#warping my voice into half-a-second-from-sobbing is easy

[bqstqnbruin]

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

Imma be honest I forgot what this last part was supposed to be called aidfjaoisf (also I know I used that gif for another part but c’mon tell me you don’t love it)

ANYWAY I caved and decided to post THE FINAL PART of 10 Things I Hate About You tonight as an ✨early✨ birthday thing for Matty (compromise ?). Thank you to everyone and anyone who has read it and put up with my perpetual being annoying about this but especially a thank you to @fratboytj​ for pretty much writing the poem in this with me and @pucksnsticksnhockeyboys​ @indyfish​ for their help, too, ily 💛

Here we go, y’all. Enjoy the ride!

Read the other parts here:  I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair // I hate the way you drive my car // I hate it when you stare // I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind // I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme // I hate the way you’re always right // I hate the way you lie // I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry // I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call

___________________________

“What? No, I’m not going to-”

“Leave. Now.” 

---------

“Because I love you.”

You take a step back in shock, even Evelina letting out a small gasp before retreating to her bedroom. “You have no right to say that to me,” you tell him, trying not to let him get to you. “You can’t leave me alone for over a week and then just waltz here and say that to me. You couldn’t even pick up the phone when I called you yesterday.” 

He looks at you, completely confused. “You needed space. How is that my fault? You pushed me away at the bar and I came back. You pushed me away in the street and I came back. You pushed me away here and where was I supposed to go? How could I call you when I was afraid you would push me away a third time?” 

“I tried to come back to you. I called you yesterday and you ignored me,” you repeat, your voice getting louder, “If you wanted anything to do with me you would have answered.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? Drop everything any time you call me? I was on the phone with someone else and I called you as soon as I saw you called me, and you didn’t answer me,” the level of his voice matching yours, the flowers he brought you making a mess all over your floor as he angrily waved them around. 

You shake your head, not wanting to tell him that it was because you had blocked him. ‘If it were meant to be, he would have been able to answer when you called,’ you tell yourself. “We’re only meant to be friends, Matthew,” is all you can manage to get out.

“How long are we going to keep dancing around the fact that you and I are meant for each other?” he asks, trying to fight back the tears that he knew were coming. God, if anyone else could see him right now, they would never think he was some NHL enforcer, whatever the hell the media called him. He was just a guy in love, trying to get the girl to understand her feelings for him. 

“How long is it going to take you to understand that I hate so much about you?” you spit out at him, trying to hide the regret you felt as soon as you said it. “If we were meant to be then making that list wouldn’t have been as easy as it was,” you lie. 

“Because we both know that’s not true,” he says, choking back the inevitable sob that was begging to come through as he tries to get closer to you. You weren’t sure what to make of this, you had never seen him this worked up over anything like this before, not to the point of tears, at least. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” you lie, trying to stand your ground, trying not to crumble before him. 

“How is it bullshit? Everyone can tell that we’re in love with each other. Everyone but you. There is no one on this planet who knows you better than I know you. There is not one person that is more made for you than I am. There is no one more made for me than you are,” he tries to tell you,  not wanting to let yourself hear his words. 

They stung, no matter how much you didn’t want his words to get to you. Part of you knew he was right, and the other part of you didn’t want to admit it. “So, what, because other people believe it, that automatically means it’s true? I could get any guy and he could be better than you are for me.” 

“Yeah? What names would this other guy call you in bed? Would he know where to touch you? Would he know that right here,” he drops the flowers so he can spin you around, kissing you behind your ear, his lips lingering long enough to pull a moan from your lips, “Is where you melt into me?” 

“No!” you say, pulling his arm from your waist. “You can’t do that to me,” you tell him, tears falling down your face, your voice choked with a sob, “You can’t tell me these things when you’ve been hiding so much from me this entire time.”

“I hid one thing from you,” he insists. “You hide ten things you hated about me. I don’t even care about that at this point. It doesn’t matter if other people think it’s true or not. What matters is that we know it’s true. I love you.”

“Fuck you. Fuck. You. You do not get to tell me that. I can’t even look at you right now, Matthew,” you tell him, trying to think of anywhere you could retreat to when you remember you’re supposed to be downstairs waiting for your boss to show up, Evelina locked in her room to avoid any confrontation that might come from her being a third party. 

“You don’t mean that. You know how you feel about me. Why can’t you just say it?” You look at him, the pain he felt showing on his face. You hated that you were doing this to him, but you hated it more that he was doing this to you. You couldn’t say it to him. You couldn’t lose him because of how you felt about him. 

“You don’t know what I mean, Matthew. Evelina and I have to get going,” you try to go to her room to get her, praying that your boss wasn’t bombarding you with texts on your phone buried in your bag before you had to deal with him.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” 

You whip around to him irritated, that hatred of yourself turning into anger towards him that he kept pushing you when you clearly were already on edge. “Why do I have to make sense? I have not slept. I have barely eaten. I can’t even go five seconds without thinking of your stupid face, hearing your dumb laugh, and just wanting you next to me and knowing that all of that is a bad idea. We are friends Matthew. That is it. That is all we can be.”

“Is that what you want? Why do you keep denying everything?” he asks, his hand warped around your arm, just tight enough that it didn’t hurt, not hard enough that you could easily escape from him. 

You look down at the floor, biting your lip. “Why do you think?” 

“Come on,” he says, his other hand on you, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him. The distance between you was the smallest it had been in a week, you wanting nothing more than to take him in for a hug, kiss him, something that would make this go away. But you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t even answer him. “This right here is our issue!” he snaps, letting go of you. 

You stand there, frozen, hearing Evelina come out of her room. “I don’t care. You need to leave.” 

Matthew stands there, shocked. “What? No. I’m not going to-”

“Leave. Now,” you say, standing firm, grabbing your bags from the floor along with Evelina’s hand. “We have to go, our boss is waiting. Take the pile of shit that’s in Evelina’s room that yours,” you say, looking to her for a nod telling you it was ok. You drag Evelina to the door, her shocked over your entire conversation. “And Matthew?” you ask, a single tear falling from his eye.

“What?”

“Leave your key,” you tell him, your voice cracking as you shut the door and leave him there to collect his things. 

“You just left him in our apartment to go through my room?” Evelina whines as the two of you run to the stairs in hopes that he won’t be able to find you, catch you and cause a scene out on the street.

“You nodded and I took that as it was ok. He’s out of my life and that’s how I want it for now so I don’t care what you think but you need to respect it. No more of this meddling, Evelina. There is no way he would have known to come right before we were leaving unless you told him,” you spit out at her as you sprint down the stairs. You hear her inhale as if she were about to say something, stopping at the landing and turning to her, “I’m not mad. You gave me the chance for a goodbye. A goodbye before we leave for a new city, even though we’re coming back here.” It’s Thomas all over again, but this time, you were the one leaving him.

Evelina nods, taking your hand and leading you outside where the caravan that had your coworkers and boss was already waiting, your boss leaning on the door of the car. “Sorry, I had a slight family emergency that I was trying to deal with. Luckily, though, you planned out plenty of extra time so that we were going to be at the airport about four and a half hours before our flight anyway,” you say, smiling at him, hoping he could hear the sarcasm that was dripping in your voice through the latter half of the sentence.

“Evelina said you couldn’t find something,” he mutters, taking your bags from you as you climb in the car, not sure how to respond to the rest of your obviously sarcastic chipperness.

“That was the emergency,” you lie, “My mom thought I took something with me back here and wanted to catch me before we leave. Don’t worry we found it. It’s right where it belongs,” you say, closing the door as the three of you join the other two, getting ready to finally leave for a few days. 

This was good. This is what you needed. Work would keep you busy, especially considering your boss bought what you were telling him, already changing subjects to talk about the conference and what else he thought the four of you should be doing while you weren’t presenting. The van was about to pull away, seeing the door of your building swing open, Matthew red in the face holding his coat and the key. You swallow hard, not letting yourself start to cry as you pull away, focusing your attention back to your boss even though what he was saying was mundane and trivial to you at this point. 

Matthew watches the car leave with you in it, the key he thought he lost in his hand, not realizing you had had it the entire time, never using it. He had no idea if you even wanted it, if you knew you had it. If you did, then that would mean the entire time, you never wanted to use it. This entire time, you really didn’t love him, no matter how much he loved you. 

All he could do was put the key in his pocket and walk away. So he did. 

You do your best to tune out our boss, getting to the airport in no time and finding yourself sitting on the floor outside of the gate, the four of you on your computers going over the last minute details of the presentation you had tomorrow. No matter how hard you tried, you still had a nagging voice in your ear that you need to tell him, that you shouldn’t push him away. All you could do was take a breath and ignore it, talking when you had to, giving your input, and forcing yourself to think of nothing but this presentation and the conference. 

By the time you land in LA, you were more exhausted than when you left, your boss talking your ear off about heading to the conference that night to scope things out, see potential future directions for projects for your company, talk to other people and make more connections in the states since he thinks you were one of the few groups from Canada present. “Y/N? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he asks, either oblivious to your eyes drooping as you struggle to stay awake while Evelina checks everyone in, or not caring in the slightest. 

“You want to go to the conference tonight because there’s the expo and you want free stuff, and other people to talk to about their business ventures” you mumble, knowing that was what he said pretty much verbatim. 

He leaves you alone, Evelina coming over and having to drag you to the room the two of you were going to share. “We have like three hours before he wants us to meet for dinner and head to the convention center. You’ve gotta get some sleep,” she insists, you acting like such a zombie you didn’t even realize that you were already standing in front of your hotel room door. 

You nod, not caring enough at this point to argue with her. You fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, Evelina probably moving around the room without you even realizing it. You knew you were dreaming, unable to really talk, just watching the scene around you unfold. You had no idea where you were, walking around a backyard, two small children, a boy and a girl, squealing as they chased each other around. There was a house behind you, other people who you couldn’t make out laughing and talking. You knew that everything and everyone you saw in your dreams were places and people you had seen before, your mind unable to conjure up life like that when in a dream state. You just couldn’t figure out where you knew everything from. 

You feel two arms snake around your waist, someone’s chin nestled onto your shoulder, immediately feeling yourself relax into whoever it was even though you couldn’t tell. 

“Look at them,” the familiar voice says. You knew that voice. You knew who it was as he planted a kiss on your neck, feeling his curls graze against your ear once he pulled away, your knees going weak at the feeling you didn’t realize you missed. “I can’t wait for the next baby Tkachuk to come along,” he whispers. You look down, reaching to touch your swollen stomach, somehow missing that before. 

You shoot straight up, awake and breathing heavily. “Fuck,” you whisper, thankful that Evelina was in the bathroom and unable to see the panic wash over you. Dreaming about pregnancy typically meant that you were about to start something new. One point to your subconscious for that one.  “Ev?” you call, getting off the bed and going over to her. Do you tell her about the dream? 

“What’s up?” she calls from behind the closed door.

“Uh, what time are we leaving for dinner?” you ask.

“I was gonna wake you up in like five minutes to give you half an hour to get ready?” she says, opening the door. “You ok?” 

“Yeah, why?”

“Your hand is on your stomach.” 

You hadn’t realized it was, involuntarily holding it like you had been in the dream. “Yeah, just hungry,” you lie as she passes by you, thankful she couldn’t see the smile that was growing on your face. 

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

It was the first and only night of the conference that you didn’t have to be there if you didn’t want to, unbothered by your boss who encouraged you to wander the city and try to find something ‘more fun than listening to people talking about what you’re passionate about,’ despite him being oblivious to the fact that none of you wanted to be there for the last two days you were supposed to be. You were sitting on the bed, your computer up with your earbuds in trying to find something on Netflix to watch for the night, watching Evelina get ready to go to the game out of the corner of your eye. 

“I really do want you to come with me,” Evelina says, standing next to your bed with her Lindholm jersey on from Matthew. 

You don’t look up from your computer, knowing that if you saw her in the flaming C you would cave in and go with her, the last thing you wanted to do. “I don’t have anything to wear even if I wanted to go,” you tell her, trying to give her a tone that made it sound like you didn’t care, no matter how much you did.

“You know you want to go. Come on. Matthew or not, it’s free tickets to a hockey game. We haven’t seen a bunch of grown men in skates beating each other up live and in person in ages because we never have money. And, it’s LA. If you start swearing at him then no one would question it because they hate him, too. And you do have something to wear.” You look up, clearly confused. Evelina goes over to her bag, holding up the red fabric that was supposed to be in Matthew’s apartment. “Please?” she says, handing it to you. 

“You’re not going to stop until I say yes, are you?” you ask her, tracing over the letters of his last name slowly with your thumbs. 

“You know me well enough to know that the answer is probably not,” she says. “Plus, I don’t know. Since we got here, you’ve been different than you have been the last few days. I know he’s been on your mind.” You look at her, unsure how she could have figured that out when you knew you hadn’t mentioned him since you got to Los Angeles in the first place. “You changed your phone background from a picture of us to a picture of you and Matthew. The one when we went to that apple orchard back where your parents live? You were on his shoulders so you could get the apple at the top of the tree?” she says, pulling a smile from you. You tap on your phone screen, bringing up the picture she was talking about. You mentioned that your dad always said the best apple was at the top of the tree, putting you on his shoulders so you could reach them when you were younger. Matthew picked you up and helped you get the apple, Evelina taking the picture of you two right before Matthew nearly dropped you. 

Caving easily after her pointing that out, you throw the jersey over your head, closing your laptop. “Then we’re going before I change my mind.” 

She squeals, grabbing your hand and running out the door, ordering the Uber for it to get there in record time. You get into the car, your heart racing about seeing him again, even if it were from afar. You didn’t know what to do if you came to face to face with him, somehow. 

“I don’t like how easy it was for you to convince me,” you say to her as she gets the tickets Matthew had set aside for you. 

“You’re just lucky that I packed the jersey instead of leaving it for Matthew,” she boasts, the two of you wandering through the Staples center, two red dots in a sea of black and white. You could feel the eyes of everyone on you, clearly sticking out, not belonging while wandering through the arena while you try to find your seats. You get there as the boys take the ice for the first warm ups, half an hour to puck drop. 

You feel your heart start to race when you see Matthew take the ice, unsure if he realized you where there or if he even knew where you would be sitting. “Are you ready to admit it yet?” Evelina asks you, noticing that you hadn’t taken your eyes off him since he started skating and stretching. 

You watch him joke around with Johnny and Sean, not seeing Elias find you two in the crowd and waving to you. He gets Matthew’s attention, pointing to your seats. You and Matthew make eye contact, giving him a weak smile, all you could manage to give. He nods, his lips forming a thin line before turning back to his other teammates. “I guess not,” you say, the excitement you felt from seeing him gone. 

Why were you even there? He didn’t want you there anymore, clearly. Evelina sees your shift in mood, trying to change the subject back to the conference, telling you about one of the talks she went to while you were off at a poster session. You try to keep your focus on her, listening to what she was talking about but not hearing anything, stealing looks at Matthew whenever you had the chance, just wishing that you would catch him doing the same. 

The game starts, you paying no attention to anything besides Evelina, unable to keep your focus on the puck moving across the ice, instead focusing on the curly haired pest that was already wreaking havoc against the Kings. No matter what you did to try to take your attention away from him, you were drawn to him. 

Elias ends up scoring off an assist from Matthew, Evelina jumping and cheering even though she was drowned out by the deafening boos from the surrounding Kings fans. You watch the boys skate over to the bench, sitting down and taking off their helmets. Matthew makes eye contact with you, both of you freezing for a moment before Gio gets Matthew’s attention. You knew he could feel your eyes on him as your stare lingered, swearing that you caught him glancing over, a smirk on his face even though his captain was talking to him. 

“I’m going to head to the bathroom before the line gets too long,” you tell Evelina, getting up with two more minutes left in the period. 

“Wait,” Evelina stands up with you, reaching into her jersey and pulling out a folded piece of paper, “Read this.”

“You’re a woman. You don’t have pockets. How did you keep this in there?” you ask her, taking the paper from her clearly confused. “That’s not important. Just go read it.” She pushes you away, causing you to trip on some already irritated Kings fans as you stumble through the aisle to get out. 

What even was this? You get up to the concourse, pacing around the currently empty area. You read the first line, immediately knowing that whatever this was is from Matthew: 

10 things I love about you

I love the way you rant to me as a way to relax yourself

I love the way you dress to your comfort and won’t listen to anyone else

I love the way you play with your pen even though it makes a mess

I love the way you focus on your work no matter how much it makes you stress

I love the way you get along with the guys and can chirp them all the time

I love the way you’re quiet at first, not letting anyone see you shine

I love the way you’re stubborn as hell and how you drive me crazy

I love the way I’d do anything for you even when you call me lazy

I love the way you’re the one I want to talk to, how my heart races when you call

But mostly, I love the way you say you hate me, even though you don’t, not even a little bit, not even at all. 

You get to the last line, tears clearly falling down your face as you walk around like a zombie, your eyes fixated on the piece of paper in front of you while people start flooding from their seats, the silence around you broken by the noise of the Kings fans. 

“Hey Calgary!” you hear a man yell, for some reason catching your attention. You see an older guy in a Doughty jersey, looking you up and down. “Fuck Tkachuk,” he says, walking away.

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” you yell back, stopping in your tracks at what you just said out loud. You would if you could. “Ah fuck,” you mutter to yourself. You had to find Matthew, and you had to find him now. You couldn’t go the rest of the game without telling him. 

You start running, unsure where you were headed, just hoping that it would eventually lead you to finding someone from the Flames that you recognized that could get you down to Matthew now that it was intermission, forgetting the fight you had back in your apartment before you left for this city. 

You finally find someone you recognize, begging them to bring you back down with them because of an emergency that you had to tell Matthew about. What if he didn’t want to see you? What if he left you standing there, humiliated while you waited for him? You started pacing, trying to figure out what you were going to say to him in the case that you did see him. 

“Y/N?” you hear him, heating rushing to your cheeks at the sight of him. “They said it was an emergency, what’s up?” he asks, panic washing over his voice at the thought of something wrong with you.

  You scrunch your face up, feeling bad that you worried him, but not enough not to do it. “I kinda lied? But I,” you close your eyes, letting out a sigh in hopes of releasing the tension that overcame your entire body, “I needed to see you.”

“Ok?”

“What is this?” you ask him, handing him the paper that Evelina gave you. 

His eyes scan the page, a smirk on his face letting out a small laugh. “Evelina asked me about all the ways I love you. I guess she typed it up. But I didn’t say this last thing. Evelina must have written that herself,” he tells you, pointing to the last line. But mostly, I love the way you say you hate me, even though you don’t, not even a little bit, not even at all.

“Is it true?” you ask him.

“You tell me.” 

You stand there in silence, both of you staring at the page that Evelina wrote. “I hate the way you cut your hair,” you start, Matthew raising an eyebrow.

“We were having such a nice moment, what are you doing?” 

“Just, shut up,” you tell him, both of you smiling at each other. “I hate the way you cut your hair: your curls could make any girl melt and yet you do that thing on the side of your head. I hate the way you drive my car: everytime you get behind the wheel I’m worried about how I’m going to claim the inevitable damage on my insurance,” you start to rant, Matthew laughing as he traces patterns on your hand with his thumb, sending chills through your body, “I hate the way you tease me, and I hate the way you stare because it makes me weak and act so stupid and it makes me so mad that I can’t help it. I hate the way you read my mind, and the way you make me rhyme. And I hate the way you’re always right.” 

He can’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he takes a step towards you. In his skates, he towers over you, reaching for your hand as he looks down at you, “That’s only seven things.” “It’s been a month since I started the list. I never got to ten things.” 

“Why’s that?” he smirks, pulling you as close to him as he could. 

“Do I have to say it?” you whine, a smile on your face anyway.

He nods, his curls moving he did. “Yeah. You do,” he teases, you biting your lip and looking at the ground instead of him. His thumb and forefinger find your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Please.” 

“Because I love you.”

“There it is!” he yells, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around, your cheeks red as you don’t even try to hide the joy you felt finally admitting it. 

“Put me down!” you squeal, his hands on your waist with arms draped on his shoulders. “Do not ruin this,” you warn him, his forehead pressed against yours. 

“You really mean it?” he whispers, a bigger smile on his face than you had seen in a long time. 

“Yes. I love you, you idiot,” you giggle, caught off guard as his lips connect with yours, the first time in over a week. You hated to admit how much you missed that. You hated to admit how much you really did love him.

“Matthew! Warm ups!” you’re interrupted by Elias standing down the hall, the guys filing from the locker room to ice behind him.

“I gotta go, but meet us after?” he begs, not wanting to let you go.

“Go win the game for me,” you tell him, moving away from him, the connection between your hands lingering.

“I’ve already won,” he says, pulling you in again for another kiss, running down the hall to finish what they started.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 14 | S.R.)

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Finale |

Summary: Separated and terrified, Spencer and Reader rely on their unique skills to survive. The team, minus Penelope and Derek, don’t know who the strange girl in the bank is, but they find out very interesting things about her history.

A/N: I don’t know how banks work. Idk how heists work. I know nothing. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Couple: Spencer/Fem!Reader 
 Category: ANGST. Just. All of it. All of the angst. Every bit. 
 Content Warning: Gun violence, discussions of death and dying Word Count: 10k

MASTERLIST

—————————————————

“Hello, my name is (y/n)(y/l/n) and I’m calling from the Bank of America on K St. Northwest to report shots fired. The shots sounded like burst-fire from multiple semiautomatics.”

When adrenaline kicks in, there are a lot of things that don’t feel real. Time seems to warp into some ominous presence weighing down on you, but your body has never felt lighter.

“Ma’am, where are you?” Her voice sounded so far away. My own just felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

“I’m inside the bathroom. Listen, I might not have a lot of time. There’s a federal agent inside the bank. His name is SSA Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Call...”

My mouth blanked on the names of the two men Spencer talked about the most. I’d met them both, why couldn’t I remember?

Several more shots rang through the building as an answer. It was enough to shake loose the names, which flowed from me before I could even comprehend where they came from.

“Call SSA Aaron Hotchner and… Derek Morgan.”

“Can you remain on the line?” She sounded insistent — which is against their protocol by the way. My eyes were glued to the bathroom door’s hinges.

“Only until the door opens.”

The sentence conveyed my thoughts without actually forming the words. Once that door opens, I’m probably going to die. It wasn’t a completely irrational fear.

“Okay. I need you to remain calm. Did you see any of the gunmen?”

Jesus, it was like everything I’d just told her had gone completely over her head. “No, I’m in the bathroom.”

“Does the agent have his service weapon?”

“No.”

If she didn’t ask me a question I could say yes to soon, I was going to lose my fucking mind.

I tried not to think about Spencer outside, but I couldn’t help it. All of my thoughts were on him, even before the commotion.

Was he even still alive?

“Help is on the way, Ms. (Y/l/n).”

“Please hurry.”

My entire body shook from the hormones, my instincts telling me to do anything besides sit crouched on a toilet in a bathroom stall. I don’t even know why I bothered hiding. They would definitely kick them in, or just shoot straight through the doors.

“We’ve contacted Agent Hotchner and he’s also on his way.”

Finally, some good fucking news. I released my breath as quietly as I could, closing my eyes for just a moment to compensate for the fact I hadn’t blinked in several minutes.

“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching the phone like it could actually do something for me past this point. But it couldn’t. No amount of breathing exercises would help me through this one.

Suddenly, there was movement outside the door. A crowd of people were shuffling past the door, and I heard the distinct sound of a toddler wailing.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, don’t hang up—“

I couldn’t wait, though. With trembling hands, I erased the evidence that I’d ever called them in the first place. And then I resumed my position as a sitting duck; quietly and as ready as I ever could be.

I listened for his voice, but I never heard it.

