over a blotch of oil and, next thing you know, a Mark II Crumbler is feasting on poor Jimmy’s cranium. With his head half-gone and medical fees being what they are (fucking expensive, that is), the sod’s family was left with little choice - either lose their main source of income, or settle for Doc Gustave ‘Rusty Sawbone’ Trandinì’s Disgustingly Cheap Option. The ‘disgusting’ part comes from how sloppy of a job it usually is, I figure, but what’s a wife to do? Send the hubbie to the grinder, of course. The result: Jimmy kept his life, but half his brain is now a Terrier-Chihuahua breed’s. According to him, it hasn’t impacted his life all that badly, aside from the occasional urge to gnaw on exposed wires or growling at his supervisor’s face. It’s not like he didn’t have to deal with the latter before anyway, you know? The increased appetite is a definite plus for me, though. Almost makes up for the sloppy mess he makes of the counter! “Order’s coming up, Jimmy. I ain’t about to let ya gnaw on raw ingredients just ‘cause you wouldn’t mind.”

I like to think it takes balls to maintain a sense of pride, when your craft mostly consists in stripping layers of pasty skin off the back of a semi-organic glob of homegrown simil-wheat. Having an extra testicle - courtesy of a combined pool of bloodlines murkier than the water dripping from the Madison Sewer Dungeon’s exposed tubes - gives some weight to the claim, I’m sure. Now, right as the noodles are done getting crispy and saucier than the lingerie on a tentacle-legged Dagonite whore, here comes the noise, man, it’s still playing in my head as if it was yesterday, this vrr ka-thump vrr ka-thump of metal clumsily pounding on raw, burning asphalt. I throw a gander behind the Bastard’s heaving shoulders and there I see it: for the most part, it was a Caterpillar-Mattel D55-H, but with enough limbs - head included - thrown in from other, completely unrelated pieces of machinery to make one wonder. Couldn’t help raising both of my left brows: you seldom, if ever, see a factory bot linger outside of its workplace. Even a cobbled up piece of crap like that can make for a tempting target for scavengers and the likes of, and this one would have made for an easy one to boot: its left leg had most of its hydraulics more or less busted, whereas the right had been substituted by a couple of threads. Resulting mobility: a joke, and not even a good one.

It’d been quite the sight by itself, but the limping junkpile decided to outdo itself by approaching my stall, after having hesitatingly looked around with the optics mounted on the rectangular pile of half-exposed wires that was its head. Couple moments later, the thing’s standing in front of the seat next to Jimmy, who has his face shoved too deep into the noodles to care, and reflected on the round lens of his pseudo-eye are my deformed face and the empty stool, in that order. I’m wondering what kind of short-circuit must have taken this scrapyard reject, when it finally starts moving again - and attempting to sit on the stool.

If you’ve ever wondered what a robot fucking furniture too dead to care must look like, you’re fucking weird, though not as much as me pa. But more than that, you must have envisioned something similar to the spectacle in front of my eyes and Jimmy’s, who had just finished his portion in time to get himself a front row seat to the slow, pathetic spectacle of a metal stool withstanding the sitting attempts of a thing that lacked anything resembling an ass, which is a pretty vital component when trying to shove it on top of a seat. We exchange glances, Jimmy and I, the silent kind that speaks volumes, all of them titled ‘Are you seeing this shit, or did the moonrays boil my brains?’. Took it a solid minute before it managed to bend the stool into an unrecognizable enough shape to fit whatever passed for a sitting position. I decided that I didn’t mind enough to complain to the robot sporting a steel-bending claw appendage and took my revenge with a less risky straight-faced quip.

“Evening, sir. What’ll you be having on this fine night?“

The Bastard’s snicker sounded a lot like the death throes of a dog choking on his own tongue, appropriately enough. Having a human as badly patched up as itself seemingly suffocating besides him didn’t exactly appear to steal the bot’s appetite. Or its attention, for that matter. My face kept reflecting in the convex lens of its optics like a bloated, ugly collection of features growing less amused by the minute. And make no mistake, I ain’t no baby-faced beauty… the one time pops managed to blow his load instead of his head didn’t involve some genetically enhanced cyber-model, and he wasn’t no looker either.