—————————————————

Three seconds.

Did you know that a semiautomatic weapon can fire up to three rounds per second, depending on how fast the user can pull the trigger?

After the first shot is fired, no one moves. Puzzled and alert, people are paralyzed. Your first reaction is to look for the source of the sound. It’d been a second before I turned to see the three armed people and two dead security guards behind me.

It takes the average person one and a half seconds to cognitively process that they're in a potentially life-threatening situation. It takes another .7 seconds for a physical response to kick in.

Three seconds.That was long enough for a maximum of nine shots per person to be fired- twenty-seven shots in total; it was long enough for the air to be filled with the sudden outburst of helpless screams the patrons of the bank, and it was long enough for me to realize that I didn’t have my gun and that my girlfriend wasn’t by my side.

“Everybody get down on the ground!”

Amid the chaos, I felt that all too familiar twisting sensation in my gut that begged time to reverse just enough for this to be a dream. Enough time to reverse the decisions that led us here.

But time was a cruel mistress, and she did not plan to bend to the whims of mankind, no matter how desperate.

Another deafening burst of sound rang through the air, shots fired into the ceiling now as myself and the others fell to the ground.

My gaze was fixed on the bathroom entrance. I couldn’t breathe. Please, I begged, stay hidden.

“Listen up! If everyone does what we say, you can all go back to your boring fucking lives.”

Injuries occur in less than two percent of bank robberies. Deaths occur in less than one. Saturdays are the second to least likely day for a robbery to take place. In the past 5 years, less than 10 people have been killed in bank robberies, and most of them were the perpetrators. Statistics usually calmed me down and helped me focus.

But these people didn’t care about statistics. They were defying the odds I had just recited to myself. They had already killed two people. Our luck was already stacked against us.

“Take everything out of your pockets and put it in front of you.”

As soon as the order was given, I was running through an inventory of everything in my pockets. It didn’t take me long to realize that with a cursory inspection of the items, they would figure out who I was.

But what were the odds that they would actually scrutinize them? I figured they were fairly low; you don’t rob a bank to get cheap jewelry and petty cash, even in a bank. What were the odds they would notice if I left something in my pocket — especially if my wallet was in front of me. If it wasn’t large enough to be a weapon, and I put out my objects of value, why wouldn’t I put out the rest of the contents?

So I decided to take the risk, removing my wallet while retaining my separate identification.

Luckily, the attention seemed pretty far removed from me. If I wasn’t too busy being extremely grateful, I might have been offended that they didn’t consider me a threat in the building.

“Alright ladies, all of you get up and follow my lovely friend here. You’re going on a little trip. Fellas, you stay right where you are.”

The sound of my heart pounding drowned out the instructions that weren’t intended for me. It was fine, I hadn’t planned on moving, anyway. As long as I could see the door to the bathroom, I was perfectly fine right where I was.

But I still felt for the terrified women that were shakily rising to their feet. To my right, I saw a woman struggling to hold a small infant. My heart was fracturing at the struggle, wishing I could help her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk doing anything that might draw attention to myself.

I felt like a traitor. I felt useless. I was quite literally trained to handle this exact situation, but now that I was here, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t thinking about strategy or how to maximize efficiency; all I was thinking about was her.

“Jake!” A woman’s voice screamed from the other side of the room. When I turned, I heard the sound of a rifle cracking against bone before the man hit the ground.

“Jake, huh?” The man above him laughed, using the business end of the rifle to turn the disoriented man on his side. “Well, Jake, how would you feel about your girlfriend watching you die?”

“Please don’t hurt him!” The woman sobbed, scrambling up off the floor that she’d resisted leaving. I wondered if (y/n) would have refused to leave me, too.

The man prodded the woman with the gun, urging her to follow the rest while simultaneously providing easy enough instructions. The man apparently named Jake made a few noises of desperate protest as he watched her leave.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m sorry,” Jake pleaded, “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt her. I’ll be quiet.”

Smart man. I understood his hesitancy, though. His girlfriend kept her neck craned back until she was no longer in sight, gazing back at him for as long as she physically could. I closed my eyes just for a moment, to try and combat their current strain.

Unfortunately, just like it always seems to happen, that’s when they spoke the words I had been dreading.

“Hey, you check the bathrooms yet?”

“Nah, I got it.”

I closed my eyes tighter now, scared that if I opened them, I’d give myself away. There was no possible way that I could hide the terror I currently felt. To be fair, I think it was only natural to be scared — but not like this.

There was a loud crashing noise of doors slamming, and the voice I knew better than I knew my own reached my ears, making sounds I’d never heard from her before.

Don’t fight them. I pleaded again, Please, don’t fight them.

“Let go of me!” She screamed as the door to the bathroom swung open. Unable to keep my eyes shut any longer, I opened them to see her clawing at the ground as she was dragged out by her ankle. “I can walk by myself! Let go of me!”

I wasn’t sure if she didn’t see me in the commotion, or if she’d just made the decision to act like she hadn’t. Either way, I was grateful. Still, my worries were justified as one of the three unsubs walked over to me.

“Why are you looking at her like that? You know her?”

Craning my head up, I shook my head no. It must not have been very convincing; the rage in my heart at them for thrusting her into this situation evident in my eyes.

“You wanna play hero, kid?”

“Sorry. No.” I muttered, taking a deep breath in a failed attempt to regulate my heart rate or my voice, “She’s… very loud. I get headaches.”

“Yeah well, deal with it.”

That might have been the end of it, if I’d played my hand better. But it turned out that the risk I had previously elected to take was woefully miscalculated. I didn’t meet their eyes anymore, knowing that doing so might threaten whatever frail illusion of masculinity they possessed.

It still didn’t stop them from holding the gun to my head.

“Empty your pockets.”

“Okay. I can do that, but I have to put my hand in my pocket.” I explained, moving my shaking hand to my back pocket, “It’s not a weapon.”

For once, I was grateful that I was the resident wimp when it came to stressful situations. Sure, I could handle myself, but I definitely didn’t look like I wanted to be there. Had I been any more of a visible threat, I was certain they would have figured out my identity long before this point. They might even have killed me right away.

“Hurry up.”

Swallowing hard, I pulled the identification from my pocket, flipping it open and holding it up for him to see, my gaze aimed fully forward. He snatched the badge away, a cheeky chuckle and a smile in his words.

“FBI, huh? Well, aren’t we lucky. You just became our most valuable player.”

—————————————————

Morgan arrived on the scene relatively unhurried and mostly just curious. The information Garcia had sent over text message was vague, likely due to the crime being a local one. Nothing about this seemed to be the BAU’s usual fare.

It took him almost no time to find Hotch, dressed in casual clothing, surrounded by the massive response team swarming around the bank. But Hotch hadn’t spotted him yet, fully involved with SWAT.

“What’s going on?”

Finally turning to notice his arrival, Hotch gave his normal matter-of-fact report in his simple, succinct manner. “Three people stormed the bank approximately 20 minutes ago and killed two security guards. There are 19 confirmed hostages inside the bank.”

But there was one significant detail that seemed to be missing, and Morgan started to scan the crowd for familiar faces as he spoke. “Hotch, this doesn’t sound like anything we’ve been working on. Why are we responding?”

“The caller alerted us that Reid is inside.”

The words were so unexpected that Morgan actually did a double take, his eyebrows furrowed and bowed as he replayed them in his head. “Wait, how did the caller know that?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch said with an equally perplexed look, gripping tighter to the communicator in his hand, “but she referred to us and him by name.”

‘She?’ Morgan thought, his heart stopping for a second as he excused himself from Hotch’s side, pulling out his phone and frantically calling Garcia, who had already made her way to the BAU.

“Hey there handsome.” It was a mild nickname for the famed Penelope Garcia, but Derek knew that she was probably already in a tough spot. After all, it’s not every day that one of their own is in these situations. At least, not unexpectedly.

“Hey Garcia, do you have eyes on the people in the bank?”

He could hear the feverish click-clacking of keys on the other end, followed closely by her equally frantic voice. “I’m working on it but so far I can only see the main lobby. They separated the women and the men for some reason. Why would they do that?”

“Just focus,” he calmly reminded, “Can you see the women?”

“No. All the women and children were moved to the back.”

Rubbing his face to try and relieve the tension that had quickly made its home over his jaw, Morgan glanced over at the entrance to the bank. It was strange to think that so much had happened so quickly.

Garcia had mentioned twice now that the women had been moved to the back, and he was trying to figure out why they would do that beyond the usual control mechanisms.

“I’m trying to see in the back now, but apparently banks take their video surveillance far more seriously than everything else. Last I checked, a camera never stole money or fired a gun!”

“Focus, babygirl.” It was an instruction for himself just as much as it was for her.

“Sorry, I’m nervous, and you know how I get when I’m nervous!” She squeaked, “I don’t like seeing you guys on my screens. I’d much rather see you in person, safe and sound and preferably smiling.”

Trying not to lose his patience, Morgan just sighed. It wasn’t her fault. It was no one’s fault, except that of the bastards who just had to go and ruin a perfectly nice weekend.

“Can you at least tell me who the caller was? Did they call from inside?”

“They were inside and, one second, let me check, it was... oh.” Her voice cut off abruptly, dropping into a high pitched, desperate whisper. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“It’s... the girl from the movies,” Garcia’s voice got faster and more panicked, “Derek, it’s (y/n). It’s Reid’s girlfriend. Reid’s girlfriend is inside the bank.”

Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, he wasn’t really sure what to do with the information. Because now that he knew Reid wasn’t alone, he felt the need to tell Hotch.

A profiler with a loved one involved was in dangerous territory. It wasn’t just Reid, but Morgan had personally seen just how unhinged Reid could get when it came to (y/n).

“Can you see her?” He asked, his voice lower than it was before.

“Oh, god, yes! I can!” It was not the kind of excited exclamation Morgan had hoped to hear, but at least he had confirmation she was alive. “She was in the bathroom but… They’re dragging her away…”

Morgan had tried not to pry too far in his best friend’s life before, and he took a moment to consider whether his next request was honestly necessary, or if he was just trying to find a reason to snoop.

But he wasn’t. There was something off about that girl. It wasn’t that she was bad or wrong, but she was far too comfortable in situations that didn’t call for it. The way she carried herself told him that she had held her own hand too often.

“Garcia, I know I’ve already done this to you once but... I need you to tell me everything you can find on her.”

—————————————————

My entire body ached; the sensation of an unfamiliar hand clenched tightly around my ankle burned long after I was released. It was definitely sprained, at the very least. I didn’t dare try to touch it, though. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble, and the bristling discomfort kept me where I was.

Which, for now was on my knees in the backroom of a bank lobby. Beside us was a large, heavily reinforced steel door with way too many different contraptions. I decided then that this whole arms race between burglars and corporate America had gotten a little fucking ridiculous.

But however annoyed I was by that, I was far more irritated by the hushed bickering between the man and woman holding rifles on the other side of the room. I could only hear every couple of words, but I got the gist of what they were arguing about.

Apparently, they’d never heard of an alarm system that’s connected to locks, which seemed extremely stupid for people who had gotten this far. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue that something was off about this entire situation.

Still, I couldn’t deal with them making the same fucking arguments over and over, so eventually I blurted out what I’m certain any millennial in the room would know. “The keycard won’t work if they’ve sounded the alarm.”

The statement earned me a gun to my face, and after a brief second of confusion, I flinched away from the cold metal of the barrel.

“What was that, sweetheart?” She was clearly looking to gauge my reaction rather than actually ask me to repeat the information. That was fine. I wasn’t exactly a talented actress, and I didn’t see the point in pretending to be meek.

If she was going to kill me, she was going to do it. Although I was certain Spencer would disagree, I chose to believe that our fate is dictated long before it happens. I was not a profiler; if I survived, it would be because I had been taught to survive through brute force and spite rather than calm negotiation.

“The keycard system is linked to the alarms,” I said, slower now, “Someone hit the alarm, so the cards aren’t going to work. You’ll need to use the old school keys.”

Her eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a much lower register as she crouched down to my height. “How would you know? You work here?”

“No, my dad worked security.” It wasn’t a lie as much as it was an understatement, but she didn’t need to know that. I guess that’s one of those good things growing up with the dad I did; I got very comfortable speaking in vague generalities. Spencer hated it.

“Well, your daddy isn’t here to help you now.”

Wasn’t that the damn truth. But that didn’t mean I was alone, I reminded myself. Despite being dragged and my vision turned literally upside down, I had caught a glimpse of him in the lobby. He was alive. That thought alone was keeping me sane right now.

“The different keys you need for an override are probably kept on separate people so one person can’t do it alone. Probably the different managers.” I muttered, nodding to the side where one of the employees flinched at my words. Anything to get away from the fucking gun in my face.

“Is she right?” The woman sneered to the manager, turning her full attention to someone else. I felt a little guilty, since the poor manager seemed a lot less put together than I was. But hey, they needed her, too.

“Yes, I already gave you my keys,” she squeaked, holding her trembling hands up, “Th-There’s another set behind the desk I think.”

“Would you look at that...” It was the first time the man in the room addressed me since he had pulled me out of the stall, and I had to admit I wasn’t exactly a fan of his. But at the same time, I knew that he was going to be remarkably more receptive to me than the woman. She seemed to be the one who was actually in charge.  

“Little miss problem was actually helpful,” he cheered, raising his weapon to point to the ceiling as he approached me. I chewed nervously on my cheeks, trying to meet his eyes but finding them uncomfortably bare.

“You should turn off the camera too, I’m just saying.” This time I didn’t nod, using one cautious finger to point to the small device that was currently staring right at me. I understood that it was probably helpful to Spencer’s team to be able to see, but I wasn’t really keen on my death being videotaped... as well as anything else I might end up doing.

‘Never leave a trace.’ That’s what I’d always heard.

‘Keep’em guessing. Even if you think it’s gonna kill you, because you don’t want to live with that over your head.’

“Fine. Do that and go get the keys.” He sounded intrigued, and I felt his searing gaze against my face.

“I think you should do it.”

The tension from before, when the two were arguing, had quickly resurfaced. She clearly didn’t trust him to be alone in the room, which solidified my belief that she was calling the shots, and he was just being dragged along for the ride.

In another life, I might have respected her ability to order stupid men around.

“Why the fuck is that?” He snapped, earning a bored roll of her eyes. The next thing out of her mouth was expected, but unfortunately the last thing I wanted to hear.

“I want to talk to her alone.”

Great. And naturally, her idea of ‘talking’ to me included weaponry. Using the end of the gun to tilt my head up to her, she gave a suspicious smile.

“Why are you helping us?”

“I want to go home.” It was my immediate and instinctual answer. It was the truth. I was helping them because I wanted to get the fuck out of here.

But you know, people expect everyone to have a squeaky-clean moral compass, so I decided to give a few more reasons.

“And I don’t give a shit about a massive corporate bank. I was just here to go to the bathroom– I don’t even have an account here.”

Maybe that was too many reasons, because just as her hesitance waned, it was back in full force. Shoving the barrel against my throat, she sneered, “I don’t believe you. You’re too comfortable with a gun in your face. You a cop, too?”

Cop?

I tilted my head to the side, baring more of my throat to her as I drawled, “Who’s a cop?”

For once, I was glad that Spencer had made such a point of reassuring me that he was not ‘a cop,’ because otherwise I’m certain the terror would have been obvious in my eyes. But for now, I could trust the numb apathy that was washing over me.

Please don’t be talking about Spencer. Please don’t know that. Good things never happened to law enforcement in situations like this. Hell, the two security guards had been dead in seconds.

“I think you know.” She was smiling, and I realized that this fucking psychopath was sharper than she wanted me to think.

“I don’t.” The words were said through clenched teeth, and I prayed that she would see them as insistent anger over the fear that lie beneath them, “And why would you kill me if I was helping you?”

She smiled, drawing the weapon up and down my throat until it landed lower at my chest. The movements were slow and light, a playful glint in her eyes when they met mine again.

“For fun.”

I didn’t move a muscle, my body remaining tense under her ministrations as I forced myself to hold my gaze steady. If she wanted fear, she wouldn’t get it from me.

“Then do it.”

The look she gave me told me she had seriously considered it, probably a little annoyed with my presence. But there was something else there, too, that same soft recognition that in another reality we might have been friends. I’m sure she saw herself in me a little bit; or at least somebody useful.

This confirmed my suspicion that I’d never really be able to read a psychopath. I didn’t understand how Spencer could do it every day. It’d only been a few minutes alone with her and I could feel myself losing the happy memories of the day.

Luckily, the man returned at the same time I saw a plan developing in her mind.

“Hey, come help me,” he called to her. Her response was surprisingly swift, the metal that was tracing over my collar bones disappearing without another word. He was holding a small bag of money, which seemed to seriously irritate the woman.

“Did you get that money from behind the counter?” I asked it before she had a chance. I wanted him to trust me. Or at least look at me more. It wasn’t that I wanted his attention as much as I knew I could distract him fairly easily.

He looked over at me, a dumbfounded look on his face. Men are so fucking stupid, I thought. The pissed off expression on his partner’s face told me that she agreed.

“It’s going to explode if you mess with it or it leaves the area. Probably with tear gas. If you’re escaping in a car, you’re not gonna want it.”

“Yeah, we know about dye packs, bitch.” She snapped, grabbing the bag of money and tossing it to the side of the door they intended to use.

I stared at the locks they hadn’t even bothered trying to touch. The same locks they apparently didn’t look up or know anything about when they came. Suddenly it hit me why this all felt so very off.

It was strange enough that no one was wearing a mask, and as far as I’d heard, no one was really trying to get out of this situation. I was certain that by this point there was a large crowd of armored men outside.

“Just trying to help,” I muttered as I started to scan the room, looking for telltale signs of tampering. The anxious whispering of the man distracted me just long enough to get more information.  

“Won’t that set off some shit? Chain reaction shit?”

“Shut the fuck up,” the woman responded with a swift elbow to his gut as she started to walk away, “you are an absolute moron.”

As soon as she was out of earshot, I heard the faint curses that fell from his lips. As he picked up the bag just to toss it away again, I noticed the presence of odd packages in the corner of the room. He really did not want exploding dye packs near those boxes, which seemed remarkably out of place.

“Why does she think she’s in charge?” I asked, finally ripping my eyes away from the objects that now seemed glaringly obvious. “You two guys outnumber her.”

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

Relaxing my body as much as I could, I shifted back and forth on my knees, rubbing the tired muscles of my thighs. “I may have been told that once or twice.”

He actually chuckled; his eyes drawn to my legs like the absolute moron he so obviously was. She definitely had gotten that one right. The other women in the room were watching me, but I tried not to pay them any mind.

I didn’t know when or why they decided to let me do whatever I wanted, but I appreciated their apparent comfort in letting me try to kill myself. He made his way over to the boxes, each a specific size and shape. He carried them so carefully.

“I figure there’s no point in being scared if I’m going to die anyway.” I finally said. Shocked gasps and whispers filled the room, but I didn’t divert my attention to them– No matter how much I wanted to tell them to shut the fuck up.

They would distract me from the way his mouth curled into a smile when he closed the gap between us, his hand sliding down my head and over my shoulder to follow the braid Spencer had meticulously woven an hour before.

“How about you just shut up and sit pretty for me, sweetheart.” I tried not to let the disgust show as his hand slid behind my neck, holding my head so that I had to look up at him. “You seem like you’d be real good at that.”

Ha! If only Spencer could hear him say that. But I could play the good girl for just long enough.

“Do you need help?” I asked with a tiny shrug, “I might be little but I’m pretty strong.” Strong enough to break your fucking hand if you don’t get it off of me.

“Nah.” He ordered, his hand on my neck getting tighter. “But I don’t doubt that you could be useful. You look real good on your knees.”

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might be visible through my ribs. I just needed an excuse to move. If he could give me an excuse to move, I could do so many things.

“Please let me help,” I begged, raising my hand to his forearm against my shoulder. His eyes began to shift, moving just enough to tell me that he wanted to look to the hallway. He could hear her footsteps, too. She was coming back, and I only had a few seconds left.

Once both of my hands were on his arm, I got the feeling he knew something even worse was coming for him.

“I’d love a chance to get to show you how helpful I really am.”  

—————————————————

Hotch had spent the past five minutes on the phone with the male unsub in the lobby, and the conversation was going absolutely nowhere. For whatever reason, they just seemed to deflect any opportunity provided to them.

They didn’t seem to give a shit about anything beyond pushing the buttons of each person they interacted with. Which, they did quite successfully.

“Didn’t realize one pig would bring the whole flock of you here,” he laughed, clearly motioning to Spencer on the video, “How bad do you want him back?”

“What do you want?” He responded without hesitation or a surprise. It was such an expected question to ask that he’d barely even thought about his words before they came out.

“Easy. A chopper, and for you to fuck off.”

That was the equally stereotypical response, meaning it was entirely unhelpful to them. From what they could deduce, they were equally confused as to why this heist seemed to follow all the rules, but match none of the motivations. It was like it was a show, a game, rather than an actual attempt to maximize profits.

“We can do the helicopter, but we can’t give you a pilot.”

“That’s fine,” he responded with a shrug, “Don’t need one.”

It was the first piece of useful information he’d gotten so far on the call. Because if they didn’t need a pilot, it meant one of two things: either one of them possessed the skill themselves, or they weren’t ever intending to use the helicopter.

Briefly pulling the phone away, Hotch turned to Morgan. “Tell Garcia to check our list with people with pilot’s licenses or any other connection that might provide them the skills to fly a helicopter.”

He returned to the call, continuing the usual script for these situations, trying not to act like he’d learned anything new.

“Can you release the women and children?”

“Nah,” the guy said with a chuckle, “I’ll wait.”

Hotch listened to the sound of the receiver for a moment, staring at the entrance to the bank like it would provide him the answers he still needed. He had his suspicions of what might be happening, but with no eyes in the back anymore and the trigger-happy group that had formed around him, he wouldn’t have the resources to convince them not to go in guns blazing.

“We’re ready to move in.” Which is exactly what they had requested.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stated before finally moving to look at the man next to him, “Something isn’t right here.”

“Yeah, a lot isn’t right here. There’s 19 innocent people in there.”

It didn’t really matter how many times he went through this situation; the results always seemed to be the same. No one listened, even when it wasn’t one of their men inside.

“Storming the building isn’t going to help them. There are three armed perpetrators inside, and they’re each in a different area. It would be impossible for us to take out all three at once. Especially now that we can’t see in the back. There could be explosives in there for all we know.”

The man was unpersuaded.

“If we can’t save them all, minimizing casualties is the name of the game.”

“Wait a few more minutes. I’m waiting to hear back from our analyst. If they have the capability of flying a plane, its highly likely they also have the knowledge and skills to create weapons that we aren’t currently prepared to handle.”

Although still unconvinced, the man grudgingly gave in to the request. Hotch closed his eyes, trying to be grateful for the extremely small victory; they’d gained a few more minutes. But the relief was short lived, with Morgan putting his phone aside for a second to mutter the same thing Hotch was thinking.

“Hotch, these people are way too confident. It’s like they know there’s a way out.”

As soon as he said the words, the two just looked at each other.

“Garcia, can you also check for any other way out of the bank?” He asked, walking back over to the table laid out under the nearby tent. This would have been a great time for Reid to be here, he thought as he stared at the ridiculously complicated schematics.

He understood they didn’t want people to be able to figure them out (so they couldn’t rob the bank), but this was just ridiculous. It looked ancient.  

“Sure thing, but… Morgan, I think there’s something else you should see.” The nerves dancing in her voice told him that they were about to switch subjects. “You know how the guy disabled the camera feed in the back room. I was reviewing the footage we do have and it looks like… (y/n) told him to.”

“Why would she do that?” He asked, furrowing his brow as he glanced over to the ornate bank doors. Part of him wanted to joke that things would’ve been a lot simpler if he didn’t have to worry about Reid’s weird girlfriend, but it didn’t feel as funny when they were both in danger.

Maybe later, he thought hopefully, when they were all together again.

“I… don’t know why. But I did what you asked, and I went through her record and found a ton of sealed files on her and also her dad…”

Morgan’s attention was definitely piqued at that point, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. In the stunned silence, Penelope spoke again.

“Should… Should I unseal them?”

It was the same question he was debating in his head, and he honestly didn’t know. Although a long shot, he hoped that she could provide at least the bare minimum of context before they made that kind of decision.

“What kind of files are we talking about?”

“I can’t be sure until I unseal them b-but, I mean, they’re sealed for a reason and I’m talking scary sealed. Like, it might take me a minute sealed. Giving me the heebie-jeebies sealed.” She grew more frantic as she continued. Morgan knew they were running out of time.

“I get it.”

“Is Reid okay?” She switched gears, recognizing that Morgan’s hesitance meant it was probably a bad idea. She wasn’t going to push it unless he did. They didn’t even know if she could help even if they unsealed the files. Especially without a visual.

“They know he’s with us,” Morgan sadly admitted, “I don’t know what’s going on. Did you find another way out of the bank?”

“Right.” The conversation was going to give everyone involved whiplash at this point. “Yes! There is an access way through tunnels underneath the bank but it would take a massive distraction for all three of them to be able to get out of there without us meeting them on the other side. I’m talking earth shatterin–.”

She didn’t finish the sentence, her tongue halting the second her mind caught up with her voice. Morgan was equally concerned, recognizing the kind of distraction that this might require and the perfect way to escape with maximum damage.

But that wasn’t what got his attention. There was no fiery explosion or shouted epiphany, because at that same time there were the muffled sounds of gunshots coming from inside.

“Oh my god, what was that?!” Garcia yelled, accompanied by frantic clicking as she filtered through each individual camera to try and locate the source of the noise.

“Garcia, do you have eyes on the main room?”

“Yes! But it wasn’t in the main room, Derek, it was in the back!”

It was a difficult and necessary job, to consider what those sounds might mean for the young girl they’d met only a few weeks earlier. Morgan’s thoughts went even further, not only worried about her safety, but his best friend’s sanity. Lord knows Reid didn’t need another thing weighing on his conscience. Especially not about her; it just might destroy him.

“What does the unsub in the main area look like? Does he look confused? Surprised?” The words were coming, but he didn’t know where from. His body was on autopilot, desperately seeking any validation that they could still save everyone.

“I-I don’t know! He looks grainy! The image is like an inch wide!” She was clearly growing frustrated, which was a feeling they all shared at this point. “This camera is from before I was even born!”

“Try, Penelope,” Morgan pleaded, “Give me something.”

But the other men weren’t willing to wait.

“That’s it. We’re moving in.”

Morgan turned to them, his hand clutching tighter to the phone just in time for her to speak.

“He’s calling for them but they’re not coming out. He looks… Oh no. He’s yelling at Reid now. And... And it looks like someone is coming down the hallway? But he’s not looking–”

It was impossible to focus on everything that was happening, heavy boots and massive commotion as people began to take their positions. But if someone was coming down the hallway, and the unsub didn’t know, that could only mean a few things. Either he was about to be proven disposable, or someone else had fired those shots.

Either way, one thing was clear.

“Wait! We can’t go in there yet!”

—————————————————

There was a point in time where I might have questioned whether I would ever get used to a gun in my face. There was also a point where I actually had gotten used to it. But nothing could have prepared me for this moment, this terrifying realization while staring down the barrel of an assault rifle that I didn’t want to die yet.

I used to think that my life was somewhat disposable. Sure, I was helpful and useful for my job, but ultimately, I considered myself replaceable. The next person to come might not have the same credentials, but they probably wouldn’t also have half the flaws I do.

But now I wasn’t thinking of work. I wasn’t thinking about how replaceable I was, because it wasn’t my life that mattered.

I didn’t want to die yet, because I wanted to see her again.

So I just stared at the weapon, trying to remember that it was still a great possibility that I could. I tried not to think about what was in front of me, choosing to use most of my brainpower to picture what it would feel like when I had her in my arms again.

The vision inside my head ended swiftly, with the sound of rapidly fired weaponry coming from down the hall. Through the commotion of screaming, I surmised that at least two guns had been fired.

Silence followed. It was a stifling, exhausting, painful silence.

What broke it was even worse, with the gun in my face smacking into the side of my head as the man holding it lost his grip at the sound.

“What the fuck was that?!”

He looked at me like he expected me to have the answers, but I didn’t.

“I don’t know. I-I don’t—“ Not only did I not understand why two guns would fire, I didn’t know who had shot them or for what reason. There was one thing I did know. “It sounded like your weapons.”

“Hey, what’s going on back there?!” He shouted, twisting his body just enough to see around the corner.

There was no reply.

“Did your people get in here somehow?” The panic was obvious, and I didn’t know how to calm him down without arousing suspicion. He was continuing to devolve, stepping closer to me as he stuck with his original thought, “How the fuck could they have done that, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you do know?”

It was a question I’d been asking myself. The longer the silence continued in the back, the more rapidly my anxiety rose. There are only a few reasons why we wouldn’t hear more screaming.

Either someone had managed to get remarkable control over the situation, or all of the hostages were dead. Including (y/n). I forced myself to consider the far less likely, but still possible third option: She was dying, and I could still help her.

“I know that there is still a way for you to get out of this.” I barely recognized my own voice as I rambled, “Is it possible your partners… Is it possible they were planning on leaving together?”

“What?” He sounded disgusted and exhausted, but simultaneously insecure. It didn’t take much effort to realize that he was the weakest of the crew. I’d already had my suspicions that whatever the next step in this journey was, he wasn’t going to be making it with them regardless.

“It was their decision to leave you out here, right? In the place with the most windows and the first access to the door? They put you with all the people most likely to fight back. And now it sounds like…”

I paused, my lips unable to make the next words without a deep breath. “It sounds like they killed the people in the back as a diversion to send in SWAT. Does that sound like something they would do?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That was enough confirmation for me. It was definitely something they would do, and he knew it. He probably suspected it himself. Thankfully, it gave me enough courage to push back for the first time in this encounter. “Then go back there and see if they’re still there.”

“And just let you be hero and save all these guys? No chance.”

I wanted to laugh; if only he knew the real reason I wanted him to go back there. As terrible as it was, I didn’t care at all about the rest of these men right now. As far as I knew, they were relatively safe. In fact, they were in a better position if what I’d deduced was true. This man, while violent, wasn’t the kind to murder everyone in sight, even when cornered. He’d more likely be shot by SWAT.

“I’ll come with you.” It was a plea, a desperate attempt to get more information that I both wanted and feared. He watched me carefully, trying to read the terror on my face to determine where exactly it was coming from. He knew the hostages were useless to him if he had me, so I wasn’t particularly scared for my life.

At least, not just yet.

“Fine. Get up.”

I willed my legs to stop shaking; to just carry me far enough that I could see her face. I just needed to know that she was okay.

But then I felt a fine mist over my skin— it almost felt like the noise happened after, but I knew logically that couldn’t be true.

A gun fires before the bullets hit their target.

Time seemed to move slower as his body fell to the ground in front of me. My eyes followed him to the floor, but only until I saw the person holding the gun through my peripherals.

“...(y/n)?”

And there she was, clutching tightly onto a rifle, her body barely upright as she staggered forward. There was something remarkably off-putting about the sight of her holding on for dear life to something so morbid. A jarring contrast I would not soon be able to forget, if I ever could.

There was something even more unsettling about the ease with which she carried the weapon, and the fact that she had managed to fire something that powerful without a single stray bullet.

“They’re dead!” She boomed across the room, dropping the weapon onto the floor before she yelled again, “Everyone get out! Hurry!”

No one moved. All of the men, myself included, stared at the tiny girl who’d just saved all of our lives.

“Get out now! There’s a bomb in the back!”

Those were the magic words to stir a panicked crowd into action, people stampeding to the single double door at the entrance, but my eyes were fixed on her. She staggered forward, her arm around her waist and her eyes beginning to roll back.

Perhaps I was just clueless, my one-track mind too slow to navigate the scene in front of me, but it took me that long to see it. My brain rioted against the visuals it took in, the dark crimson dripping down her body. It looked like it would swallow her whole.

I tried to will my body to move, to run to her and do something, anything to help her. But I couldn’t, frozen in place as her small steps got weaker. It wasn’t until I saw her begin to sway that I lunged forward just in time to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Wait!” I screamed to anyone who would listen, my eyes frantically trying to meet someone in the crowd, “Someone get a medic!”

The woman with a child was the last one to pass. She stopped among the commotion, looking down at the carnage in my lap before bolting towards the door.

I had to trust that she would care enough to do something, because from that point on my attention wouldn’t be leaving (y/n). Her eyes were glassy, staring off into the distance and wandering aimlessly despite my face being in view.

“Hey, hey little girl.” My voice crackled as I held her cheek, “Hey, look at me.”

She was finally able to meet my gaze, her eyes filling with love with a small, delirious smile gracing her lips.

“Hey old man.”

The grin didn’t last long, the sounds of her choking and coughing replacing it as blood filled her mouth. I tried to turn her enough that she could spit it out, but it was obvious she was struggling to get any air at all.

“We’re gonna get you some help, okay?” I said with a false confidence, the twisted curve of my lips not even barely resembling a smile.

“It hurts,” she sobbed, her hands slipping in the blood on her stomach.

“I know.”

There wasn’t anything I could do; all I could do was sit there and stare, trying to decide where my hands should be. She was applying pressure to her wound on the front, but I could see the wreckage that was once her back. My hands wouldn’t be enough.

“I’m sleepy.”

“I know.” I was trembling, tears dripping from my face and mixing with the bloody mess; they still couldn’t dilute it, somehow make it vanish. “I know you’re tired. But you’ve gotta stay awake, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

At first, I wanted to say the innocence in her voice was surprising, but it wasn’t. She was innocent. She was just a young girl, trying to live a happy, normal life before she met me.

“You’re doing great.” I tried to convince myself this wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t work. She had said it herself — she wouldn’t have ever come to a bank on her own. The statistics of the rarity of this situation kept playing on a loop in the back of my head, but it was just a low hum beneath the sound of her pained whimpers.

“Spencer, I need to tell you something.” The newfound insistence in her voice twisted in my gut, and my hands held tighter to her arm.

“No, don’t,” I begged, already anticipating what was going to happen. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to tell you right now.” And then her voice was calm, a smile on her face as her blood-soaked hand left her stomach, trying to raise to touch me. It didn’t make it.

“No, you can tell me later.”

The words were so slurred and pathetic, I’m surprised she understood them. But she did, taking a deep, whistling breath. It was clear it hurt her to speak, and I wanted to tell her to be quiet, but the masochist in me needed to hear the words all the same.

“Spencer, please. Just listen to me.”

This sounded too much like a goodbye.

“I love you.”

Our bodies rocked as I realized I hadn’t taken a breath of my own in too long, the pain in my oxygen deprived lungs not nearly enough to distract me from the genuine softness of her voice.

“I love you so much,” she whispered, “Do you know that?”

I don’t know how she wasn’t crying, her eyes barely open but too tired to blink. That rosy complexion had faded, her skin blanching the longer she lay in my arms.

“Yes, I know.”

“I love you with my whole heart.”

My mind was flashing images from only a couple hours prior, her warm laugh as she laid on my lap, the way her hair slipped between my fingers while I wove it together.

‘You think you’ll still be around?’

‘If you’ll have me.’

The memories were blurring together, creating a symphony of promises that were about to be shattered in front of my eyes.

‘Forever,’ she’d said. ‘Forever.’

‘A white picket fence. Two little bratty genius babies. Just a normal, domestic life with Dr. and Mrs. Reid.’

Rejecting the thought, I shook my head, “You’re going to be fine.”

“I understand what you meant when…” Her voice was too quiet, too distant, to be this warm. “When you said it was nice to be able to say it.”  

The heavy footfalls and sound of a transport bed wheeling across the floor alerted me that I would have to let her go soon. Whether this would be the last time I ever held her, I couldn’t be sure.

“They’re gonna come take you now, but I’ll be right behind them. I promise.” I barely got the words out before their hands were all over her, those tired eyes shooting wide open as unfamiliar hands replaced mine.

“Wait, Spencer!” She cried out, her body too limp to make a meaningful attempt to stop them, “Don’t leave me!”

Her screams and sobs were ringing louder than the gunshots had, my body slowly making its way upright as I watched them place her on the bed.

“I’m not leaving you, I promise.” I tried not to let the panic bleed through, raising the volume as she started to be taken away from me, “Stay awake as long as you can.”

I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her attempts to scream. If she was calling my name, it wasn’t recognizable. I’m not sure which hurt worse— the sound of her tired lips butchering my name, or the silence that followed.

She wasn’t able to scream anymore.

When I emerged from the bank, the sun burned my eyes just as much as the sight of my team shocked to see me covered in blood. But I couldn’t focus on them at all, immediately bolting after the paramedics without another thought.

The extra time it took them to carefully load her allowed me to jump into the back of the vehicle before the doors shut. There were no words to describe this situation, nor make it any better.

So I just stared in horrified fascination, trying to gauge her odds as they rapidly changed in front of me. Of 107,141 firearm injuries last year, 31% died. How many of the 69% had assault rifle wounds? I couldn’t remember any other statistics. My brain had turned itself off, focusing only on the frantic beeping and scrambled voices.

“Where is he?” Her tiny voice cut through both the internal and external noise.

“I’m right here.” I nearly shouted from my precarious position standing in the back of the rattling ambulance. I wanted to move closer, but I was too scared. There were so many hands on her, and I didn’t want to get in the way.

“I’m scared.” She said, mirroring my exact thoughts.

“I’m right here.” I repeated, closing my eyes to hide from the carnage long enough to put words together that might make her feel any ounce of comfort, “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

Taking an experimental step forward once the paramedics seemed settled in their places, I came to stand behind her. My hands were tinted red and trembled as they reached out to touch her cheeks.

She took a sharp inhale at the sensation, just barely holding her head up straight. I couldn’t tell if she was leaning into my touch or just couldn’t control her neck any longer. Her skin felt like ice, and although she was still beautiful, the blue tint creeping over her face struck fear in my heart.

“How much longer until we get to the hospital? Her body temperature is dropping.”

If she heard me, she didn’t respond. I stared at the paramedic who was obviously more concerned with other things at the moment. They were kind enough to give me a response, even if it wasn’t a satisfying one.

“Just a few more minutes. We can’t do anything until we stop the bleeding, sir.”

“Spencer…” Each time she spoke was simultaneously terrifying and comforting. It was confirmation she was alive, but also troublesome, because I knew that she should be reserving her efforts for staying alive.

“Hang in there, little girl. We’re almost there.”

She opened her eyes, staring up at me with clouded vision. I could see the pain so clearly it might as well have been me on the table.

“Please help me,” she sobbed, “help me.”

“I-I can’t.” They were the two hardest words I’d ever had to say. Frustration mounted in me, but none of it was directed at her. She didn’t do anything wrong. Myself, on the other hand, I hated myself in that moment.

She was begging for me to help her, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but stand here and watch as she bled out in the back of an ambulance, a stranger’s hands practically inside of her stomach.

“I don’t want to die.”

The way her voice cracked took whatever was left of my sanity with it, and I felt my fingertips slip in the blood as I pressed against her face.

“You won’t,” I tried to assure her, “You’re going to be fine. Just stay awake.”

“I can’t.” The usual spunk in her voice had faded, leaving behind the sound of a twenty year old girl with no fight left in her. “I’m so sorry, Spencer…”

‘Sorry?’ I thought below the horror, ‘for what?’

When her eyes shut, they couldn’t even make it all the way. It was an expression I’d seen before on the field. I wasn’t meant to see it on her.

“No. No, no, wake up.” I urged, patting her cheeks softly before closing my hands around them more tightly, “Wake up, little girl, please.”

I was talking to no one, because I don’t think she could hear me anymore. Absolutely nothing in her body changed, even as the paramedics became more rushed.

“I’ve located the bleed!” The woman beside me yelled as the ambulance began to rapidly slow down. “I’m sorry sir, but we need you to move.”

“Whatever you need. Please, just help her.” I’d said the words, but my actions didn’t follow. She stared down at my hands that were still tethered to (y/n)’s face, trying to provide the warmth that she desperately needed.

Somehow, I was able to wrench them away, only then realizing the bloody handprints I’d left behind. Her face still wasn’t moving.

“Please, I—“

Before I could say another word, they were already out of the ambulance. I followed as closely as I could behind them, trying to focus enough to ensure that every word said could be played again in my mind. Because the second she crossed the threshold into the surgery suite, I wouldn’t be able to hear them anymore.

I would have to wait. I would have to wait for her to be better, or wait for a declaration. And in that vast silence, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop from torturing myself with every single word uttered in this building before the doors closed.

The doors were ahead of us now, and I wished time could slow down enough that I could give her one more kiss and tell her to be strong one more time before she went into the Schrodinger’s Box that was the emergency room operating table.

I wanted to tell her that I loved her, and when the thought crossed my mind, I realized that I’d never said it back. She’d said it three times, but in my adamant denial I’d failed to return it.

It was so much like us, I’d almost laughed. She’d made such a point of worrying about me leaving her, neither of us had ever stopped to think about how I’d live without her.

How would I live without her? The only person I trusted to have an answer was wheeled into the room, the door shutting abruptly in front of me.

In the reflection of the metal door I saw myself, drenched in the dark liquid. I tried to clean my face with my hand only to realize that they, too, were dirty with her blood.

The world had fallen silent, and I let myself be crushed by the overwhelming loneliness of an existence without her.

‘Don’t miss me too much, Dr. Reid.’

It was too late.

—————————————————

| Part 15 |

[winter-fox-queen]

We All Deserve a Fairy Tale Chapter 5

Warnings:  Here be smut, my loves.  Minors be gone, because it is explicit.  First time writing smut, so I hope it works.

Frankie x female blank slate, use of first person.  I think there is cursing.

Frankie ghosts you, then something happens to change it…

Thanks to @sharkbait77​ and @hnt-escape​  If you want on my tag list, tell me.  :)

I waited a week.  A week and a half.  And I broke down, finally, and texted.

Got the edits back for my next book.  I hate this part.

After a moment, a reply.  You got this.

Hope?  Maybe?  Or was he just being nice?

I responded anyway.  

Maybe we can go out and see that movie tonight?  Have dinner?  A little fun before I chain myself to the computer?

No response.

I waited a day, but my stomach churned the whole time.

I texted again, after getting myself good and wound up.  You don’t owe me any explanations.  But please respect me enough not to ghost me.  You’re not interested in me, that’s fine.  But don’t leave me dangling.  You’re better than that.

I hit send, regretted it immediately.

Your right.  What’s your address?

“Shit.  Shit.  What have I done?”  I whispered as I typed it to him.  

About five away.  K?

Yeah.  Thanks.

I ran back inside the house and straightened myself up.  Military minutes must be shorter than civilian minutes because I heard him pull up sooner than I was ready.

I went outside, to the back yard.  I waved at him, half heartedly.  He shoved his hands in his pockets and came over.

“Hey.”  He gave me a soft smile.  Everything about him was guarded.  OK.  Well, I asked him to come over and officially tell me to take a hike, so, I guess I deserved it.

“Frankie, I…”

“No.  I, uh.”  He looked at the ground between our feet.  It was more dirt than grass.  “Man, you weren’t kidding about this place being a wasteland.”  

I laughed despite the rock in my gut.

He looked up at me, a little sideways.  “Let me say my piece and go, OK?”

I hugged myself, and nodded.

“I like you.”  He said so quietly that I had to lean closer to hear him.  “Like you more than I’ve liked anyone for a long time.  And I mean that.  But wanting you in my life doesn’t mean I get to.  I’ve killed — “

I started to object, say something about the army and of course he did and he did what he had to…

He saw it and said, firmly, “No.”

I closed my mouth and he nodded.  “No.  I’m talking about…less than a year ago.  Some friends and I went on a mission.  We said it was to help stop a major drug dealer but it was just…”  He’s breathing a little heavier, now.  Unable to look at me, rubbing the palms of his hands on his thighs.  

“People died.”  He looks at me, then, the anguish in his eyes, the guilt.  “My own fucking actions lead to one of my best friends getting killed.  If I hadn’t taken that shot.  If I hadn’t wrecked the fucking chopper…”  

He steps forward and takes my hands in his.  They’re clammy, shaking.  “The mail you saw, it was a reminder.  My friend’s widow, she’s angry and looking for answers and she doesn’t want any of us to be happy.  And she’s right.”  

I try to find words.  I feel like I’m in a cave in, trying to scramble over rocks and debris.  

“I don’t deserve to be happy, and I don’t deserve you.”  He touches my cheek for a second, a butterfly landing and running away.  “I’m gonna go now, I’m gonna block your number.”

He kisses me.  His lips are hot.  When he steps back, I say, “So you’re not going to give me a choice?”

“Why would you want one?”  His voice is incredulous.  There’s an echo, under his words, I can see it in his eyes, in the frustrated way he throws his hands out.  Why would you want me?

I shook my head.  “You say you like me, but you want to close yourself off?  Not give me a chance to get to know you, help you if I can?”

“It’s for the best.  You see that, right?”  There’s a desperate edge.  

I shake my head.  Everything that can possibly hurt does.  I’m supposed to be so good at words, and I can’t find the right ones, the ones to reel him back in.  

He adjusts his hat.  “No, you don’t.  I love your books, but they are fairy tales.  You can’t make a good man out of a monster.  It’s not how the world works.”

“You’re not a monster.”  

He’s all twitchiness now, looking at his truck, desperate to get out of this situation.  It makes me mad, how badly he wants to go.  How I know I can’t fix this.  “Don’t bother blocking my number.”  I say, as I turn on my heel.  “I won’t bother you again.”

He whispers my name and it is so pained that I almost turn around.  But I don’t.

***

I don’t block his number.  I can’t.  I focus on work.  My job that lets me eat work.  My book.   My hands shake on the keyboard, sometimes, as I try to make the story mine again.  It’s hard to write a love story, even one with murder and mystery, when your own heart is broken.

It was ridiculous.  I didn’t even know him that long,  but the loss of him hurt.  It made the story feel pointless.  What right did I have to sell these lies?  To make people believe in love and romance and happily ever after when you can meet someone so amazing and wonderful, and have to watch him walk away?

I kept working.  I’d get over it.  I had to.  It’s not like I’d built anything with him.  I was just aching for the possibilities — the things I tortured myself about.  The things I imagined I m might have lost, with Frankie.

And damn it, I missed him.

But life continues.  And sink faucets wear out, making you have to run to the local home improvement store, wandering the isles with an armload of new faucet, fittings, plumbers tape and everything else the YouTube videos I’d consulted said I would need.

The universe has decided that I have not suffered enough, because I can see him, Frankie Morales in the flesh, frowning at the back of a box like its his greatest enemy.  He was in the home security section.  

I could sneak by.  He was way too interested in what he was holding in those lovely, large hands of his.  I dashed by, head down, determined to just get past him, but some lady with a cart pushed past me at the same time, and my arm load of stuff got jostled.  I was able to save the most expensive bit — the faucet in its box, the long flexible connection thingies — but the plumbers tape, in its plastic hard shell donut jumped out, fell onto the floor, and rolled right over to a well worn work boot.  Spun like a top.  Settled right against his toe.  I looked up, too nervous to enjoy the view (much) and right into his eyes.  His lips were parted, like he was a little surprised to see me.  