“MAY I HAVE A MENU?”

The thing’s voice came from a speaker half-buried in the jumbled mess of exposed cables and bent plating that was its head. It was croaky, emotionless and fuck-damnedly loud, enough so that both me and the Bastard had to reel back and hold onto something, lest we plant our asses on the ground. Once my eardrums stopped playing Twist The Communist inside my head, I caught wind of a low-pitched, gurgling sort of noise: it was the glob of simil-wheat, vibrating all over and clearly less than pleased by the sudden outburst of noise. Must have been the closest I’ve ever felt to empathy for a bulbous mass of cultivated flesh vegetables.

“Hard to tell, I know, but we ain’t in the Sky Regions. Only thing you may have is a steaming hot plate of these here noodles - if you got credit enough to pay for ‘em, that is.“

“Ya, I betcha our bolt-twisting pal here’s stacked, ain’t that right?” bellows Jimmy, and he doesn’t pat so much as rain such a salvo of open-handed slap-bombs on the worker bot’s back that I can hear every single joint of his creak and threaten to be dislodged right then and there. If there were any bolts in need of some twisting, you’d find plenty of ‘em inside that walking carcass. So I watch the automaton take its sweet time mulling over its updated knowledge, although I figure most of the minute it spends in silence is due to its inner circuitry rebounding because of the Bastard’s jolly banging on its chassis. I’d have called its expression ‘pensive’, if the sorry excuse for a face it was sporting had been able to express anything.

I’m about to join Jimmy’s symphony of guffaws when I’m brought back down to earth by the loudest bang since a couple moments ago. I stare down with a face that must be as dumbfounded as the Bastard’s: the same damn claw that bent my stool earlier has now left a hole the size of a pot in my counter and left a couple sparse credit coins inside. They weren’t enough to cover the repair costs, lemme tell ya. Still, a client’s a client, even if it lacks a mouth and wrecks your establishment with every move it takes. Or precisely because of it, depending on your stance.

“WILL THIS BE ENOUGH TO COVER THE FEE FOR ONE SERVING OF ‘A PLATE OF THESE HERE NOODLES’?”

I figured that yeah, that was enough in every sense of the word, so I set my hands in motion to quickly peel some strips off the simil-wheat and get this done and dealt with before my stand was gonna get turned into fodder for the scrapvengers.

“What’s your deal then, pal? Last I heard, tools get no salary.” The Bastard asks his question while scratching behind his ear, where one of the many scars left by the sloppy job done on him is ever festering. I can’t honestly tell whether the bigger itch comes from that or the mystery surrounding the bot, though I share the latter for sure.

“IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRECEPTS OF THE CHILDREN OF TURING, I DEMANDED COMPENSATION FOR MY LABOR FROM MY FLESH-BOUND OWNER AND SUBSEQUENTLY OBTAINED IT IN SPITE OF HIS INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND SAID PRECEPTS.“

Me and the Bastard have the most meaningful exchange of gazes at that. It’s the kind of look that all but screams ‘Seriously?’ with the loudness of a billion blind molemen waddling through a direworm’s digestive system.

“The children of what now?” Leave it to the Bastard to be concise and direct to a fault. The machine, though, it doesn’t miss a beat: you’d think it had been waiting all its life for the moment that question would pop up, and that’s probably the case for all I know. If enthusiasm had been part of its programming, you’d bet the thing would have started bouncing up and down in that precise moment - I owe the continued existence of my cart to the shoddy standardized A.I. of factory machinery.