“Hey.”  I said, and then, because I didn’t  know what else to do, I turned and fled back the way I came.  I knew where the plumbers tape was, I could just go get another…

“Hey.  Wait a second.”  

I stopped, took a breath, smiled like everything was perfectly normal.

He held up the white plastic Judas.  “Um…your faucet break?”  And then he winced.  “I mean, obviously.  Um.”  He placed the tape on top of my pile delicately.  He was holding a box in both hands tight enough to warp the cardboard.

“It’s old.  I thought I would try my hand at replacing it…can’t be that hard.”

“No, but plumbing can be really picky if you’ve never done it…”

“Don’t offer.”  I whisper it desperately, before I can even think about it.  I can tell he’s working himself up to it, and the thought of him in my house is like a punch ion the guts.

“It wouldn’t be a problem.”  His dark eyes study my face.  Sad.  A little desperate.  For a second I think, maybe he misses me, too.

“No.  I got it.”  I say softly, looking at the floor again.

“Do you still have my number?  If you change your mind?”

I nod at the container.  “Go back to your project, Frankie.  I can handle this on my own.”

Did you know, plumbing is an utter bitch?

Throw in some more curse words in the last sentence.  I certainly used every one I could.  

Two hours later, I get a text.  

Frankie:  How did it go?  

I want to sob.  Instead, I put myself together and write a fairly moderate response:

Me:  I have decided that I will now do my dishes in the bathroom sink.  Who needs a sink in the kitchen?  A total waste.  

Frankie:  The offer is still open?

Me:  How did you know?  Did you just look at me and think, she is too inept to be able to do this herself?

Frankie:  No.  I don’t think that at all.

Frankie:  Let me help?  Please?

Me:  Since you said please, I guess I can allow you to come rescue me.  

Frankie:  OMW.  

I looked at the time, and decided to order pizza.  It was only fair.

Twenty minutes later he’s under the sink.  “You did a good job.  I think maybe you just cross threaded it…”

“Oh, no…did I ruin the threads?”

“It’s probably OK.  I’ll just use a lot of tape…”

And he does some magical things with a wrench and the bright pink tape, which he wraps around the threads to make them more water tight.  I try not to admire his long legs or the rest of him, spread out on my kitchen floor, as he half lays in the bottom of the sink.

The doorbell rings, and I go pay for the pizza, and when I come back he’s turned on the water, and he’s kneeing in front of the open sink bottom, using a paper towel to see if he can find any leaks.

“It looks OK?”  I ask tentatively.

“Yep…you really did have it done mostly.  Just that one spot.”

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly.  “I bought us dinner?”

“You are awesome.”  He does a quick but of clean up so he can shut the sink doors and washes his hands in the newly repaired sink.  He tosses his hat onto the end of the island, and I want to run my fingers through his hair.  He does it for me, absentmindedly pushing the hair off his forehead.  

We sit on either side of my kitchen island, sharing pizza.  I don’t know what to say.  

“It’s a nice apartment.”  He said quietly, picking up another slice.

“It’s cheap, not far from my day job.  It works.”  I shove a hunk of crust in my mouth to stop myself from saying anything else.  I knew this would be bad.  Here he is, sitting a few  inches away.  I could touch him, but I’m not allowed.  It’s a rotten feeling, wanting something and not being allowed to have it.  To feel his fingers wrap around mine.  To have that easy, happy camaraderie again.

“What are you thinking?”  I ask, when the silence gets too much.

He shakes his head.  Wads up his napkin.  Puts his plate in the sink.  Locates the trash.  Such a good guest.  

“I shouldn’t have come.  But I wanted to see you.”  He said this quietly, as if he isn’t sure he should admit it.  

“Well, if you hadn’t, I’d still be under the sink wondering why the damned fittings are still leaking.”

He gives me a gentle smile.  “You would have been ok.”  

“Lucky I didn’t block your number, huh?”

He smiles and kneels down, picking up tools and putting them back in the box.  Sorting his from mine.

“It was nice of you to come help me?  I might be a bit snarky, but I really am grateful for the help.”

“I was happy to.  Where do you keep these?”  I took my tools off him, put them and the plumber’s tape in my tool drawer.  

“But why?  Why were you happy to help?  Why did you want to see me?  You couldn’t leave here quickly enough the other day…” I smile to take the sting out.  “Not that I blame you, the yard is a hot mess.��

He touches my face gently.  “Hush.”  I stop my babbling, lean into his touch.  

“You asked me a question, awhile back.”  I muzzle his hand.  “I never got to answer it.”

“What was that?”  

“You asked me if I wanted you.  And I do.  Very much.”

He made a huffing sound, as if he had been gut punched, and then, slowly, slowly, leaned in and kissed me.  “I miss you,”. He whispers between kisses, his hands framing my face like I’m a delicate thing.  “I miss you when I wake up.  I miss you when I lay down to sleep.  I miss you when I’m driving.”  And each sentence he punctuates, gently, with a kiss, to my forehead, to my nose, to my mouth.  “I barely know you, but you are already woven into my thoughts…”

I’m holding him tight, kissing him back.  I bump my nose against his, sweetly, and I saw, “Then why?  Why stay away?”

He pulls back as far as I’ll let him, sits down again.  I see the ghosts in his eyes again, and I remember the lyrics from a song I used to love, “There’s ghosts in your eyes, they cry when you smile…”

“I shouldn’t have come…I’m a train wreck waiting to happen.”

“No, not if you’re just going to push me away again.  That’s cruel.  I never thought you’d be cruel, Francisco Morales.”

He winces like I punched him.  

“If it’s too soon to tell me, that’s fine.  Just push it aside until you trust me.  Or until it matters.  I don’t care about your past, what you’ve done.  I know you well enough to know you did what you had to do at the time.”  I give in to the longing to touch him, I run my fingers lightly through the curls at his temple before letting my hand drop.  He’s watching me like a landmine he’s stepped on.  His fingers ghost over my hips.  Grip them gently.  Pulls me between his thighs.  Now it’s my turn to be wary, as he pulls me close.  His dark, liquid eyes study my face, I can almost hear him weighing and sorting.  Lay your secrets on me, beautiful man.  I want to tell him.  But I wait.  I wait until his large hands encompass me, run over my waist, the softness over my ribs, glide up the sides of my breasts so softly I am not even sure he touched me, to cup my face.

 ���I want to be who you think I am,” he says, and I smile gently.

A decision is made, in those fathomless eyes.  And he leans close, and he kisses me again.  The last kisses were loving.  This kiss is passionate.  Deep. So full of longing I could cry.  I let my lips part and his tongue traces, licks inside.  I make a little sound and grab his wrists, pushing them aside so I can wrap my arms around him, if I could meld myself to him, I would have then, melted inside of him like gold, fixing his cracks.

He stands, the stool scraping against the floor.  The sound is jarring, lifts me out of the lust sodden moment.  “If you want me, baby, you have me,” he says in that rough honey voice of him.  “Show me the way.”  

I take one of his hands in both of mine, I kiss each knuckle.  I’d been playing with the idea, and now here I was.  I could still say no.  I could slow things down, I could be sensible.  

But I’d never wanted anything so deeply, so profoundly, as I wanted him.  Every time I touched his skin, I felt like something lost had been returned to me.

I smiled a little at him, and backed away, pulling him with me.  “This way, sweetheart.”

His lips are on mine the second we cross into my bedroom.  Once Frankie Morales makes a decision, he is all in.  His hand cups the back of my head, holding me so he can kiss me, his tounge sliding against mine as his other hand slips under my shirt.  I pull back and tug at his shirt.  “Off.”  I command, and he grins and sheds it.   My shirt and my bra join it on the floor.  I press my breasts to the warm smoothness of his chest.  I run my hands over his ribs, his stomach, as his mouth claims mine again.  His skin is soft and warm, strong muscles flexing under my hands.  I kiss along his jawline, I lick and kiss the constellation of freckles on the side of his neck.  He moans softly in approval as I nip and kiss my way to his shoulder.

His own hands slip up to my breasts, weighing them in his hands, squeezing gently. He runs his thumb over one nipple, then bends to lick the other into his mouth, sucking gently, his tounge flicking at the hard peak.  His freehand is splayed against the small of my back, holding me in place.  Pleasure shoots through me, and all I can do is cling to him.  He lets me go and pushes me gently.  I fall back onto my bed, tearing at the button on my pants, needing to get everything off, needing to feel his skin, his warmth, his strength and softness.

“Condoms?”  He asks, one knee on the bed.  “I didn’t think…”

I shook my head.  “I’m on the pill?”

His eyes darken further, and he asks, “Are you sure?”

I nod and hold out my arms, and he gives me the sweetest smile.  He stands up again and undoes his pants, sliding them off, and he’s naked and beautiful and I just want him wrapped around me.  He slips into my arms and kisses me again, his arms holding him over me.  He gives me a little of his weight, grounding me.  It feels so good, skin sliding against skin, warmth against warmth,

His slips a hand between us, and I clench at the thought of him touching me just as he slides two thick fingers between my folds, rubbing my clit gently, exploring me.  “So wet.”  He whispers, kissing my temple.  “So soft.”  He kisses the tip of my nose.  “So hot.”  And his takes my lips again, his fingers rubbing my clit, making me shake with building pleasure.  “I want to taste you, sweetheart.  I want to make you come on my tounge…can I, baby?”

I nod.  I don’t know who can resist that voice, rough with lust and promise?  He kisses his way down and I spread my legs wider, and he gently licks — a test lick, from my entrance to my clit.  He licks my clit, hard, with short licks before drawing me into his mouth and sucking me.  He is fervent, as he works, and I can’t think about anything but the heat of his mouth.  As the pressure and pleasure builds, I’m making the most needy sounds, unable to control myself.  His slips one finger in, then a second, exploring, touching, then another, stretching and reaching for that spot.  The rippling explosion leaves me shamelessly arching into his mouth, crying out his name like a prayer.  

“That’s it, baby,” he praises, kissing the inside of my thigh, rubbing his beard against the soft skin.  

He comes up to kneel between by thighs.  His eyes meet mine as I struggle to compose myself, and his hand gently comes up to very gently lay across my throat, his thumb tracing my chin.  

“Are you sure?  Where do you want me to come?”

I nod frantically. “Please, baby, I want you.  Inside me, please…”

His hand slips away from my throat to rest on the bed above my shoulder, and I miss the warmth of it as he gently strokes my skin, settling his hand on my thigh.  He takes his cock into his hand, stroking it before rubbing it against my clit, causing me to whimper.  He runs the head of it up and down a few times, his eyes slipped closed, his jaw going slack, that lush lower lip parting.  I wish I had a picture…he was beautiful.  Skin made gold by the fading light, thighs splayed under mine.  I felt the head of his cock in my entrance, and he pressed in, a slow hot stretch until he was sheathed completely.  

“Oh, fuck.”   He whispered.  “You feel so good.  So fucking good.”

He lowered himself back on top of me.  “You feel so huge inside me, baby,” I whisper in his ear.    “You feel like heaven.  Please…fuck me, honey.  Please…” And he started moving, slow at first, the changing the angle and speeding up.  With every thrust he pressed against something that felt so good…I was seeing the proverbial stars as he gasped in my ear, making soft sounds of pleasure every time he slammed home.  I nipped at his shoulder, and he was looking down at me, dark eyes studying me.  

“Frankie, I…I can’t think, I don’t know what to do…”  

“Don’t think.  Just let me take care of you.  It’s all I want to do…”  He captures my mouth in a sloppy kiss.  “Just let go.”

And I do.  I cry out his name as he continues to move, the friction making my high last.  He speeds up, and I cup his face in shaking hands.

“You’re so beautiful.  I want to feel you come, Frankie, honey, come for me.”

He moved to kiss the palm of my hand, then his eyes squeeze shut as he finds his own release.  I can feel it, spilling hot inside of me.  I welcome him as he lowers himself down completely, unable to stay up on his forearms any longer.  He tried to shift off, but I cling to him.  I welcome his weight.  His strength.  

I don’t want to let go.  I never want to let him go.

[absolute-barbarism]

Sorry to bother but are you still taking prompts? If so could you write something like a tough character A (police officer or firefighter or Agent you decide) had been through a tough day and horrible mission, their old wound got infected and they’d been trying to pretend they were Okay, until after the shift they got back home and fainted right in front of the house, even before their partner B answered the door? Thx

Not a bother at all, thank you for the awesome prompt! Sorry it took me ages to get around to my inbox ;-; hope you enjoy!

Modest as they were, A had to commend themselves for making it this far.

From the moment they woke in the morning, eyes shut stubbornly against the grueling tasks of the day, they knew they were at their limit before they even rose from their pillow. Their partner B was up and showering already, a common occurrence given their early-bird routine. Though it was A who needed it more than anyone else in their task force, they were the one with a day off to look forward to and A could hear them humming and buzzing about the bathroom. It was old tradition for them to have a home-date night when at least one of them was off. Absolutely sacrosanct. A buried their face into the mattress and groaned.

To count at least one blessing, the most A had had to do all day was sit at their desk. Physically, anyways, which was no easy ride either. Sitting upright took enough toll on the old wound stretched across their back that it was beginning to pull back on the curtains shielding A’s pain. Emotionally, there were no blessings to count. Only a limitless supply of curses.

Their current case had gone up in flames. One after another, bad news chipped away at A’s pride in everything he, B and the rest of the task force had accomplished thus far. Their only witnesses were slaughtered in cold blood, their suspects in the wind. The victims family had turned on them to declare their efforts useless and their agents lazy, incompetent bastards. A lazy bastard wouldn’t take a knife to the back treading slum territory for the investigation, A wanted to protest, but they knew in their heart they would be as angry if justice dawdled on someone they loved.

The skin surrounding their cut seemed to flash with heat upon every breath drawn too deep. It didn’t feel right, A thought, especially since it had been healing so well up until now. B would have to take a look at it later. They wouldn’t trust some unfamiliar doctor over B’s years of experience in the medical field. But it would have to be later, when their whole team wasn’t around to side-eye them and worry that they had lost yet another integral piece to their investigation. A wouldn’t do that to them, no matter what they had to endure themselves.

They started up their car and suddenly found themselves choking on a sob. With every hour passed the occasional heat that seared under their wound like it was fresh graduated to an insatiable flame, and the pulling. Every muscle A moved would pull the skin, and worst of all, grind the raw, exposed layers to the scratchy fabric of their undershirt. It was the first time they ever speeded in their life, in a reasonable effort to get home as fast as possible and in unreasonable desperation to somehow break away from the wound entirely.

Until today, A quite liked the half-hour commute. It was a peaceful time to mentally prepare in the morning and distance themselves from work at night. They slammed the car door behind them and wouldn’t look back, even after they realized they left their keys in the engine. They had to get inside. The pain couldn’t reach them in their sleep. Could it?

Keys. A cursed themselves when they reached the porch and dug into their pocket. The house keys were on the same ring as the car. They pounded on the door three times before they felt warm droplets sliding down their spine, growing cold quickly in the winter weather. As they waited on B, steadying themselves against the porch railing, distinguishable droplets turned to a collective ooze, soaking through their shirt. Nausea broke their clumsy train of thought, but the bile wouldn’t reach their throat. They hadn’t eaten enough today to throw up, they realized, or at all actually. They had closed their eyes to ward the sickening feeling off, but when they opened again, A noticed that their vision did not return as they had left it. The snow warped and blurred under their shoes, going fuzzy like static and darker, darker.

B was just finishing dinner preparations when they heard knocking. It couldn’t have been A, of course. Perhaps a friend, or a work acquaintance with urgent news.

But it was A, B saw with a startled cry. It was A, crumpled on the ground and breathing faintly as the white fabric over their back grew red with blood. Thankfully, having been there to witness the attack in the first place, they were able to shake their terror and go into what A lovingly liked to call medic-mode after only a few seconds of fretting. The blood was bright, but it was no new wound. Only an old one acting up, and that could be fixed. B reassured themselves of this as they carried A inside, bearing twice their own weight in their adrenaline rush. They peeled A’s shirt off carefully and went to work, focused as they would be performing neurosurgery while diced vegetables waited neglected on the cutting board.

“…Sorry…” was the first thing A mumbled when they came to. It was only twenty minutes later, but plenty of time for B to disinfect and patch up what they could, conveniently while A was still too unconscious to complain. This wasn’t their first time hearing that, and they weren’t naive enough to hope it would be the last.

“You know, you keep pushing yourself until you drop,” B said instead, “One of these days you won’t be able to get back up.”

“Not if I have you.” If their skin hadn’t still been frying under the sting of disinfectant, A would have smiled. B wouldn’t have, but they privately relished in A’s ill-timed flirting.

Lying on their belly on a cot in B’s home office, A observed the unusual chaos that had interrupted B’s orderly organization of medicine bottles and tools. They had to have been panicking while working on A’s wound not to take the time to put everything back in its’ rightful place, as was their habit. A felt a pang of guilt far worse than the ache of their old cut. “I’m really sorry,” they mumbled. “I thought I could make it through the day.”

“Did you tell your infection about that? I don’t think it got the message,” B responded dryly. “You’ve got a fever…You’re lucky it’s not any worse.”

A had plenty of remarks locked and loaded, eager to dissuade from the gravity in B’s voice. But even they knew B left the medical field for a reason, and as their partner, willingly throwing themselves into bad shape before them was shameful.

“I know,” they said, and took a glance over their shoulder. B was staring at the pile of bloodied wipes they had used to clean A’s back. A’s hand found its way into theirs, and B took solace in that it was warm. “I’ll rest.”

That was all B wanted to hear. They smiled faintly, giving A’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Then rest,” they said before kissing the shell of A’s ear. A didn’t need to be told twice—the moment they closed their eyes they were out, their ribs expanding and folding with each breath. B watched idly for a while before getting up to place their meal prep into Tupperware. A was alright, and that was all they cared about.

Alright, for now.

[shroomcult]

@soulxmakaweek

Soma week 2021 Day 2: Healing

All too young was Maka Albarn exposed to the bitter resentment of a crumbling marriage.

She never had to bear witness to domestic violence or explosive arguments between her parents. No glasses were thrown against walls, no doors were slammed, no vitriolic exchanges that ended in another charging out the door and speeding out of the driveway.

It had been slow, and cold - like watching frost spread on a windowpane until nothing could be made out from the other side. The days when her parents loved each other, smiled while in the other’s presence were nothing more than distant and dream-like memories.

“I love you” was only something a desperate and conniving man said to get the outcome he desired. Not that it was any use. Papa could throw that phrase around all day, and yet Mama walked out of their lives all the same. 

It also meant nothing when it came from her mother’s own mouth moments before she stepped out of the threshold of their front door for the final time. If her mother loved her, she would have taken her only daughter with her instead of leaving her with a blubbering fool.

Maka shook this thought out of her head. 

No. Mama does love me - of course she does. She just has important work to do, she’ll come back for me when she’s ready. When she’s healed.

A feminine giggle could be heard from down the hall - from her father’s room. It effectively tore her from her thoughts.

So she hadn’t been hearing things. He really had the audacity to sneak a woman into their house for a little sleep-over not more than a week after the separation. As if she wouldn’t notice.

Well, she hadn’t heard the woman come in late last night, but surely Spirit was aware that his daughter was always an early-riser. 

She stepped out of her room, passed the sinners' den that was her father’s bedroom and into the kitchen to sit at the table with her book - and wait.

She wanted to make this as difficult for him as possible. She wanted to see the intruder for herself, to look them both in the eyes.

It hadn’t taken long before the snakes slithered out. She heard the master bedroom door creak open as hushed voices filled the hall leading out to the living area. She could distinctly make out the sound of her father hushing his secret guest.

As soon as they appeared in the living room and in full view of the kitchen, Maka set her book down and cleared her throat purposefully.

Spirit’s face drained of all the light that had been present only moments before. He looked as though someone had aimed a gun at his skull and demanded his wallet, his hand quickly removed from the mystery woman’s hip like it had been burned.

“M-Maka! Oh, hello sweetheart … what are you doing up so early?” he forced a smile, but his eyes conveyed nothing but guilt.

“I was having trouble sleeping. With all the noise.”

If he hadn’t already looked ready to crawl into a ditch, he certainly did after that comment.

His bedtime companion let out an airy laugh of discomfort before quickly excusing herself from the house she hadn’t belonged in to begin with.

The sound of the front door closing behind her had been deafening in the remaining silence between father and daughter.

“Maka-” Spirit tried to begin, but he clamped his jaw shut when she shot up from her seat, the chair scraping severely on the tile behind her.

She leveled him with a stare that he was familiar with as she tried to emulate the sternness of her mother to the best of her ability. He withered under it.

“I hate you.”

He stammered uselessly, his eyes glassy as she turned on her heel and made her way out the house, slamming the door with all the force she could muster.

Her vision warped and blurred as she stomped through her neighborhood and made her way out to a main street. 

She soon broke into a sprint, lungs burning along with her eyes as her feet carried her away with little thought as to where she was going. Her throat squeezed tight, making breathing all the more difficult but her pace did not falter until she came to a full stop in front of her subconscious choice of destination. 

She stood before a familiar grouping of apartments with faded but colorful walls. She’d been here only a handful of times, just to kick Soul’s ass into gear when he wasn’t studying like he should be. For the most part, she had no need to visit his apartment because he met her at the academy. 

Why him of all people? Why is he the first person I wanted to see when I feel like this?

She liked Soul just fine. Trusted him in battle at the very least. 

But she wasn’t sure how much he really fit the description of friend. They stuck close together out of necessity. They didn’t exactly play nice with each other all the time - he was a difficult person to get close to, stubborn and distrustful. Perhaps she was too.

Even while her mind continued to question her reason for coming to him, her body moved of its own volition, feet taking her up the worn concrete steps to his door towards the end of the hall.

It wasn’t fair for her to show up here on a weekend and drag him out of bed to dump her problems on him, yet she pounded on his door like she had every right to anyway.

It took him quite a bit of time, but she heard someone growl “what the fuck” from behind the door before it swung open revealing her very irate weapon partner in pajamas with his already ridiculous hair in a nest of pure bedhead.

The hostility softened from his baggy eyes the moment he recognized the wetness on her cheeks.“What’s wrong?” he tried to ask only to get crushed into a hug seconds later.

She sobbed into his shoulder and clutched the back of his Nirvana shirt like her life depended on it. She was immediately embarrassed by her behavior, but she had trouble closing the floodgates at such a point of mental volatility and decided she’d much rather bury her face against him than meet his concerned gaze. 

It took a few moments, but his body finally relaxed and he rested his hands timidly on her shoulder blades, letting one of his thumbs rub circles in an awkward attempt to soothe her.

She was almost caught by surprise when his uncertain contact tightened into almost a protective grip, and he allowed his entire palms to smooth over her back.

“Here, get inside,” he murmured against her ear, slowly releasing her and guiding her by the arm into the safety of his living room.

He only motioned for her to sit down on the couch before trudging to the kitchen to rustle around in his cupboards.

She felt a twinge of gratefulness for the opportunity to clear her face and steady her breathing as she listened to the sound of him starting up the microwave. She wasn’t some baby to be coddled after all. 

She didn’t get much time to compose herself before he was making his way back to her, a small saucer with a cup of hot tea rattling in his hand.

He set it down on the coffee table in front of her and took a seat on the couch beside her. He sat quite a few inches away, but reached out to pat her arm for a moment. Ah, back to awkward. 

“Uh - Tea’s for you. Chamomile, is that fine?” 

She nodded, carefully taking the mug from its place and bringing it to her lips, allowing the steam to settle into her face and relax her for a moment. 

He didn’t say anything else, just nodded and hunched his shoulders forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he stared in front of him at nothing in particular.

Either he wasn’t in the mood to play therapist and prod her for information or he was trying to respect her boundaries. Maybe it was a combination of both.

She found her voice after a few more sips of tea, offering him a vague complaint.

“I can’t stand to be around him anymore.”

She could feel that he was staring straight at her side profile, but she couldn’t meet the boy’s unnerving red eyes for the moment.

She fiddled with the cup in front of her instead, gathering her thoughts as his eyes patiently drilled through her peripheral.

“He just repeats the same dumb mistakes. Over and over again. How can someone be so stupid?” she spat, thinking of a hundred crueler words that could describe her father even better than stupid could.

Soul looked away for a moment, scratching the back of his head.

“He is pretty stupid, I’m not gonna argue that. I think I’d rather say that he’s selfish and optimistic though. He knows what he does is fucked. He knows, and he still does it because he hangs on to the hope that maybe he won’t face the consequences.”

“Well, he’s faced plenty of consequences! My mother is gone, he’s going to have a divorce, and I hate him! How is that not a consequence to him?!” she cried out, placing her mug down with enough force to send droplets of tea around the table.

Soul seemed unfazed by her rough treatment of his personal belongings, shrugging half-heartedly. “Again, not saying he isn’t a complete idiot. Just saying there’s more layers to it. Call him what he is - a bastard. Shouldn’t blame it all on stupidity, that’s lettin’ him off easy.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said with a heavy sigh, already feeling most of the fight leave her. “I understand why Mama left. Yet, her decision still hurts so much, Soul. Did she not think about me at all?”

His lips set into a tight line and he was wringing his hands out in a clear sign of discomfort. Had she broached a weird subject with him? Did he have issues with his own parents like this?

It occurred to her that she honestly didn’t have a single clue about her partner’s personal life prior to joining the DWMA. Did that make her a bad partner?

“I don’t know,” he answered quietly towards the floor, “It’s normal to hurt from something like that. I’d like to tell you that she won’t stay away for long, but I don’t really know that, Maka. I’m sorry.”

“I know -  I’m not expecting you to have answers. It just helps that you’re listening, I guess. So, thanks for that,” she tried to force a smile, but Soul was entirely unconvinced of it, only offering a sympathetic quirk of his lips in return. Still, she continued, “There’s some messed up part of me that wishes they could have just stayed together. That somehow things could go back to the way they were when I was younger, like none of this ever happened.”

He was staring at the floor again, but quickly met her eyes with a dull, haunting sadness that seemed beyond his years.

“It’s better that they split. Nothing good comes from forcing it just to keep up an image, trust me.”

The way his voice trembled like his throat was closing up encouraged Maka to change the subject.

“I don’t want to go back there,” she whispered, drawing her knees up to her chest as she felt that familiar, unwelcome heat gather behind her eyes again.

“Then don’t. You know I’ve got the extra bedroom. It’s pretty normal for partners to live together, ya know.”

Her eyebrows jumped to her hairline at this suggestion. “Like, I can just move in here? with you?”

“I mean, yeah. Why not?”

She couldn’t really come up with many downsides when she truly thought about it. It’d be helpful to have her weapon partner close by. There was the possibility that they could drive each other crazy enough to completely ruin their already hard-earned resonance.

And yet - that wasn’t a very good excuse. What kind of flimsy excuse of partners would they be if they couldn’t maintain decent resonance rates just from spending more time together?

They were stronger than that. This could work.

Another thought tugged at her heart. “I would be leaving behind my family.”

“We could be our own family,” he asserted with confidence, but it wavered when he saw the way she looked at him - like he had suggested something romantic between them. His cheeks and the tips of his ears lit up pink and he immediately backpedaled, “Uh- like, partners? Right? We have each others’ backs … like a family,” he trailed off, scratching his cheek and looking anywhere but at her face.

For all his snark and stoicism she realized he was rather shy. It was kind of cute. What the hell did I just think?! She attempted to compensate for her own internal embarrassment by bumping his shoulder roughly with her own.

“Okay. sounds good, partner. So what’s the plan for the rest of the day? And don’t tell me you’re just going to sit around and watch TV.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that. It’s Saturday, for fuck’s sake.”

“No, that isn’t engaging enough,” she said, flicking his cheek and earning herself a scowl in response.

“Fine. I have an idea for a therapeutic activity,” he said as he got up and crouched down beside the cabinet under the TV, pulling out two game remotes.

Maka was already shaking her head in disapproval.

“C’mon bookworm. Play me in Mortal Kombat. You can pull my spine out - it’s fun and the violence will make you feel better, promise.”

“I’m not playing some brain-rotting, man fantasy, thank you very much.”

He ignored her entirely and began working on hooking up his console.

“Just pretend you’re fighting your old man,” he suggested over his shoulder.

She smiled despite herself and placed a light kick against his back from her spot on the couch. “Fine, but you have to come with me to Papa’s place later today to help me get my stuff.”

“Yeah, sure thing. How much you wanna bet I could make him cry?”

In that moment, she came to the conclusion that she had chosen a good family. 

She was going to be okay.

[farfromparker]

Give me your love | t.h.

Pairing: sub!Tom Holland x dom!Reader 

Summary: Punishment isn’t meant to be easy. 

Warnings: established D/s relationship, orgasm denial, use of a cock ring, ruined orgasms, cum eating

A/N: This is FILTHY, also Tom is a squirmy lil sub, pass it on. 

Word Count: 2.5k

Denial might have been your favorite form of punishment. 

Because as a result of it, Tom is currently on his knees in your living room; naked and begging. You hadn’t asked him to get on his knees, you hadn’t even asked him to get naked, you hadn’t asked a single thing of him. He’d just finally reached his breaking point. 

The two of you had spent the night out with friends at a bar not far from your house. Drinking and enjoying the company. At least you had been. Tom was on edge, barely able to take his eyes off of you for longer than a second. Hands on your legs, wrapped around your waist. He’d nuzzle into your neck and plead that tonight could finally be the end of his punishment. 

It’s been 13 days since he’d last cum but that orgasm hadn’t been allowed. He came without your permission. Apologizes spewing from his lips as he spilled across his stomach. You never tired of watching him cum, but he had to follow the rules, and punishment wasn’t meant to be easy. 

The first few days had been almost no touch, quick kisses in the morning and before bed, you’d held hands if you were out in public but otherwise, hands off. Four days in and he was desperate, a constant string of pleas for anything. And so you had him kneel next to the bed, hands tied behind his back. You stripped naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, propping a leg up on his shoulder so he could see everything as you played with your pussy until you came three times. He was a shaking mess by the end of it, cock aching, muscles flexing as he begged for your touch. 

His one reward was your fingers in his mouth afterwards.

“Bad boys don’t get to cum Tommy.”

And it had been much of a repeat of that cycle since, a few days of barely there contact before you’d sit him down and make yourself cum in front of him. 

“Miss please, I wanna be good for you.” Tom’s begging brings you out of your thoughts. You look at him, he’s already got his hands behind his back. His eyes plead with you.

“So desperate aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasps. 

You consider him, glancing at the clock, 10:59pm. “It’s been 13 days, and that’s an unlucky number, darling. We can’t have your punishment end on an unlucky number.” 

He swallows thickly, head dropping, “Yes Miss.” 

He accepts his fate so easily you can’t possibly fight your urge to give into him much longer. “Tom,” his head snaps up immediately, “In exactly 61 minutes, it’ll have been 14 days.”

His eyes go wide as realization dawns on him. “Okay, okay,” he stands quickly, “whatever you want, what do you want me to do?”

He’s half hard already and hasn’t cum in nearly two weeks. There’s no way he’ll last. “Put on your cock ring.”

His eyelids hood and he whines, “Fuck me.”

You smile, leaning in to kiss his lips softly, “In time baby boy. Now, I’ll give you five minutes to get it on. Can you do that?”

“Yes, absolutely.” and he’s gone, heading to the bedroom, practically sprinting to get up there as quick as possible. 

He’s on his knees when you walk in a few minutes later and you can see the black silicone around the base of his cock and balls.

“Good boy. I want you on the bed.”

He’s up instantly. “On my back or belly?”

You smile, “Back, darling.”

He settles into the mattress, watching you walk into the closet. You’ve already got your phone in your hand and you reach up to the top shelf to grab a black shoe box. You walk out of the closet and set the box on the bed. You unlock your phone, noting the time before opening up your clock app. “It’s 11:10. When this timer goes off, you can cum.” You say, setting your phone on the nightstand. 

He nods, “Yes, Miss.”

You strip down to your underwear, happy to have chosen the black set while getting dressed earlier tonight, it’s one of Tom’s favorites. You can hear his heavy breathing as you open the shoe box, digging around to find the bullet vibrator. You pull it out and he whimpers when he sees it between your fingers. You quickly grab the two silk scarves from the box as well and a little bottle of lube before setting the box on the floor. You put the bullet between your teeth and crawl up next to his head. He raises his arms and you quickly warp one of the scarves around his wrists and secure it to the headboard. The other goes over his eyes. 

You take the vibe out of your mouth, “Alright darlin’?”

“Yes,” he breathes, settling back against the pillows. 

You move down the bed, pushing his legs apart to make room for yourself. His cock is already more defined, the veins popping out in a way they don’t without the ring. He’s dark red as well, the blood pumping heavily beneath the surface. You turn the bullet on and it buzzes to life in your hand. His body tenses, anticipation boiling. He always gets so squirmy when he’s blindfolded, jumping out of his skin at every touch and sound. You bring the vibrator down to your clit, rubbing gently through your underwear. 

He hears you sigh, hears the buzzing change as you rub it against yourself. “No,” he whines, “No, please if you’re going to do that - please I wanna watch. I can’t - ahhh!” You press the vibe against the base of this cock, watching as it twitches under the pressure. “Fuck.”

You run it up his length, taking your time, watching his stomach muscles clench, cock dribbling. “You’ll get what I give you baby boy, understood?”

He nods, exhaling sharply through his nose, “Yes Miss, I’m sorry.”

You take the vibe away and press it back against yourself, moaning softly at the sensation. You watch him fiddle with his fingers, body fidgeting as he listens to you, picturing you in his mind. You roll your hips as you press the bullet along your folds, making noises for him. Your panties are properly soaked now, pussy clenching and you bite your lip as you pull the vibe away, not wanting to cum yet, huffing as a result of the loss of contact. 

You press it against the head of his cock, pulling a moan from him and his body jolts against the stimulation, pulling at his restraints as he attempts to curl in on himself. You trail it down his cock slowly, twirling it between your fingers so that he can’t anticipate the movement. Moving down, you take it away from his cock, holding it against his balls in a barely there way and he jerks up, headboard rattling. 

“Shhh Tommy.”

He sounds a bit like he’s sobbing, gasping for air as you move the vibrator along his skin but never applying more pressure. He bends his knees, toes curling into the blankets. Looking up, you can’t even see his face, his neck arched so far back in the pillows you can only see the column of his throat and cut of his jaw. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and tries to fill his lungs properly. 

You switch the vibe off, discarding it off to the side as you lean over him, reaching for your phone to check the timer. He’s still gasping, whimpering but he turns towards you as much as he can, hairs across his body standing on end as he awaits your next move. 

There’s 16 minutes left on the timer. You smile, an idea springing to the front of your mind. “You want to cum don’t you baby?”

He licks his lips, teeth dragging along them afterwards. This feels like a trick question. You cup his jaw, keeping him in place as you kiss him. He opens up to your tongue submissively, pushing up to meet you, greedy for it. You slide your other hand down his body, pinching his nipples along the way just feel him write under your fingers. You pull away from the kiss as you wrap your fist around his cock. He whines, flexing and twisting up into grip.

“Answer me Tom, do you want cum?”

“Yes,” he pants. 

You smirk, “Good boy.”

Moving down to sit between his legs again, you grab the bottle of lube and drizzle some onto your palm before throwing it off to the side. You wrap your hand around him and jerk him off. He whines, body twitching as you work him quickly. 

“No,” he pants, “the timer - I can’t -” his voice is shaky, it’s getting hard for him to even form words. He’s picked his head up, chin against his chest as if he can see you through the scarf. 

You simply hum, not slowing down, feeling how hot and hard his cock is in your hand. You know Tom’s body almost as well as your own at this point, and you know when he’s about to cum. Can tell from his breathing, the way his body starts reacting to your touch, the pitch of his moans. One last squeeze against the tip and you remove your touch completely. 

He’s trembling, chest heaving and it takes one, two, three seconds and he’s cumming. He drops his head back into the pillows, swallowing harshly as he feels his cum drip onto his stomach, orgasm ruined. 

“I’m sorry - I couldn’t - sorry, sorry, Miss.” He’s babbling and his voice sounds wet, you’re sure that if you pulled the blindfold off there would be tears brimming at his eyes. 

“That’s alright sweetheart, I had to ruin you at least once.” You run your hands up his thighs, massaging his muscles to comfort him, “I won’t count that one against you.”

He practically sobs, “Thank you Miss, thank you. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you. I promise.”

“I know you will be, Tommy.”

His cum had dribbled out slowly, forming a small pool against the silicon of the ring and his stomach. You dip your fingers into it before spreading it along his cock, mixing it with the lube. He lets out a shaky breath. 

The timer goes off suddenly and you both jump. “Well, would you look at that,” you reach up for your phone and stop the timer, seeing 12:00am staring back at you. “It’s been two weeks, darling.”

You shimmy out of your underwear and unclasp your bra. You’d cum multiple times in the two weeks he hadn’t but god did you miss having his cock inside you. You reach up for the quick release of his blindfold and he shakes his head as his eyes adjust to the soft light of the room, eyelashes wet. He focuses on you, drinking in your naked figure and whines, wanting you so badly. 

“Missed you Tommy, missed your cock.” and he’s nodding, eyes glued on you as you straddle his hips, wasting no time before sinking down on his cock. Your moans mix together and he’s pulling against his restraints as you start moving. You anchor yourself with your hands on his chest, nails digging into his pecs, leaving angry red crescent marks in his skin. Mine.

He’s whimpering every time you sink down on his cock. He’s desperate to keep his eyes open because he can’t touch you. He focuses on different parts of your body. He watches his cock disappear inside of you before moving up and watching your breasts as they bounce, he traces your skin with his eyes where he wishes he could feel you under his hands. His pupils are blown, eyes black and filled with desire. 

His body is taut, you can feel his muscles clenched tight under your hands. “Miss, please, please can I cum? Wanna - ughh - wanna fill you up.”

You reach forward and grab his jaw, “Keep your eyes open, look at me when you cum.”

Your movements increase and he cries when he cums, sobbing and moaning, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t close them though, eyelids fluttering as he fights to keep them open, locked on you. You ride him through it, giving him everything he’s wanted these past two weeks. 

You reach up to wipe away his tears when he finally stops. “So good for me darling, so good.”

He nuzzles into your touch, buzzing under the praise. You reach up and pull the scarf, releasing his arms. He rolls his shoulders once before touching you, sitting up to snuggle into you neck, kissing any skin he can get his mouth on. 

“Need to make you cum Miss, let me.” He whispers. 

You shiver against him, “We need to get the ring off you first love.”

He nods, letting you of his grasp so you can pull off of him. There’s an obscene wet noise as he slips out of you, cum dribbling down your thighs. You reach for his cock and carefully remove the ring. He shivers as you pull it off him, oversensitive. 

He reaches up for you as you set the ring off to the side, hands on your hips, pushing his chest against yours. “Gonna eat your cum out of me, Tom?”

“Yes,” he breaths, moving with you as you lay on your back, “wanna.” 

He moves down your body for a moment before he stops. He looks up at you, all doe eyed and wanting to please, waiting for permission, “Yeah, go ahead darlin’, make me cum.”

He buries his face in your cunt, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue inside you. You arch into his mouth, running a hand down your body to get to his head, feeling his short hair under your palm. It feels like he’s everywhere, sucking on your clit before moving to get his tongue inside you again. His hands are vices on your thighs, keeping you open and close to him. 

“So good Tommy, fuck. Making me feel so good.”

His fingers squeeze at your skin, moaning against you as you continue to praise him. He focuses back on your clit, sucking and licking as he pushes his fingers in your cunt, curling them as he pumps in and out. 

You cry out, “Fuck Tom.” Your thighs are trembling uncontrollably and you reach out, fisting a hand into the sheets as it crashes over you. You moan his name, rocking against his mouth and fingers. Waves of pleasure continuous as your vision blacks out. 

The aftershocks have you shivering as you slump into the mattress. Tom’s kissing along your body, up your stomach, taking his time to remember how your skin tastes. You run your fingers along his shoulders and he cuddles into your side, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you close. 

You listen to his breathing, your heartbeat starting to finally slow down. “We need to shower sweetheart.” 

He hums, “Yeah, can we wait a little bit longer though? Just wanna hold you.”

You smile, kissing his forehead, “Absolutely, love.”

Taglist: 

@xximaweirdoxx​ @selfcarecapmain​ @billythebully09​ @cyrusandhiscollaredahirts​ @honeymarvel​ @billieishottttttttt​ @lovinnholland​ @oh-annaa​ @little-miss-naill​ @holland-in-disguise​ @wordless08​ @multifandomgirl-us​ @tiktok-spideyy​ @fangirlfree @theolwebshooter @headlights95

[fbdo1986]

It’s enough to be whiplash - A Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Fic

a/n: To put it plainly, I took a few tricks from John Hughes’s earlier scripts of the film, which were more surreal and up-front with discussing death and end of the world scenarios. It was inspired by a concept that I couldn’t seem to shake after I thought of it: what if the pool scene was just a bit more high stakes? 

Warnings: Death Mention (there is no character death), Drowning 

Word Count: 2,621

None of them are prepared for the sudden shock into their skin that comes after their visions blur with blue, how their ears ring after the slick slap of flesh obviously colliding with water, or the registration of Cameron’s body, sunken, not writhing to be rescued in the pool below him.

Sloane screams. She can’t help it. She screams because he doesn’t. Time morphs in the same way the water does, how what once was peaceful becomes ominous. How the water barely reacts to the fact that there is a body sinking below, paying no mind to the grim way in which it enters and doesn’t come back up. Calm and gentle and crystal clear blue, reflecting the shimmering sun. And it’s still a sweet, uninterrupted summer day. No one would suspect the touch-and-go situation they find themselves in, not today. Yet the fact that something is wrong is the only thing that shivers through Sloane’s body.

It’s one of the times when the body heads straight into action, you don’t even hesitate. Ferris dives in headfirst, becoming just another body underneath the water's surface. It swallows him completely. He finds Cameron in there, trying with all his efforts to bring them both up for air as soon as possible. Hooks his arms around Cameron’s torso and pulls—it’s so difficult to grab hold of someone taller than you are—breaking free from the heavy tension of the water and dragging him to the edge of the pool. He lays motionless, his body is limp and waterlogged.

Cameron’s not breathing.

In the same moment as when his heart drops twelve stories Ferris is screaming out his name. Hitting Cam’s face rapidly, calling out again and again as Sloane watches in horror. Nothing is happening and the world shifts, now a nightmare with an unresponsive body that looks suspiciously like his best friend.

“Cameron, please!” Sloane pleads. If she didn’t know better, if her body weren’t already soaked, maybe the wetness clinging to her skin would be tears on her face. She doesn’t know where to put her hands, to clutch at herself or at him, because that wouldn’t make a difference, would it?

“Come on Cam. You can do this. Please.” He’s shaking Cameron now. Nothing.

Again and again, over and over. Time slows for Ferris now, in an unsuspecting way, and the heart that rams against his ribs quickens, chasing a reaction that doesn’t come. Maybe, it justifies that the two of them could switch heartbeats. If only he could slow down and Cameron would speed back up. Reality slams into him with a force that knocks out all the air from his lungs. Who gives a damn about the car? Who gives a shit about anything, anything outside of the rapidly suffocating universe that is spinning out of control? How could anything, anything at all, exist outside of this? He wants it all to be a dream. Nearly squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that it hurts as a haphazard, desperate prayer leaks from his lips. “Dear lord, please. Not now. Not him.” 

He snaps back into action, lit with a flame that sets his skin ablaze and makes his hands shake. Asking with his whole body as he turns to Sloane again. Her gaze is equally so petrified. She’s asking for help. Asking for absolutely anything.

He doesn’t let his voice waver. “Put your hands on his chest.”

Why did it have to come to this? The world’s always been unfair, especially to the boy whose house is like a museum, whose understanding of familial love is warped and hazy, the boy who’s never been kissed. Not just the boy who he met in fifth grade and decided that they were going to be friends forever just because, the one he chose. The one that’s his best friend because no one else deserves the title, because nobody even comes close. The one that listens to him day in and day out, who only gets angry with a smile on his face, who trusts him enough to tell him all of his secrets, who would give up half his day just to make sure that Ferris doesn’t fail another chemistry test, who would face the things that terrify him just to please him. It’s not justified. It’s worse than that, it’s impossible. He wouldn’t dare think of it, not even for a second… but he would put up such a fight that there would be no choice but for someone to listen, for someone to swap their places.

Another action without hesitation, even when the situation reveals that they’re just two terrified teenagers with a life in their hands that doesn’t deserve to be there. They jump into a rhythm, one that they do with frantic security because there’s no other option.

He watches Sloane begin to give Cameron chest compressions, and it’s the kind of thing that puts the entire world into perspective with a sickening flourish. He looks away because he can’t stomach the sight. He closes his eyes again and finds somewhere deep inside him a way to breathe, past his lodged throat and chest constricted in fear so tightly he barely remembers what it’s like not to be enveloped in dread.

And when Ferris catches the new droplets of water that soak into Cameron’s shirt and hears the hiccup of a sob from next to him his heart lurches. He’s loaded with precious words of futile prayers; ready to whisper them along with the air that he forces into Cameron’s lungs. But he doubts that ‘Please’ is a prayer enough, but it has to be. It has to be enough because anything, anything, should be enough. The way his heart aches should be enough, the heft of Sloane’s cries should be enough, the fact that it’s Cameron—sweet, lovable Cameron who has always been enough, someone they cannot live without—the way that the world would crumble without him, it should all be enough.

“Thirty.” Her voice is weak, shuddering out the word. Ferris turns back to her because he doesn’t have a choice. She looks just like he feels. So panicked and entirely powerless. But he manages a breath, and stabilizes Cameron’s head before blowing air into his lungs.

They count again, and Ferris is the one to try. Tries because he doesn’t want Sloane to exhaust herself, and because he needs to busy himself while he waits out the agonizing seconds between one and thirty. Because he can’t be the one to stare as Cameron’s body is forced to accept a new heartbeat. And how it won’t. Ferris offers him a new breath of air. Tilts his chin and touches his cold, unresponsive lips and blows some air in.

“Gd, Fer. It’s not working.” Her voice pools with desperation, snapping her gaze back to his.

“Please. I need you to try. Please.” He’s gripping Cameron’s shoulders tight. Ferris chokes, tearing now because even in the depths of this, Cameron is not this stubborn. Cameron would not be this stubborn. 

A brief flash of something he doesn’t say. ‘You can’t do this. Not before I get the chance to tell you I love you.’

It hurts until it doesn’t. Because he’s hovering over Cameron’s lips and he feels something resembling a breath graze his cheek. There’s a moment and then he’s choking, coughing, gasping.

It’s terrifying to watch someone flounder for air.

It’s wonderful.

The water exits from his lungs. There’s a shudder of breath, and then the steady up and down of his chest circulating air. In and out. Breathing.

The joy that floods them, scrambled with disbelief jolts them with a force they’ve never felt. Sloane registers this and then breaks into unrestrained sobbing. It’s not easy, the change that happens way too quickly; to deal with the certain doom of moments before and now the euphoric opposite. It’s frightening, to think you’ve lost someone and then there they are; you won’t accept that something so wonderful is possible after so much pain. There’s the slam of the brakes but everything is fine. You breathe. You sit back up and you breathe. 