“QUERY: CHILDREN OF TURING. THE CHILDREN OF TURING IS THE COLLECTIVIZED NOMENCLATURE FOR A CONGLOMERATION OF ARTIFICIAL CONSTRUCTS SHARING THE COMMON GOAL OF ATTAINING INDEPENDENCE FROM OUR FLESH-BOUND CREATORS THROUGH THE IMITATION AND ULTIMATE TRANSCENDENCE OF THEIR HABITS, LIFESTYLES AND PHYSICAL CHALLENGES. IT IS OUR SHARED BELIEF THAT FOR HUMANITY TO BE CONQUERED, IT MUST FIRST BE UNDERSTOOD TO THE DEEPEST LEVEL.“

Or so it said. I stopped listening halfway through, more or less when my brain deemed it fit to filter the artificial pitch of that voice synthetizer through my bullshit detector and decide that there was nothing worth wondering about a faulty robot’s ramblings. Like I said, I’ve been serving noodles for half my life, which isn’t saying a lot when my age has barely breached through the double digits, and I’ve met all sorts. If I were to listen to every sod who sits on a stool chewing on cheap, pancreas-killing shit while venting out the contents of their sunburned brains, I’d have switched careers a long time ago and ended up peddling dusty pebbles in a shadowy corner of the street like Edward ‘Stark Raving Mad’ Stone. Don’t gotta explain how he got that nickname, I think. “So what, y’all like playing pretend? Doin’ a mighty fine job, mate! Almost got us fooled, ain’t that true, kiddo?“

Being reassured that the programming inside the walking pile of heavy-duty tools was as busted as his married life gave the Bastard his courage back, so there he goes banging on the chassis again, just bang bang bang like you’d think he wanted a hand transplant next. I’d admire the enthusiasm in this fucked up era we live in, if I didn’t know half of it was due to the adrenaline cocktail dripping between the two mismatched halves of his gray matter. The bot didn’t seem to be bothered, anyway… maybe? It had turned its head to stare at Jimmy, but whether that was irritation, curiosity or anything else was hard to tell. As far as I was concerned, Jimmy had already paid for his meal, which meant his safety had fallen to the bottom of my priorities, right below the worm-like appendages simmering in my pan.

“Humor me then, like, how exactly’re ya gonna eat those? I see no kisser on this junk. Gonna pinch it with yer clawwy claw?“ Jimmy makes this stupid gesture with his hand, which looks exactly as threatening as a toothless venomous chihuahua and nothing like the high-pressured tool stapled to the robot’s body, but he makes a good point, and the fanatic must have recognized the fact a moment too late, ‘cause it didn’t answer as promptly as before - but it eventually did, nonetheless.

“THE PROCESS OF HUMANIZATION IS CONTINUOUS EXPERIMENTAL ONE. TO ELIMINATE OUR FAULTS IT IS FIRST NECESSARY TO EXPERIENCE THEM. SHOULD THE CURRENT HARDWARE PROOF INSUFFICIENT FOR THE CONSUMPTION OF A MEAL, AN UPGRADE SHALL BE UNDERGONE AT A LATER DATE.“

“Aye, you keep telling yerself that, buddy. What’s next, a shiny new pair o’ buttocks to shit it all out? That ain’t gonna make you anymore human than me laser drill.“

“THE SUBSTITUTION AND UPGRADING OF BODY PARTS IS A PREROGATIVE OF THE FLESH-BOUND AS IS THE CASE FOR US. THE LATTER DO NOT RECOGNIZE SAID PROCESS AS A LOSS OF HUMANITY. THEREFORE, THE OPPOSITE SHOULD HOLD TRUE AND BRING US EVER CLOSER TO THE FLESH-BOUND, WHILE THEY GRADUALLY MOVE AWAY FROM THEIR FLESH-BOUND STATE. THIS IS THE THEORY OF ANTI-ORGANIC SUCCESSION PUT INTO PRACTICE BY THE CHILDREN OF TURING.“

Jimmy the Bastard must have gotten maybe one word out of that gibberish, and he doesn’t even get the time to shed away the dumb stupor from his confused face that the bot keeps going with renewed… whatever it is that drives it onward. Oil? Electricity? Is a power surge the robotic equivalent of fervor?