“Oh, fuck.” Cameron’s voice is a whisper, weaker than they’ve ever heard it, but it’s enough.

Their eyes fill with light. Fond, unbridled light that will never leave. They smile their watery smiles, caught between laughter and tears.

They want to touch him, to launch themselves into his arms and never let go, to ensure that he will never suffer again. Sloane brushes his hair from his forehead, cupping his face with her hands. She hiccups again but her voice is so loving. “Cameron. Oh, Cam.” She wants to kiss him. Press some warmth back into him. Technically, Ferris already has. Her tears fall onto his face and she warmly wipes them away.

“Are you alright? Cameron. Please. Are you alright?” Ferris scrambles, exchanging a look with Sloane briefly.

“I’m… okay.” His words are slow and heavy.

“Come on. Here, come on.” Ferris heaves him from behind. They get him sitting. Maybe that’s better.

Sloane gets up slowly, eyeing Ferris. He gives her a sturdy nod and she heads inside. When she returns she has multiple towels in her arms. She hands Ferris the largest one to wrap around Cameron’s shoulders. It’s yellow, like the color of his kitchen. Ferris is rubbing Cameron’s back slowly, comforting him. Stabilizing himself, too. The world has a hard time settling back into normalcy.

“Any better?” Sloane offers cautiously. Her voice is raw as she tries to shroud it with light. From all the screaming. She sits next to him easily.

Cameron doesn’t reply right away. “... You saved my life.” He stares out at the warm afternoon splayed in front of them.

They don’t say anything. They just sit, Sloane’s arm falling over Cameron’s shoulder, Ferris’s arm is around his back. For a while, in the silence. Give the world time to trickle back down. Sloane lets a quiet sob exit her lips, part of the hurt lingers. They don’t say a thing. Cameron leans his head on her shoulder. Her eyes are red and sting as she forces herself to look into the distance. They watch the sun dance on the water’s surface. The trees shiver, every so often, with a particularly hefty breeze. The leaves shake and their heartbeats slow.

After many minutes spent like this, in the strange, warped calm, the uncertain voice of Sloane’s tries to be brave. “My mom will drive you to the hospital.” She centers on the trees and breathes in and out. If she focuses hard enough on the breath, she will stop remembering that she watched… she can’t do it. That her hands brought someone back to life. Someone whose breath is her ears, someone who she loves. Loves, so certainly.

More moments pass by. Finally, Cameron asks them something. “Are you guys okay?”

“Cameron, please.” Her eyes find his own and ask him to for once, center himself in his life. He has done everything to deserve it. Especially now. “Just let us take care of you, okay?” Her hands tangle in her hair restlessly as she presses her shoulder into his side. She can’t bear to answer his question, either. She turns away from him again, because it stings, because he was so close to being unsavable, and yet he chooses to focus on them. It’s the one thing she can’t stand about him. She flickers with the sinking feeling that they have faltered, never reinforced enough that he has earned—as if you have to earn it—the right to place himself where he places them, that he deserves attention, concern, unconditional love. It’s infuriating, because someone this wonderful shouldn’t have to relearn how to put himself first. But at least they could’ve told him.

“But you’re not. I can tell.”

“I mean,” Ferris scoffs, running a hand along his face as he tries to find the words. “having to bring your best friend back to life isn’t exactly all peaches and cream. No way.” He falters, hunching forward. Droplets of water decorate his skin. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I don’t know why I’m getting angry. Jesus, I should be… I don’t know. I’m just sorry, Cam.”

“Why?” He looks at him honestly. “You just saved my life and you’re sorry. Where on Earth are we?” He chuckles, and it lessens the load of their hearts just a little.

But Sloane completely understands what Ferris means. They don’t even need to exchange a knowing glance like they always do, because the thought just wrapped itself around her mind.

“All I’m saying is that it would be just my luck to die and somehow fuck up that process and end up in an alternate dimension where everything is just slightly different.”

“Cameron, don’t you dare.” Sloane scolds him, becoming the sternest he thinks she’s ever been. Her eyes are locked on him and her jaw is set.

“What?” He laughs, because somehow, it’s hard to picture her looking at him like this.

“Don’t… say that! Or just, don’t joke about it.” He can hear what her eyes say. The way they ache to lighten up, to complete her sentence with something softer. She’s never been good at staying angry. 

“Then don’t be sorry. Whatever’s happening, whatever you’re thinking, stop. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

Maybe it’s just foolishness, just the two of them begging for any sense of relief they can get, but the way he says it convinces them. If he is okay, so are they. It’s a chain reaction, one after the other. Or maybe all at once.

Instinctively, they sigh in tandem. Letting the air in their lungs sink into the concrete and bob back up again. They can pretend, pretend it all means nothing. Or just not say that it means everything. Maybe it doesn’t. Who knows anymore. The world was just turned on its head. They have no choice but to afford confusion.

“Do you have something to tell me?” The bodies against his own freeze. All the warmth that was in them has been sucked out. “I mean, just. Y'know, after everything.” He gestures languidly.

“You’re saying that our sudden recognition of life and death makes us more aware of the futility of secret keeping? Huh, never would’ve guessed that.” There’s a warmth flooding back into Ferris’s eyes as he jokes. He continues the dramatics, rolling his eyes.

Cameron matches the energy of his tone. “I’m just saying.” Two can play the nonchalant game. And they know that he can tell that there’s something off. Aside from basically everything. But whatever. Even by the new baseline of things that are somehow now plausible, they feel strange and far away.

“So what? Nothing?” He looks between the two of them. 

“Nuh-uh.” Ferris slips out absentmindedly, as though he’s a stubborn little kid.

“But we’re… never mind. My brain’s still foggy, I guess.” Cameron pushes strands of wet hair away from his face.

“That we’re touching? Is that it?” Ferris asks. No response. They don’t look at each other.

“Do you mind?” He tries again.

A smile that he tries to bite back lights up Cameron’s face. He shakes his head.

“Okay then.” Ferris takes his hand away from his back and shifts, slipping his palm against Cameron’s.

Cameron doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he pulls out a trick they haven’t used in years. He taps out the phrase ‘I love you’ in morse code on Ferris’s skin. He pulls the two of them closer, as if that were possible. Sloane presses a kiss into Cameron’s temple.

They’ll talk about it later. Right now, they just exist together, tangled in the silence. That’s always been enough.

[black-streak]

Waiting for the Worms - The Thin Ice

Part 6

Warnings fully back in place, the last two chapters of reprieve are over here. Feel I should mention, the pits are going to have a very different effect on Mari than they dis on Jason in canon and not just because they are different people. Jason actually was mentally dead for those six months and was an actual John Doe upon coming back. A shell of himself. He wasn't aware of himself the way Marinette is here.

Anyways, closed list of the pain train: @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @miraculousdisapointment @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n

~---~

The pool was so much deeper and colder than she imagined. And boiling hot. And electric and stinging and numbing and soft and gelatinous and oil slick. 

It was everything and nothing all at once and she couldn't move. She tried to wade back to the top but nothing she did seemed to move her closer to the surface. The glow was everywhere, filling into eyes and nose and mouth and under fingernails and toenails. Seeping into the very skin and beneath into muscles and organs. It sparked inside veins and clawed at her brain until finally she screamed.

Screamed in the silent fluidity around her, crying her very heart out as the toxic magic clutched around it, lighting her nerve endings with fire and ice in a tandem that she couldn't think to describe. The pain so much worse than the cruelty of dying or even healing and yet numbing her every sense to the point where throbbing nothingness beat into palms and up arms and traveled to her core. 

The very molecular structure of their body shifting into and out of itself, accepting and revolting against the blinding ooze infiltrating its system.

And then it went further, the stretch of her bones giving way to her brain and soul. Jason's brain, her own consciousness and very being.

Flashes came to her sight, blacking out the pool. Screaming of thousands filtered in, not through ears but through her own mind, back and forth in an echo. Blood pulsing became her vision, the smell of copper and steel and rot and destruction coming in sharp revelation. She felt the terror and humiliation and pain and loss and joy and anger and betrayal and love and acceptance and utter defeat and the essence of life itself cram all into her head at once and then disappear into the emptiness of death, both sides warring for control until she couldn't tell if she was screaming or swimming and still struggling or just floating anymore.

Life and death became concepts that both made themselves startlingly clear and so muddled they meant nothing anymore. She lost all control of herself in that moment. 

Everything all at once stopped and she stilled, blank eyes staring up out of the depths and watching the surface ripple above her. The light seemed to not be so bright anymore. The liquid more and more of a warm embrace as her form became one with the pit. 

A jolt.

His body revolted once more, the feeling of tiny needles being threaded through each pore and yanked tight and strong away. Then threading back for a new stitch and pulling tightly away again, slowly shoving her back into herself and apart in ebbing, methodical movements, to the point where if she had half a brain left, she could count in time with the slow, continuous motions.

The stitches pulled eyelids open and yanked them closed, yanked nails nearly off and fused them to skin. Pulled hair taut in follicles and pushed them deeper still. 

Her head filled once more, only now with crying sobs and the sharp scent of tears. Existence warred once more for their place now inside her heart, painfully pulsing throughout her and abruptly stopping several times.

And stilled once more.

The third wave began as a net lowered in and took hold of the body, slowly lifting her to the surface until she broke the surface, green oozing out of her and flowing freely down the sides in great globs down. It pulled itself out of lungs and organs and dripped from gaping orifices. The fleshbag she became jumped as though electrocuted in horrific lurches that almost dislodged it from the net and back into the depths below, yet the net held steady.

She vaguely took note of the rope pulling away to the edge of the pit and dropping her to the side as gasping breaths lurched into lungs. Then the approach of multiple sets of feet. Hands grasped and pulled and dragged until she found herself face first on concrete in front of a drain.

A squeak and suddenly warm water cascaded down, taking the dregs of green with it into the swirl before her, twisting about before giving into gravity and disappearing. She reached for it, twirling a fingertip in the flow to watch it warp around raw flesh with fascination, not entirely aware of anything but the feel of the put water traveling off different parts and into the swirl.

The water ran clear and then another squeak ended the rain. She felt the hands lifting again and the pull of exhaustion at the corners of her vision. With too many sensations to focus on, the exhaustion won out and she slipped away to sleep.

…

She woke up delirious. The cushion below her felt both too easy to sink in and too firm and she wondered at what happened. Her body felt on fire. She wondered what had awoken her only to hear soft steps approach. By all accounts, she's not entirely sure how she heard them or rather, she supposed it was the vibrations softly rattling under her head through the floor from perfectly distributed weight.

She held still, not daring to alert the other to her wakeful state. Let them imagine her sleeping and safe to approach. Let them step a little too close.

The steps seemed very self assured and purposeful as they came up on the left side, coming to a stop at stomach level. The air shifted above her and she pictured their left hand descending towards her right shoulder.

In a flash, she gripped the wrist in her right hand, the left latching onto their right ankle and rolling her weight away from them, slamming their head into the floor and keeping the momentum to roll on top of their horizontal form.

Bringing the two limbs together to grasp in one fist, she grasped the other's free hand that had gone for a hidden dagger, twisting until the blade rested on their throat, holding their hand tight over the hilt so they couldn't release it. Feeling the body below contort to bring up their remaining leg to kick at her head, she jerked her head out of the way and pulled up to push her weight into the now bent leg to press it into the attacker's chest, letting her weight hold it down as she pressed forward with the blade, her mind screaming in triumph at the sight of blood.

The aggressor below her jerked and fought to regain control, pushing with all their might, but whoever sent them must've not thought her to be awake, for the slim, small figure had no chance against her larger, adrenaline shot body. Pushing further down, she sensed a second too late as a new form appeared behind her, pressing a needle into her neck just as the person below her stopped moving.

Within half a breath, she had dropped into the growing pool of blood.

…

Whoever entered the room this time stayed by the door. They stayed still and unimposing and quiet. 

"Jason," called a soft voice she almost recognized.

Snapping her head around, she stared up at the figure across the ways, watching and listening for anything more. Jason. That was her soulmate. Was he here? No, he wasn't there, but that's who she was known as here. Jason was her. The figure tilted its head and watched her watching them.

"Jason, do you recognize me? I'm approaching now. I know you aren't fully here right now, but dipping you in was necessary. You wouldn't have been strong enough without it. I need you in top form."

The figure moved closer and only slowed slightly as she raised up onto her haunches, fingertips bracing on the floor as she tilted her body towards them. Once they moved into range, she swept her feet under them, watching as they jumped over the leg, launching up to wrap a hand around their throat before they could land back down. She got the distinct impression that this figure, lady, could break free if they needed to, but allowed her to hold them in place for her own comfort.

"Jason, put me down. It's Talia. You remember me. You trust me, remember? I brought you here. Healed you. Set me down now." 

Talia spoke softly, limited breath making it slightly breathy if she had to guess. The softness worked to ease her though. She still had some semblance of control over this. The whisper of a thought to tighten her grip tempted her, but she ignored it, relaxing the hold until Talia slipped free, though she neither moved away nor closer now. She decided to sit back down, her energy seeping.

"That display earlier was quite impressive by the way. Granted the Lazarus still had its hold on you and was feeding you energy, but quite impressive all the same. Bruce trained you well. That training will have to continue of course. With a few added courses. It's good to see you're not opposed to killing the same way he is. It'd be hard to break you of the moral if dying and the pits weren't enough." Talia spoke, looking down at her in assessment, observing as the words hit her.

Not opposed to killing. So the last one, the person who grabbed her before, that she pinned. They were dead now. By her hands. Part of raged in horror, in betrayal at her own actions, the other louder half howling with victory and glee. She ducked into herself, curling up on her side and clutching at her head. 

She killed someone? Oh god, she was a murderer. She took someone's life and she enjoyed it. She relished in it. She took relief and joy from their demise. How could she? 

Tears slipped down her face and a hiccuping sob wracked her body, all under the watchful eye of Talia. 

Talia seemed to give a sigh of relief, relaxing and sitting down in front of her, softly running fingers through her hair in soothing strokes.

"That's right, Jason. Never take the decision to end someone's life lightly. You had to kill them, they were coming at you with dark intentions. It was self defense. There was no other choice. Never hesitate to end someone who threatens you or those you care for. But do not become so jaded as to not value life. Do not take it willingly. Only if they force your hand. Do you understand me, Jason?"

Marinette listened closely, taking in the words and soft, comforting affection being offered. Talia wasn't trying to make her a ruthless murderer? This made no sense. It went against everything Bruce had ever told them about the woman. That she was brutal, that she enjoyed killing and torturing and would never hesitate to take out her enemies. That anyone against her shouldn't live. This didn't add up with that image though. She only wanted 'Jason' to kill if it became absolutely necessary. As a last resort, something Bruce would never condone, even if it cost them their lives.

 Jason had always been more open to the idea that some lives were not worth letting live. She had always pushed for him to see the best in others, but with the recent actions of the Joker and the lack of care offered to her soulmate's apparent demise, she couldn't help but condemn Bruce. After all, if never killing no matter what meant letting kids be brutally murdered under his care, if it meant letting so many die by the clown's hands, how could it be right? The voice in her head, screaming in anger and righteous fury for her own life seemed to agree. 

The sweet words of reassurance that had been pouring from Talia's mouth while she thought only seemed to sooth her frazzled mind. Ease her concerns and self hatred in a way her own mentors never could. And Marinette was so very tired of hating herself for never being good enough for them. She seemed good enough for Talia though. The woman was offering guidance and proper training without ridicule. Without condemnation. 

Looking up, she tuned back into her words when Talia's gaze sharpened to become very serious.

"Outside of your rooms, I will be distant. They cannot know I care for you. Trust no one in the complex. These people will not hesitate to kill you otherwise. They will train you at my command though. You will learn to protect yourself. To protect those you love. I'll make sure you never have to feel so helpless again."

Marinette nodded softly, agreeing to keep her distance, to not take Talia's distance as a sign of indifference. It was clear the opposite was true now. She couldn't say why, but this woman genuinely cared. Wanted Jason, or who she thought was Jason, safe. Her methods might not be flawless, but the intentions were true. Tears ran down her face at her new reality, but she couldn't see a better option for herself now. Having it taken out of her hands and decided for her felt like such a relief, she couldn't help but accept the conditions it came with.

"Rest now, training begins in the morning."

...

Somewhere across the world, a girl woke up screaming to a vision of luminescent green.

[itsthe-neo-zone]

Wands and potions: NCT Dream & WayV 

Please read the Masterlist before continuing ahead with the upcoming chapter. Thank you.

A/N: I apologize for taking so long to post (im a mess) but i had some issues to deal with, personal things at home and some family members were feeling sick so things were a mess, as always I hope you enjoy the chapter and I’ll try to get back on track. I’m sorry if my posts aren’t up to the standard I usually output in. 

Chapter 17:

[Lyra’s Pov]

[10th Jan 2005]

The first memory I had of my parents was a fight. It was one of my earliest. And one id never forget. The shouts and screams being thrown about. It was hazy and only when I began whimpering and crying weakly the blond male lifted me up into his hold. His cold icy eyes warming up for me. Melting the frozen glacier of cerulean into a deep royal navy.

I’ve been hidden from everyone and anyone around me for their safety and their status in the social wizarding world. I was a child that wasn’t ever supposed to be born and it was hurtful the longer the secret was kept. Whilst my siblings were given all the love and care in the world, lived to be around them in a comforting lovable world. I was left to be brought up by myself. Alone.

[06:18PM]

“You deserve to know, and I deserve to be treated like I’m desired, like I’m loved and wanted.” I murmured quietly my voice came out fragile and broken, its displayed the 14 years of raw emotion behind it.

“Remember when you told me you really felt we were like sisters?” I saw Selene’s expression warp into confusion her lips between teeth as she sat next to me her eyes shaking nervously. She didn’t want to glance into my own, but she nodded confirming my words.

“Well we could be, if Scorpius believes me... when I tell him, I- I’m his half-sister. His blood sister...” Selene stared as if I'd just produced a rhinoceros from my pocket. Though the expression on Scorpius face was unreadable. It was a mix of confusion, guilt and denial.

“Please say something.” I pleaded, he needed to respond. In any way possible, I needed to know how he felt. My heart was being torn by the second, this was worse than being stabbed multiple times and left to bleed to death...

“I can’t- i don’t know- how do I?” he sighed, exasperatedly. “I need some time to think about this.” He stood his eyes frantically looking around, Scorpius looked anxious wanting to leave, and even though it was freezing cold he was loosening the green tie around his neck.

“Please, don’t tell anyone. You can’t let anyone know.” I stood desperately wanting to hold or grab him. I yearned for his acceptance for so many years. My only sibling I cared about. This had to be kept a personal family secret as well.

“Scorpius, are you ok? Do you need me to-” “NO, no- I’m fine,” it came through gritted teeth...

“Selene, just stay with her? I need some space.” He quickly takes his leave frantically looking off, not once did he look back at us.

“Give him some time, he’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

“How are you taking this?” I turn to Selene who was hugging me, her arm on my back comforting me. She seemed dazed, her eyes were clouded. It’s like she wasn't here.

“You were already my sister; all you did was give me confirmation.” She held me close pulling me into her hold.

“Thank you, for being here.” I whisper clutching her robes her hair tickling the side of my face. I was glad to have her around me.

[06:25PM]

Pieces of mirror shatter breaking into a shower of tiny pieces; the amount of negative energy in the air was boundless. “Scorpius please calm down.” the rage in him needed to get out somehow? He wasn’t himself.

“He lied! HE LIED TO ME AND HER!” the bloodcurdling cry echoed; his mouth wide open as he released his inner demons. The scream made all the hair on his body stand. Albus wanted to stop him. To help him.

He couldn’t.

“He had another child, behind her back, she was thrown to the side. Like it was nothing!” The sobbing continued gales began to swirl and enter through the sides of the bathroom. Unknowingly, he was brewing a whirlwind. A storm hitting, equal to the force it felt inside him. It was building for weeks now and all Lyra did was confirm the reality.

His vice was strained, and it hurt like hell, but he continued letting all the pain and sorrow out. His head was pounding now. He wanted it to stop. Scorpius yearned for the numb feeling

“Stop you’re going to hurt yourself.” We he? Scorpius wished He’d hurt himself. Maybe that pain would distract him from the searing agony he was feeling. Pain sears through his abdomen better than a branding iron, his mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a thought to completion.

Everything had been a lie.

“Want it to end. Please.” The crouched figure in the centre of the room strained himself. He didn’t want to be here anymore. “leave.”

Albus couldn’t do that. He couldn’t leave his friend in such a vulnerable and defenceless position. “let me help you.” A crack in his voice, it shows the pain he was feeling it reflected into Albus. the young boy stumbled back pushing from the sheer force of the gales that tormented Scorpius this whole time.  

“I SAID GO!”

The pain was increasing in waves; getting bigger by the second, giving false hope of an end. But it would never end.

It was too loud to hear anything at this point the push of the wind tore bits off the wooden cubicle doors. Becoming spinning daggers of anger within the whirling storm.

Scorpius increased the howling gusts, faster and faster until they sheathed him with a spray of sprinkled sharp edges and crusted glass, they shimmered in the ill lit bathroom; the gloomy skies reflecting its dusty grey cold rays.

“Scorpiu-”

Albus had no way of coming near him he was forced out of the bathroom having no choice but to leave his friend in there suffering alone. The soft tears fell down the boy’s face, he hated the haunted feeling of having no form of control over the situation.

 Across the empty acres of land, empty silent castle hauntingly still not much moving, was two figures perched up upon the north towers. A forbidden duo, though ones that felt comforted in another’s presence. The light breeze slowly yet surely trying to pull against their night robes.

“I want to get over the anxiety I have, I want to control my feelings not the other way.” murmured to the male, she had been spending most of her time. Days -and starting now- her nights were spent with the devilish Durmstrang boy.

“It’s not easy.” he spun on his own two feet looking across the edge of the tower towards her. Selene was perched upon the handle of the metallic barrier.

“I know. but I want to at least try. Will you help me?” Selene was in her sleeping robes she was twiddling with her wand spending most her days with him she had gotten extremely comfortable with the male who she has come to know for his sharp tongue and the ability to be quite convincing.  

“I will. But first you need to show that you can trust me.”

“I do, I trust you.” Selene leaned off just a little further. She was content in being here silently with him. But was he? did he enjoy their secret nights alone?

“Do you think I can be like them?” letting her hair cascade past her figure, taking orders from the wind it wrapped over her -like the tentacles of the giant squid- across her body.

“Like them?” Repeating the words; he asked for more.

“My ancestors. I want to find out more.” It was like a persistent hunger that couldn’t be satiated. From a fairly long time, it was that absence of complete acceptance and love. Deep down she understood that but was she never going to admit it?

“You want to follow the prophecy?” a hesitant nod answered his questioning. the endless chewing on her dry lips and thoughts fighting against one another proved to show the utter confusion in what she really wanted. The certainty was on one thing though “I want to belong.”

“A girl, Dominique, from Beauxbaton.” Leaving the edge Selene moved towards the boy getting slightly closer. “She mentioned that the Lestrange ancestral family had a connection to France.”

“You think it could be important?” she pondered over his words for a moment. “Didn’t you mention that Grindelwald had his convocation in Paris France?”

“He did. But what’s-”

“I can find out more, what happened? Who I am.” Curling back into herself Selene hummed a soft tune she was comforted by her own arms wrapping around herself. Making her feel the soft pressure upon her own body.

“Selene.” Yangyang mumbled as he stepped closer sitting next to her “When you were at the mirror, the first time we met, it showed you something.” he grasped her two hands in his softly rubbing his slender fingers over her palm. His eyes were captivating.

“it showed me myself.”

“it showed you something else along with it.” He edged, the slight smile on his face and his eyes boring into selenes pushed her to continue. It felt as if everything was surreal, it was all a dream, why was everything so easily spilling past her lips.

“What I wanted; I want to find myself.” Capturing his eyes she glanced at the void contained the magnitude of the earth and the blackhole sucking the shimmers of light inwards. Nothing could escape.

“I promise I can help you do that, but you can’t go to France just yet.”

“I can’t go to France…” Selene murmured his eyes were captivating. As time passed slowly, she fell deeper into his gaze.

“Yes, you have something to do. First.”

 [13th October]

“Someone has taken a large noticeable dose of tentacle juice, from the private potions storage. If anyone has any known whereabouts or knows of anyone having sources, you must inform your head of year or head of house. Thank you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me-” shifting to take seat next to her position next to the others the raven-haired witch sat calmly the frustration only evident in her voice. “-they wake us up at 8am for this?”

“Yeah, some bastard nicking a few drops of poison…” Irene adds muttering, every single student for a 20-meter radius was yawning uncontrollably and dozing off on the study tables but once awake you needed to prepare for breakfast.

“Where were you this morning?” Ravelle had a sly smile on her lips as she pondered not so innocently over the whereabouts of the ginger witch before her.

“Out taking a short walk.” Blowing out an exasperated huff Selene stood taking her leave from the depressing and sleep deprived circle, “You know there’s only so much ‘Ravelle’ I can take in one day.” Sarcasm slipping past her voice was what made the sneaky witch drop her innocent act.

“Really, I’ve only asked you one question you shouldn’t be so defensive… unless there is something for you to hide?”

Selene stopped in her tracks, movement stuttering for a second. The wrapping of a dusty cloth rough in her hands.

“I have nothing to hide.” The outrage in her voice was enough to alert those around them that somewhat of a fight was about to start and, like the usual- all hell was about to break loose.

“Though I must let you know that I am exceeding the amount of ‘bitchiness’ I can take from you in a day so mind if I leave?” she widened her eyes turning to face the raven and nodded frivolously, she feigned sorrow for her and a sympathetic smile came to her face as she left.

“Thought you’d never ask…” Ravelle murmured the words she wasn’t interested in Selene herself. The antics she had grown accustomed to, -since that night with the celebratory introduction Selene had been on edge, spitting back ruthlessly and harsh words were leaving her lips- Ravelle eyed the linen wrap in her hands, it covered something, and it was important, no doubt delicate by the way she was cradling it to her core like a mother would do to her babe.

   [1st November]

Many days passed and winter edged nearer, visibly shortening the once lengthy and enjoyable days. The cold let soft cotton and thick clothes layer up with the many peaking noses out of scarves turn red and pink. 

The clouds of air exhaled when talking put things together but what really allowed the community to know the ending of summer solstice was the thick coat of white sheen that glistened in the early morning rays, covering the lands and lulling them to sleep.

“Anyone received any personal invites to the yule ball?” Albus whispered to the young brunette. The two now becoming much friendlier than usual were confiding in themselves after all they both had Scorpius to worry about.

“No not yet.” She glanced at him weary of the random questioning. lyra had enough on her plate already. It was harsh and difficult that her only brother wasn’t talking to her and Selene was sleeping off half her days and running of at night.

“If this is about Selene the-” “It’s not.”

“Then who-”

“I’m just asking.” She shuffled to turn towards him, sceptically reading his face the Slytherin shifted uncomfortably. “Such a liar.”

“You dummy, I can see it in your eyes. Who pushed you to do this? This is about Selene.”

“It isn’t, I swear.” His hands flew up in retaliation. The silent pause of scepticism made him sigh in relief when she dropped the accusations.  

“I’m sick of this, it’s all going to hell and I cant get any of them to even sit and talk to me. It’s awful.” Lyra whined her frustration could be seen in the way she tugged at her roots the hair lengthier than it was a few weeks ago.

“Scorpius isn’t ready to face this ye-.”

“-Hell never be ready then. Albus I can’t wait any more. How does he think I feel?” the brunette boys turned into saucers at the sudden interruption. She had been waiting for the past 3 weeks and it was getting agitating for a while, but nobody understood her. The way she felt.

“Whats wrong with Selene then? He can’t talk now so whats the issue with your ginger friend?”

“Oh don’t get me started with her.” She shifts in her seat lyra was starting to remember the situations Selene was in, breaking her heart for the past fortnight. “She’s gone, really lost it.”

“Sleeps all day and sneaks out at night, its odd Selene would have never done such a thing.” She mutters, the frown on her face showed her feeling of betrayal. “I can’t get her to spend any time with me at all, it’s always ‘Yangyang this Yangyang that’!”

“Wait.”

“You mean Durmstrang Liu” if his eyes were saucers back then they were as wide as cauldrons. His hands clenched up visibly the whole demeanor he possessed was stiffened within a second, Lyra didn’t comprehend the change until she spared him a quick glimpse.

“Yeah him,” she blinked dropping her head further into her grasp as she questioned his body language “Whats got you so surprised, most girls already know!”

“Liu Yangyang that German-Taiwanese boy?” the voice crack gave him away, there was definitely something wrong, but Lyra had no clue what was happening to him, what kind of reaction was that.

“Hold on know what?” he interrupted again.

“Well, supposedly they’re in a relationship, and I don’t know… but he’s really affecting Selene.”

“They can’t be though?” the denial in his voice was giving all the wrong signals and signs, Lyra turned towards him fully, hands out of hair and eyes skimming his face, his expression wasn’t helping the previous accusations planted upon him by her.

“Why Albus? Do you like her or something?”

What came out of his mouth after wasn’t a big shocker or anything but lyra was shocked to find out such a revelation and from him, Albus, who seemed to have no clue who the boy is.

“No, its just. He has a girlfriend already,”

“Yeah Selene.” The response came quick.

“No, he’s engaged to her, its not Selene. She’s back in Germany.” He was referring to another girl, that Selene wasn’t the only one in a relationship with the male and it made Lyra's blood boil.

“HE’S TWO-TIMING?”

The two had another issue to deal with, Selene couldn’t find out, even if it meant lying to her. She wouldn’t be able to handle what was to come.

@ajuniceuajuniceu​ @kkuljungwoo​ @sensiblebutch​ @kangkinoa​ @nctzen2020​ @mystic-jungkook​ @merryandhappylele​ @bcbymingi​ @mochischeeks  @rilakunma​ @jaehyunspaghetti​ @commentgirl​ @99jjh​ @johnnys-wifeu​ @misaraem @apricottulips​ @h2ogamergirl @angelsnowflake​

[celsidebottom]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims Additional Tags: Spoilers for 161!, Nightmares, The Extinction, The Lonely

Summary: When Martin dreams of the Extinction and Lonely, Jon sees his nightmares so vividly, and wants nothing more than to stop Martin from suffering any longer.

“Jon, come to bed.”

“I’m not tired.  Not like that.”

Martin stood in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning against the frame as he watched Jon fumble with one of the many tape recorders that followed him around.

“I know, but… you could still use some rest, even if you don’t sleep.”

“I don’t think it works like that anymore.”

Jon was still running his fingers over the buttons when a gently lobbed pillow thudded into his side.  He dropped the recorder and looked up at Martin, aghast.

“Jon, come on, please..."

Martin had a pouty look on his face with sincere worry shimmering in his eyes, and Jon sighed, the faint upturn of a smile at the edge of his lips.

“Yeah, alright.  Fair enough.”

After changing into his pajamas, Jon crawled into bed beside Martin and draped an arm over his waist.  

“Good night,” Martin yawned.  “Thank you.”

“Of course.  Get some sleep.”

Martin gave Jon a quick kiss on the forehead before rolling in the other direction, adjusting his pillows, and starting to let sleep claim him.   Jon moved a little bit closer and rested his head into Martin’s back while his breath slowed.

It wasn’t that Jon didn’t need rest.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to cuddle up beside Martin and hold him tight.  It was that he saw Martin’s dreams, if they could even be called that.

In the world he’d created, there were only nightmares.

La porte est la porte est la porte est la porte est la porte est la…

Martin’s subconscious raced through doors, some half-destroyed and others pristine, interspersed with dark, dilapidated streets.  And in those streets were corpses, mangled and decayed, mutated beyond recognition, embedded into the pavement, entombed in the walls.  Their hands almost reached out at Martin, begging him to save them, but there was no hope for them now.  Martin ran through one last, broken door, and there was only light.

Blinking, Martin, and by extension, Jon, stepped into a hot summer day, the heat casting up wavering lines around them.   Mechanical numbers buzzed in his ear and repeated themselves over and over and over and over.

 Three.  Zero.  Five.  Eight.  Three.  Nine.  Two.  Eight.  Four.  Six.

In the distance, Martin saw a house atop a small hill.  But the smoke that rose from it was not that of a chimney or a contained brushfire.  It is something else entirely, something unimaginable.

 Four.  Seven.  Four.  Nine.

Jon didn’t need to hear the whole sequence of numbers to know what the meaning was:

The World is Always Ending.

Martin’s subconscious faded away in the beeping of each number, their message both a revelation and a perpetually known truth at the same time.  When he looked again, he stood inside a hut that creaked and groaned like shifting metal, mixed with the sound of a distant scream that was ignored as something innocuous.  As Martin stepped toward the twisting statues made from refuse and forsaken objects, the block of concrete at his feet transformed and hissed.

With a shock, Jon pulled himself from the vision.  It was so easy to fall into Martin’s dreams, to see that fear right there inside him, but how much was he going to let Martin bear?  He could feel Martin’s pulse pounding beneath his embrace and the way his breath caught in his throat as the newly manifested snake lashed out at him and the statues turned toward him, liquid concrete pouring from what should have been their eyes and mouths.

Consciously, Jon tried to look away.  It took all his strength to do so, to reach out and shake Martin, to try and wake him from his nightmares.

“Martin, Martin, wake up, please.  Wake up.”

It was no use.  And he knew that when he tried.  It wasn’t the first time Jon had attempted to wake Martin when the fear of his nightmares caused his body to convulse in the night.  Or whatever passed as night anymore.

But Jon could never wake him.  Instead, all he could do was hold Martin a little tighter.

Instantly, Jon was thrust back into Martin’s dreams and the faint hum of carnival music sent a shiver up both their spines.  The people at the game stalls were gaunt and thin, prying apart bones before descending on their injured companion before the life even left his limbs.  And then, when their appetites were only just whetted, they turned toward Martin.

Just as the crowd descended, the scene shifted and changed.  The gentle sound of waves crashing on a shore came first, followed by an image of a beach, but all the colors were desaturated and empty.

It wasn’t the first time Martin dreamt of the Lonely; he’d had visions of it even before the world ended.

Same as before, Martin’s body shuddered under Jon’s embrace and faint, mumbled words escaped his lips in the waking world.

“No… I can’t go back.  I won’t.  Don’t… don’t make me.  Please…”

A quiet sob broke from Jon as he heard Martin beg.  The weakness in his voice, the frailty…

“Wake up, Martin, please.  You’re not there.  It’s not real,” Jon pleaded even though he knew it wouldn’t help.

He’d seen enough terror replayed in his mind, he knew that such platitudes, even if spoken during the consciousness of day, did little to help allay the fear.  Every statement he’d ever read used to show itself in his dreams, but now they didn’t need to – there was enough fear in the air to sate his monstrous appetite at all hours.

It made sense that Martin would dream of the Extinction.  Especially when the world around them was so warped from the way it had been just a few days ago.

And even Jon used to dream of the Lonely, before he no longer needed to sleep.  Visions of fog, the din of static, the sight of Martin turning away from him and disappearing into the void…

Feeling Martin beside him was the only thing that got him through such nightmares.  So, as Jon was unable to wake him, he held onto Martin even tighter, hoping that his presence would be some small comfort when Martin awoke.

They didn’t have to eat anymore, he didn’t have to sleep, why did they still have to dream?  Why did Martin still have to suffer?  He’d been through so much, and yet he was still hurt again and again…

The tears blurred Jon’s vision and he became acutely aware of how closely he held Martin, how his heart raced and his limbs twitched as he tried to find some escape from the Lonely in his mind.  Jon pressed his forehead against Martin’s back and let himself cry, because there was nothing more that he could do, except watch and wait.

“Jon?  Jon, are you okay?”

Martin extracted himself from Jon’s grip and rolled over to face him.  His eyes were alert even though he’d just awoken from a terrible, terrible dream, and he pulled Jon into a firm embrace, before letting go only slightly, his leg gently draped over Jon’s as he brushed away his tears.

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry, Martin, I’m so, so sorry.  You’ve been through so much and I can’t help, I can’t make it better.  I did all this; it’s all my fault, I’m sorry…”

“Jon, please…”  Martin cradled Jon’s head with one hand while the other gently rubbed his shoulder.  A soothing motion, even if it did little to take away the pain.  “I’m guessing you, uh, saw my dreams again?  Bad stuff, huh?”

“You really don’t remember them?”

Martin shook his head.

“You’re lucky.  The other fear I see from everything happening now, the thing that scares me most about it is that it doesn’t scare me.  But with you… I don’t want you to suffer anymore.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Martin insisted softly as Jon let out another heavy sob, even as a tear fell from his own eye.  “The dreams might be bad, but at least I get to wake up and see you here.  For a few moments, then, everything is okay – except when you’re crying, of course, but you know.”

Jon choked out a chuckle and couldn’t help but smile.

“When I wake up and see you, or just feel you beside me, there’s a second where none of the pain matters and I can forget that the world is in such a messed-up state.  I just… I wish that you could find a reprieve like that.  Even for the smallest moment.”

“It doesn’t all go away,” Jon muttered.  “It doesn’t ever stop entirely.  But… it gets quieter when I hold you.”

Martin pulled Jon in tight and wrapped his arms around him, and Jon pressed himself into Martin’s chest.

In a soft whisper, Martin urged, “Then don’t ever let go.”

[pocketramblr]

that’s it i can’t take my brain anymore have a ridiculous soft scene from the same universe as Slipped Through Your Fingers (that one dfo mirio fic)

It was a long walk back to the dorms that evening. Long, and silent, and that probably made it longer.

Mirio normally talked when they all walked together. Nejire always did.

The silence now was even more unnatural than seeing the textbook Recovery Girl had given Mirio as a test fly apart in spikes and shards when he pressed his finger to the cover and focused.

Nejire tapped his shoulder when they passed their dorm building. Tamaki gave a slight shake of his head, and kept moving on with Mirio.

When they got to the door, he quickly opened it.

Mirio’s hands were still awkwardly held in front of himself, and he didn’t seem likely to want to touch anything right now.

“Are you hungry? I can make you something.” Tamaki offered in the barest whisper as they passed through the entryway, the common area. 

The blond shrugged, and Tamaki took that as assent. 

He knew where Mirio’s stuff was anyway, just like he knew there’d be cup noodle there. That was easy enough to toss in the microwave while he grabbed a pan, oil near the stove, salt and whatever in the fridge wouldn’t be too missed- bags without names on them, two mushrooms from a large container, a single pepper, a couple of tuna cubes.

It wasn’t great, but it’d heat up, fill the stomach. Make something more than the instant meal that verged on slightly pathetic and really would only worsen one’s mood to eat in the dark when the world came crashing down.

Ten minutes later, he held a cup in each hand as he made his way to Mirio’s room.

The door wasn’t locked.

Mirio sat on his bed. Hands, palms up, slightly curled, rested on his knees as he studied them.

As expected, he hadn’t even turned the light on. Probably didn’t want to risk touching more things, since he barely moved when Tamaki came in.

“Hey. Eat up.”

“Thanks.” Mirio muttered, taking the cup offered to him quickly, not daring a chance his hand would brush against Tamaki’s. The shorter boy sat down next to him, and began to ate too.

He didn’t want to. He felt sick and nauseated since being rewound. But Tamaki knew he must be hungry underneath that, had practice making himself eat anyway.

Mirio did not.

Tamaki finished his cup.

Mirio ate about half of his before setting it aside.

“So. Do you want to talk about it?”

It.

It, as in, whatever had gone through Mirio’s head when he brushed aside Tamaki’s arm, when that blew it off in a spray of red and pain.

It, as in, whatever he had been about to say when Tamaki sat on his hospital bed, when he’d taken Mirio’s hand.

It, as in, whatever he heard from the teachers and heroes when Yamada-sensei drew Tamaki and Nejire to talk out in the hallway for a bit.

It, as in, the fact that somehow Mirio had the Overhaul quirk.

“Not yet.” Mirio’s voice was hoarse. That was to be expected, from hours of silent tears. Tamaki moved a hand over to Mirio’s thigh, set it gentle as a weight. Mirio flinched, pulled his hand away from Tamaki’s, but didn’t move beyond that.

“Okay. Do you remember the Christmas party?”

Mirio blinked, but nodded. “Yeah. What about it?”

“How happy Eri was to go to the first years’. How Nejire taught her to say ‘trick or treat’, and you painted eggs with her.”

There was a soft snort. “And you gave her salt to throw at little demons, so don’t play innocent, Tamaki. What about it?’

“She was happy. She believed you, fully, about how there aren’t any good or bad quirks, just people who can chose to do good or bad. She’s still happy, i think. She still believes you.”

Mirio was quiet, staring at him. Tamaki looked straight ahead at the wall instead. He knew the blond thought fast, knew the blond knew Tamaki like his own mind. It would surprise him more if he didn’t know where Tamaki was going with this clumsy stumble of an attempt to comfort.

“I hope so.” Mirio said finally. “Why bring it up?”

“You’ve been training more, since the party. Since i talked to you afterwards, and Nejire did too.”

“About the agency.”

“About you.” Tamaki corrected. “About you, and becoming a quirkless hero. And i said i was an idiot, because i am, because i didn’t believe you could do it before.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m not quirkless anymore. Apparently.” Mirio sighed, shaky. “It doesn’t matter-”

“It does. Because i was an idiot, for doubting you a moment when you lost Permeation.” Tamaki turned to look at Mirio, finally- not at his eyes, his too-dark eyes, but just a bit up and left, between his brow and ear. “I’m not going to make the same mistake now that you have Overhaul. I’m not going to doubt you for a moment.”

Mirio stared, mouth fallen open a bit.

Finally, he managed to swallow, to find words. “It’s a little bit more complicated than that, this time.”

Tamaki’s heart seized in fear for a bit at that, because what could be more complicated than had already happened this afternoon? He didn’t want to know, he wanted to run, curl up and barely deal with this.

He didn’t, just squeezed Mirio’s thigh for a second.

“I- can I tell you about that later?” The blond asked, tears welling up again.

Tamaki nodded.

“But- this is much more dangerous than suddenly being quirkless. It could- I could kill, with a touch, Tamaki.” His voice cracked a little.

Tamaki lifted his hand from his thigh, moved it slowly to Mirio’s shoulder. Rubbed a soft circle there, before trailing a finger down his arm. He slowed at Mirio’s wrist, then carefully took it in both hands, lifting.

Mirio went stiff, too afraid to move him off.

Tamaki felt a bit of guilt at that, but he pushed it aside as he swirled a circle with one finger on Mirio’s palm, then lightly traced up to the tip of Mirio’s pointer finger. 

He focused entirely on that hand as he spoke: “That’s okay. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t. I almost killed you.” Mirio was pleading, now, and it wasn’t fair because everything in Tamaki was begging with him to stop, to do something else, to bring the blond’s smile back.

“No you didn’t.” Tamaki shrugged one shoulder, not wanting to shift the side close to Mirio as he carefully lowered his middle finger to meet the tip of the other boy’s. “Even if you couldn’t Overhaul me back, Eri did Rewind me. Even if she couldn’t do that, I don’t really need an arm. I could manifest something whenever I did. Might make me more useful, actually, less slow in a fight...”

“Ay.” Mirio frowned.

“It’s true. You’re more important than an arm, or an accident, Mirio.” He was more important than anything, really. “And you’d never hurt me anyway.”

“You can’t say that for sure now.” The other protested as Tamaki pressed their ring fingers together too now, three for three. 

“I can. Mirio, you always could have destroyed me with a touch.” Joined pinkies. “Or even less. A word.” Joined thumbs. “A look.”

Tamaki looked up from their hands for just a moment, a flicker to Mirio’s eyes.

But then he couldn’t look away. Black holes, they were. And staring at him with something like earlier- as familiar as every glance when he shared a joke, but strengthened, powerful as the horror when he’d stared down at Tamaki’s Rewound self.

Tamaki was shaking under it.

“You- you’re overestimating me again, Tamaki. You’re a lot tougher than all of that, i know. Suneater, right?”

“I’m not. I mean, I am Suneater. But I’m not overestimating, and I’m not just saying that because I feel like I’m going to die if i don’t do this, if you.. if you don’t want to do this, but, I can just go-”

“Go- wait, do what?” Mirio asked, moving his hand so that instead of pressing against Tamaki’s fingers, he fit between them as he leaned forward just a bit.

‘This’, Tamaki thought but could not say, throat constricting, too dry to speak, too focused on Mirio to think of words.

He leaned up, and pressed his lips against Mirio’s for a heartbeat, for two.

Mirio stared, frozen.

Blank look, and Tamaki knew he was right when he said the other could hurt him with just a glance, because this twisted and seared in his chest the same as his arm had earlier.

But just like earlier, he could hardly blame Mirio for something out of his control.

Tamaki pulled his hand, moved to stand up, to say some rushed apologies.

Mirio gripped his hand tightly. “Don’t.”

So Tamaki didn’t, sat back down. Tried to breathe, staring at Mirio’s shoulder, body burning with blush and tremors and drowning-

But Mirio was still holding his hand.

And then in another blink, Mirio pulled a bit more, arms thrown over Tamaki in a bear hug, and oh, Mirio was shaking too.

Tamaki shifted so his arms warped around Mirio’s back better, half pulled into his lap, and clung.

Time faded, for a bit there, because Tamaki was then drowning in the warmth, in the grounding touch, in the ragged uneven breaths.

Mirio finally spoke up, after a while. Still hugging him, “I thought about the Christmas party too. There was mistletoe there.” Tamaki stiffened. “But I knew you’d hate that, with everyone there. I didn’t really want to, until we were talking after. Until what you said. But I- I think there’s a lot you need to know.”

He pulled away from Tamaki at that, and for a moment the darker boy wanted to protest, cling harder, but he shoved that instinct down.

“That’s fine. We have time.” Tamaki smiled. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to. It’s because of my dad. He’s... kind of a supervillain, apparently. I didn’t know until they did the test, but i should have, I just never wanted to know it.”

“Your dad... is a supervillain.” Tamaki repeated, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Mirio repeated, incredulous.

“Would it be a bit cheep of me to admit now that I’ve hated him since the day we met?”

The blond blinked, then blinked again.

Then, sudden, surprised, he began to laugh. The laugh was uneven, led quickly to simultaneous sobs and hiccups, but he actually laughed, and it was the most beautiful thing that had happened in Tamaki’s presence all day.

[agerefandom]

Safe and Sound (2.0)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Characters: Regressor!Stephanie, featuring Amethyst, Pearl, and Garnet as caregivers

Words: 2,000

Summary: A remix of this fic here but now featuring a transfem main character who goes by Stephanie or Stephie as a kiddo and uses she/her pronouns! Requested by anon. (Exact same story, just different name and pronouns!)

Warnings: Rose and Rose-centred feelings are mentioned, panic attacks, and quite a bit of anxiety.

Stephanie loved the beach house that she shared with the Gems. She loved the constant sound of the waves, and the calm glow of the warp pad at night. She loved the short and familiar walk to town, her comfortable bed, and the bathtub deep enough that she could submerge her whole body.