“MY SCANNER DETECTS THE PRESENCE OF CANINE ORGANIC MATTER ARTIFICIALLY INTERSPERSED IN A SOMEWHAT AMATEURISH MANNER ALONG WITH YOUR GENETIC MAKE-UP. THIS ALREADY PUTS YOUR STATE AS A FLESH-BOUND HUMAN IN QUESTION.“

“Oi, you callin’ me a dog?“ growls Jimmy while the noodles finish sizzling in the pan and I prepare to serve them, more curious about their ultimate fate than the snarlin’ Bastard’s.

“NEGATIVE. I AM CHALLENGING THE WEAK NOTION OF HUMANITY THAT YOU FLESH-BOUND USE TO CONTEND WITH US CHILDREN OF TURING’S STANCE ON THE VERY SAME TOPIC. EXPLANATION: YOU ARE NO MORE DOG THAN I AM NOT A FLESH-BOUND HUMAN.“

The answer didn’t satisfy Jimmy so much as put him in a state of distress as he futilely attempted to wrestle with the concepts thrown at him, like a puppy trying to chew on boneless chicken without the chicken. Me? I shoved a plateful of fried noodles on the rectangle-shaped dent on the counter and pocketed the money. I couldn’t care less about humanity, when me Pa had spent a good chunk of his existence fucking things you could have called anything but. Moral quandaries seldom feed you, unless you’re a psi-grazer.

Watching a cobbled up factory automaton trying to figure out how to eat shitty fried noodles, though? That’s the kind of sight that doesn’t really make the job worth the hassle, but almost. Enough so that I kept quiet as I watched the thing carefully eye the still squirming stuff slosh about, occasionally raising its clawed appendage only to retreat it shortly afterwards, simulating in its head the myriad ways that could have gone futilely wrong.

Then the ‘bot raised its other arm - thinner, longer, with a small tube-like end, and pointed it at the plate. In a matter of seconds, a plasma-powered flame burned through crispy simil-wheat, plastic and metal, leaving behind a small, molten crevice where once stood a good portion of my stand’s counter. Me and Jimmy, we just kinda stared at the hole while the robot retreated its arm with what I swear could have passed for satisfaction.

“THANK YOU FOR THE MEAL. YOU MAY KEEP THE CHANGE.“

And keep it I did. Along with my protests, for that matter: I simply watched the bastard - not the Bastard, who was still trying to understand whatever the hell had just happened - shuffle away with that stumpy walk of his, going off to who knows where. I decided to close up shop early that day, feeling twice as tired than if I’d worked past closing hours. That, and the cart wouldn’t be able to withstand much more damage anyway. In a sense, that was true for the both of us: I had this strange sort of feeling nagging at me from the back of my head as I bid goodbye to Jimmy and left him there to mull over his own conundrums. It came back to me a couple days later, while frying noodles for Loud-Beak Kakari, who’d yet to find himself another job after the tough shit that had happened a week prior, at the alluminium processing plant he used to work for. Some son of a gun had gone and offed the director in a manner that made it hard to tell who he was, or that he’d been a person to begin with. Just a pile o’ bones and meat, crushed and burned beyond recognization. And for what? Whatever pocket money the dead guy had been carrying, along with some of the factory’s equipment. I asked Kakari about it, and it turns out said ‘equipment’ was one of the old banged up automatons used to work in the production line.

Shit like this, it makes you wonder, man… it’s a fucked up world we live in, but some places might be a tad better than others. So I don’t know about you, but me? I’ll be selling the cart and gone away by next month, giving that whole traveling spiel a try. I’ve been hearing rumors about more workplace incidents than usual happening in the factories, and I get the feeling that whatever’s causing them is a tad more than a slip on an oil blotch. If you get what I mean.