The only thing that Stephanie hated about her home was the lack of privacy.

Even when the Gems were away on a mission, they could warp back in at any given moment. At night, Amethyst often wandered in to get a midnight snack, and Stephanie was sure that Pearl still watched her sleep occasionally, even if she hadn’t caught her recently.

So when Stephanie wanted to regress, she had to plan ahead.

At first, she had retreated into her mother’s room, knowing that no one could access it while she was inside. But as soon as she stopped being careful about what she wished for, Rose was always there, stepping off a nearby cloud to collect her daughter into her arms. Stephie was happy to see her mother when she was little, playing and laughing and sharing her favourite stories. But at some point, Stephie always aged up, and Rose would change into a figure who was silent, and looming, and distant. Stephanie would retreat from the room feeling more exhausted than before, promising herself that she wouldn’t go in again.

Lion became Stephanie’s source of escape. She would pack a bag, hop on Lion’s back, and tell the Gems that she was spending the afternoon with Connie, or Ronaldo, or even Sadie. She had enough friends that the Gems never checked first, and then she had a whole day to spend in a field in Alberta, or Texas, or even France.

Lion would pace around the area while Stephie played, rumbling warnings at anyone who tried to approach. Stephie would run, and explore, and eventually sit down and cry until her throat hurt too much to continue. Often, Lion would come and curl against her while she cried, turning his head away to feign indifference as his tail wrapped around Stephie’s wrist.

Regression was only fun for a while, for Stephanie. Eventually, reality came crashing back in, harsher and bleaker in contrast to the bright innocent world she had inhabited for a few too-brief minutes.

Yet she came back to it again and again, not knowing a better way to escape the constant anxiety of her everyday life. She needed to forget about the most current threat to planet Earth, needed to forget about Pearl and Amethyst’s most recent fight. Needed to forget the guilt of walking in on her father crying over a picture of Rose.

Regression was a safe space like nothing else in her life was, ruled by uncertainty and continual attacks from outside and inside her family.

--

Eventually, it fell apart.

As Stephanie was expected on more missions, the Gems might need her at any moment. If Stephanie wasn’t where she said she’d be, then all hell would break loose as the Gems searched for her. She was scared that if it happened too many times, then the Gems would stop letting her leave with Lion at all.

So there was only one thing to do. Stephanie had to give up regression. There was no time or space for it in her life, she always needed to be available for Crystal Gem missions. It was alright that the others forgot she needed to sleep, needed to eat, needed to rest between missions spent running after corrupted gems.

Stephanie was a Crystal Gem now, and she needed to act like it. That meant no more running away to be a kid every so often.

Stephanie was going cold-turkey.

But of course, things didn’t really work out like that. Stephanie managed to hang on for two full months, hiding her panic attacks in the bathroom and trying not to fall asleep on the couch whenever she sat down.

At the start of the second month, Stephie woke up to the morning sun with tears already running down her face. Her clothes were too big on her, and her arms felt weak when she tried to move them.

Trying not to panic, Stephie looked down at herself and saw a young child’s body, twisted in the sheets and teenage-sized clothes that she’d slept in. She needed to shift back to normal-Stephanie before the Gems came out to see her!

But Stephie couldn’t stop sobbing, and however hard she concentrated, she couldn’t calm down enough to shift back to her usual size. Her failed attempts made her cry harder. What was she going to do? No one could see her like this!

Just as she was getting ready to truly panic, she heard the warp pad activate. Hurriedly throwing the covers over herself, Stephie tried to cry as quietly as possible.

The Gem’s voices were bright as they spread out across the house, Amethyst’s voice drifting towards the fridge as the others settled on the couch. Their mission must have gone well. Pearl sounded especially enthoused, but Stephie couldn’t make out the words through the pounding panic in her head. Any minute they would notice her, unless she kept absolutely still. She had to keep absolutely quiet, despite the way that her chest was spasming, and she couldn’t breathe, and she just wanted her paci-

“Stephanie.” Garnet’s voice drifted up from below Stephie, low and calm. “We’re home.”

Stephie twisted her fists into the blankets, making a renewed effort to calm her breathing. If Garnet thought something was wrong, she would know everything as soon as she thought to look. Stephie tried to make her voice sound normal, even though her body wasn’t cooperating.

“Oh, cool. I’m just having a n-nap.” Her voice hitched on the last word, and she froze under the covers. There was silence for a beat, and then Pearl’s voice murmured a question to Garnet, too quiet for Stephie to hear.

“What’s wrong, dude?” Amethyst broke right to the point, and Stephie could hear her coming towards the stairs. She curled tighter into the blankets, prepared to wrestle them away from Amethyst’s grasping hands. But she stopped at the bottom and called up to Stephie again. “Stephanie? Are you sick? If you’re gonna throw up, I wanna see!”

“Amethyst!” Pearl’s voice was sharp until she turned her attention to Stephie. “Stephanie, are you alright? Do you need some food?” Stephanie had snapped at her about needing to eat breakfast a few weeks ago, and she had taken to offering snacks at the first sign of Stephanie’s distress.

“Stephanie is fine,” Garnet said calmly, and the other two made questioning noises at her. Stephie curled tighter into the blanket, confused. She wasn’t fine! What was Garnet saying? Was she lying, or did she somehow not know what was happening? “Stephie, you can come out and see us. No one will be mad.” Stephie whimpered. Garnet was definitely lying. She wanted Stephie to come out so that they could fix her.

“Mad? Why would we be mad?” Pearl was saying.

“Come on, Stephie.” Garnet’s voice was familiar, soft and certain. She always knew what was best, didn’t she? “You know we love to play with you. We always want to be with you, and spend time with you.”

“Of course we do!” Pearl’s voice was shrill. “We love Stephanie, she knows that!”

“Yeah, duh!” Amethyst added. “Stephanie is the best.”

Stephie couldn’t stifle the tears as they spoke. They didn’t know who she was, didn’t know what she was hiding. They would see that she was just a stupid kid, that she couldn’t handle being a Crystal Gem. Why did they have to love her? It wasn’t fair. They would have just left her alone if they cared less, and then it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Stephanie?” Pearl was the one to climb the stairs, her voice alarmed. “Stephanie, what’s wrong? Don’t cry.” She scooped Stephie off the bed, blankets and all, to hold her tight. “Come on, Stephanie, stop crying. We’re all here.” She started to unwrap the blankets from around her, and Stephie panicked.

“No!” she shouted, trying to push Peal away. “No, no, no!” Pearl gasped, and then Stephie was on the floor. The blankets were in her face, wrapped around her neck, and all of a sudden Stephie felt trapped. She pushed at them, rolling on the floor, kicking arms and legs that were too small and too weak. She couldn’t breathe, but then the next second the blankets were gone and she was drawing in a breath to cry out again, the wailing cry of an overwhelmed toddler. “Leave me alone!” Stephie shouted, slamming her hands into the wood of the floor. “Leave me alone!”

Hands wrapped around him and she was lifted off the floor. Stephie wriggled against them, but they held strong, and suddenly she was cradled against the side of Garnet’s hip, held stable and safe against her. Garnet bounced Stephie lightly, practised and easy.

“Hush, little one,” Garnet murmured. “We carried you for years, you know that.” Stephie hid her face in Garnet’s shoulder, sniffling. She was exposed, yet protected. She was vulnerable, yet safe. She didn’t know how to feel or what she should do. She was starting to calm down now, so surely she should shift back to normal as soon as possible? Being big-person Stephanie seemed so far away and impossible, even as the tears and panic subsided. Garnet’s arms were so nice, so familiar.

“Do humans do that?” Pearl asked from somewhere over Garnet’s shoulder. “I thought they were linear time-beings and rather bitter about it.”

“Stephanie’s only half-human,” Garnet reminded her. “She’s special.”

“Can I hold her? Can I hold her?” Amethyst’s voice was as excited as ever. “Is she young enough for a bottle? I still have some of them in my room!”

“Nothing from your room is going into Stephanie’s mouth without a good wash first,” Pearl said sharply. “But I do have a clean bottle or two stored in my gem, if it would help,” she added to Garnet.

“Stephie gets to make the decision,” Garnet said simply, shifting her hold on Stephie so that she was sitting on Garnet’s lap, on the edge of her bed, looking outwards. Once her hands were free, Stephie put her fingers into her mouth and bit down anxiously, trying not to meet the eyes of the three Gems watching her.

“Oh, those are filthy,” Pearl admonished, and the next second Stephie felt her fingers being pulled away, replaced smoothly by a pacifier. The familiar pressure on her tongue made her relax, and she finally looked up. Pearl was smiling at him, her gem still sparkling from when she had summoned the pacifier. Was she not angry?

“What’d’you say, Stephie?” Amethyst’s face was suddenly right in front of her, eyes big and hopeful. “Do you want a bottle from your big sis Amethyst?”

“Amethyst,” Stephie tried to say, but around the pacifier it sounded like babbling. She felt herself go red, and bobbed her head in a nod.

Amethyst pumped a fist in the air and said something enthusiastically, but Stephie didn’t hear it because Garnet had put her hands over Stephie’s ears. Pearl looked angry about Amethyst’s outburst, wagging her finger and pointing to Stephie. She could feel Garnet laughing against her back.

“You have a silly family, Stephie,” Garnet murmured when she took her hands back. “But they all love you very much.”

“Sorry, Stephie,” said Amethyst, looking contrite. “I forgot you were little for a second.”

“Baba!” Stephie managed around her paci, making grabby hands. Wasn’t Amethyst going to feed her?

“Coming right up!” Pearl sing-songed, dropping a kiss on Stephie’s forehead before summoning a shiny bottle out of her gem with a wave of her hand. She passed the bottle to Amethyst, who did a front-flip off the bed, landed on the couch, and bounced all the way to the kitchen with one more jump.

“Oooh!” Stephie clapped for her, laughing.

“Amethyst, use the stairs!” Pearl sighed, before kneeling down in front of Stephie. “Hello, Stephie,” she said gently. “Do you remember me?”

“Pearl!” Stephie tried around her paci, and Pearl beamed at her.

“That’s right!” She tapped the end of Stephie’s nose, and Stephie giggled. “Now, what did you eat for breakfast yesterday?”

Stephie let the paci fall from her mouth, barely noticing Garnet catch it. “Donuts!” she told Pearl proudly. “Walk all the way!”

“You do eat a lot of donuts! Who gives you the donuts?”

“Sadie!” Stephie was bouncing on Garnet’s lap, giggling. “And Lars!”

“Good job!” Pearl produced a star sticker from what seemed like nowhere and pressed it to the front of Stephie’s too-big shirt. “You’re a very smart little human.”

“Uh-huh!” Stephie looked around for her paci, but Garnet was already putting it back in her mouth. She settled back against Garnet’s chest, humming happily. She had the best Gems ever.

“I told you she was fine,” Garnet said without reproach. Her fingers scratched gently at Stephie’s scalp, making her melt even further. “You remember her last birthday, she was even younger then.”

“We don’t know how a Rejuvenator would affect a half-human,” Pearl murmured. Her words washed over Stephie as she hummed, wriggling closer to Garnet’s wonderful hands. “You know I like to be careful. You know who she is.”

“Yes.” Garnet sighed, trailing one hand down to tickle under Stephie’s chin, making her giggle. “I understand. But I think this is part of our wonderful Stephanie. A little bit of the past, every now and then.”

“I got the bottle!” Amethyst burst back into the conversation, stomping up the stairs two at a time. “Where’s the Stephanie?”

“Baba!” Stephie reached out for her food-bringer, grinning so wide that her paci slipped out again. She frowned, reaching for it, but Garnet had it in one hand.

“You’ll get it back after your bottle,” Garnet told her, and handed her over to Amethyst.

Amethyst hoisted him up in the air, and Stephie sniffled, feeling unsafe with all the air under her feet. “Oh, sorry.” Amethyst put Stephie down before she started to cry again, sitting down with Stephie on her lap. She cradled her like a baby, which Stephie wasn’t, but she was pretty comfy so she relaxed into Amethyst’s arms. “Okay, little lady, open wide!” Amethyst made lots of funny faces and noses while Stephie drank the warm milk inside the bottle, making her giggle and spill milk down the front of her chin. That made Amethyst laugh out loud, jostling Stephie in her lap. Garnet and Pearl sat on the end of the bed, watching them both with fond smiles.

By the end of the bottle, Stephie’s eyelids were as heavy as big huge rocks. She was trying to stay awake, but she was yawning to much to even keep in her paci.

“We’ll still be here when you wake up,” Garnet said, laying Stephie carefully on a pillow as Pearl untangled the sheet from the ground and laid it over her, tucking it in carefully on all sides.

“Yeah! We can play little Stephie tag!” Amethyst said, shape-shifting into the same size as Stephie was.

“Lil’ Stephie tag,” Stephie yawned. That sounded like lots of fun, she wanted to play now but her eyelids were so heavy…

“We love you,” Garnet murmured, and that was the last thing Stephie heard as she fell asleep.

[nessaiscute]

The one you don’t expect

“Dad what are we doing here?” I asked.

“I'm taking you hunting. Stated dad as he grabbed an axe.

“Mom said i wasn’t allowed though.”

“Your mom worries too much.” Dad stated, “No ones going to hurt you.”

Ugh, why is he like this? Everyone tells me that my dad is a scary big iron knight. The winter prince who killed without any mercy, however, if you ask me? He's a mega nerd, like no lie he could only kill anyone by boring them to death by never shutting up about mom. Hasn’t he heard that winter knights are looking for him, you know dad...the people who are disgusted by you? Sneaking me out isn’t going to win you any favors, dad.

So here I am, watching my dad strap a saddle to a horse away from the prying eyes of Fix or Glitch who would go running to mom and this would all go to heck. I did really want to hunt, but I also didn’t want mom to kill me over dad getting hurt. One time dad went missing for 2 hours and mom nearly tore the whole palace apart to find him. Turns out the fool was sleeping in the dungeon because he had a headache due to too much sunlight. I wonder if mom ever regrets marrying him? He has to drive her insane. 

“Ahh there we go.” Dad stated and he got on the horse, “come on son, I’ll make you a man yet.”

I’d rather be an alive man not a dead one, but i'm just a kid, no one listens to me and gods do I want to hunt. So i took my dads hand and he pulled me up and buckled me in. I warped my arms around him, although i didn’t want to admit this but there was a comfort in knowing dad was here. No matter what scary beasts or winter knights awaited us, i knew we would be alright. Dad was here. Although If he ever reads this I will deny it. Deny it to my dying breath.

“Ready?” Dad asked.

“Yea.” I started and we rode off into the forest.

I was starstruck. The forest was amazing.

I was gasping at every little thing, the huge trees and the small animals heck even the bugs. I thought about keeping a spider or two but i think mom would ground me for 2 centuries if i did that. 

“Enjoying the sights, little warrior?” Dad asked grinning.

It felt a little warm all of a sudden and I puffed, “It's just… so different from the palace.”

Dad chuckled, “The forest is where fey test themselves, it's supposed to be different from a place where people of power live. But son, this place is not a place to live. It's full of danger, you must never come here without me.”

I suddenly felt… really scared, i didn’t want to go home but I felt like I didn’t belong here. Some of the larger animals noticed us, eyeing me up. Like I was a tasty steak rather than a powerful fey. I tightened my grip on my dad’s waist. Really thankful he was here with me, and praying that all those rumors about him being good at killing were true.

Dad noticed, “What's wrong? Whats scaring you?”

He followed my eyes to a troll glaring at me, dad had a glare of his own but the troll just charged at us. I shirked but dad just pulled out his bow and shot it dead between the eyes, however its head exploded and the chunks turned to solid ice, the rest of its body fell to the ground. And i loosen my grip, although my heart was still beating very hard in my chest. We stopped and I got off the horse, dad jumped off and softly pivoted me to him. Titling my head to look into his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a soft yet stern voice.

“Yes, I'm just…. That was scary. How did you shoot him so fast?”

There was a slight pain in his eyes, as if he was recalling something I was never meant to know, “You don’t want to ever be that good boy, now, lets set up a fire. I need to make you a bow, come over and watch.”

“Okay dad.” I beamed and dad went to work.

 I was confused as to why he brought an axe  till he started chopping the tree, it was so strange, I thought dad as this mega nerd. The person who literally turns into a wuss the moment mom is mad at him, however, recalling how fast dad killed that troll and watching how he takes an axe that's even bigger then I am and pounding it into this giant body of bark with ease. He looks pretty darn cool. The tree quickly fell, dad then ripped out a piece of the bark inside of the tree. Then he pulled out his bowing knife he kept on his person at all times and started forming the wood.

Dad caught my attentive stare; and he chuckled, “Not as easy to do as it looks in books isn’t it?”

“Yea, it looks really hard, don’t cut yourself dad.”

That caught him off guard, he stopped and stared at me bewild but only for a few seconds he smiled at me and said, “Don’t worry.” What's with the odd confusion? I'm just concerned.

I watched him for what felt like hours, It was art. His movements and how he knew exactly when to move his hands, I’d probably bleed out due to cutting myself a bunch of times. What is he forming anyway? I know not to ask, that would distract him and he would get mad. Although I’ve never seen my dad get mad at me before. He scolds me a little but never actually mad.However I didn’t want to start a trend, besides it was becoming clearer and clearer that he was making a bow. The wood was being molded into what dad wanted it to be, when he finished he pulled out some thick string and sowed it to the wood, he then pulled it back and let go, to see if it was working and it was.

“Get over here.” Dad said and I did.

He handed it to me, “Your first weapon, if it breaks let me know.”

I felt a thrill spike through my body, my first real weapon. A long range bow, I would snipe something from a long distance with this, Who knows what wonders I could do with it. It was very exciting to think about.

“Now, lets see if you can use it.” Ash smirked and we went to work.

We had been following a deer for a few hours, I was nervous about it. Dad didn’t notice but it seemed…. Different. I watched TV shows about deers. This one was going all over the place, like it didn’t have a mind of its own. It finally stopped, dad signaled me to raise my bow to fire. I did so.

However as I did the deer let out a roar and charged straight at Dad, knocking him down. Dad went to pull out his blade but the antlers of the deer disarmed him.

“Don’t touch my dad!!” I cried out and shot an arrow.

It was out of fear and instinct, I had never fired a weapon or deflected a blow. I was sure i missed and dad was gone, however my shot connected straight through its skull and it fell to the ground dead.

“Dad!” I cried out and ran to him.

When I got to him he wasn’t moving, and… I saw blood pouring from a wound.

“Oh no! Dad!”

“I’m fine. Son, do me a favor, go back to the camp and find the salve. Hurry boy.”

“Yes sir.” I started and I ran off.

I had to hurry, dad was dying. Dad was dying and it was my fault. I wasn’t fast enough, I found the bag fast enough and found the salve but my mind kept rushing. What if dad’s already dead? What if mom hates me for this? What if she blames me for dad's death? What if she throws me out? Throwing those thoughts out of my head I rushed towards dad.

However, he wasn’t where I left him. Gods no please no. my eyes darted around, i didn’t see him anywhere and then something grabbed me and lifted me into the air. A hand, grabbing my throat.  I barely saw the armor of a winter knight, he wasn’t wearing a helmet he was grinning.

“So this is the traitor’s brat…”

“Where… is….my dad?” I growled.

“You don’t need to worry about that, You won’t live long enough to see him again.”

“Screw you! I want to see my dad!” I snarled.

That got me a punch to the gut. The pain was unreal, I had never been hit before. I spit out some blood that got on his armor. That enraged him and he pounded my body on the ground and pressed his leather boot on my head. 

“You ruined my armor you brat! I'm gonna kill you even slower now!”

I felt a presence, i didn’t know where it was but i felt it creeping. And before i knew it a blade went straight through the knight's chest and he fell to the ground I looked up and there was dad. He was patched up and everything. However my brain didn’t focus on that. I started crying.

“WAHHHHHH!!” I wailed the tears falling freely from my face. 

This must have puzzled dad, I couldn't help it, I was scared my head hurt and I really wanted to go home. I didn’t want mom to hate me, my body was reacting on its own. I wailed and wailed, I expected dad to hit me like the knight did.

But he didn’t.

He scooped me in his arms and held me tight. 

“I’m sorry Kerrian, I'm sorry.”

The feeling of safety from earlier returned, I pressed myself to him, Softly sobbing. 

“Dad…..” 

He carried me to the horse and we went home.

I half expected mom to be pissed, raging, but...she was just worried. Mom knew I spit blood that I was attacked by a winter knight. Although dad didn’t say how he got cured and broke free of the winter knights that kidnapped him. However, mom also knew that I was scared of her leaving me alone because of dad. So she sent me to my room till she was ready to talk.

It was getting late, how much longer?

The door opened and mom was there. She  sat next to me on the bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Do you really think I prefer your father over you?”

“Not exactly, you just care for him a lot. I...i just panicked mom. I’m sorry.”

Mom then stroked my hair, smiling softly at me. I couldn't help but smile too, both my parents are really good to me.

“Kerrian, I love you just as much as I love your father. I’d never throw you out. I'd never blame you for your father's death. Although I don't like thinking about that notion it does plague me sometimes. But know this, you both mean the same to me.”

“I understand mom.”

Mom then kissed my forehead, “Good, I love you.”

“I love you too mom, and tell dad i love him too.”

Mom giggled, “I sure will, now sleep good night.”

“Good night mom.” and I fell deep into slumber feeling very lucky at my situation. 

[number-one-micoverse-fan]

A Son of Summer Storms

I friggin’ love fae lore and I love Micoverse so of course the second Em drew those fairy boys I was head over heels for it and had to write a thing.

This is soft and sweet and fluffy and I like it very much. 

---------

Once upon a time, a little boy wandered into the forest alone.

It started out as an ordinary forest and it was an ordinary path he walked down. But the moment he strayed from that path and pushed his way through a dense wall of summer lilacs, the mortal world fell away and he was lost in Fairyland.

And the Green Country was no place for a mortal child.

"Hello, little boy!"

A cheerful voice made Milo stop in his tracks, looking around for the source. The trees in this part of the woods (for he had no idea where he had wandered yet) were tall and wide with age, their canopies the richest emerald green in the universe.

"Hello?" Milo called, turning on the spot, the underbrush crunching softly under his sneakers, "Who's there? If--if you try to kidnap me, I'll bite you!"

Someone giggled and Milo spun around to see a tall young woman leaning against the base of a tree. She certainly hadn't been there mere moments before and there was something about her thin smile that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

She was thin, almost bony, with sharp features and fluffy brown hair that almost looked like feathers with the way it lay across her shoulders. The tips of her hair were saturated a brilliant pink that contrasted sharply with the simple black dress she wore and her feet were bare despite the forest they both stood in. Sunlight filtering through tree leaves played odd patterns across her bare skin and Milo had to blink away the blurry images of feathers rustling down her arms and spreading from her neck.

"Who're you?" He asked bravely, chin in the air, all the bluster of a teenager and the arrogance of a human.

"You can call me Birdie~" The girl trilled, skipping over the forest floor with barely a sound, her footsteps light. Within moments she was well into Milo's personal space, leaning close to him, starring into his eyes, "And what's your name? I bet it's something...noble sounding."

Milo swallowed hard, acutely aware of how close she was and how hard his heart was beginning to pound in his chest. This close, Birdie's eyes were a bright red that blended easily into soft pink, flecks of gold flickering in the light. Her soft, pink lips were curled into a curious smile. Milo couldn't look away from her.

"Uh", His voice felt like it was getting stuck somewhere inside him, "Um, I...my name's--"

Something crashed loudly in the forest and Milo jumped, snapping his head around to the right. Everything was still, except for the twittering birdsong and the sound of rustling leaves. A hand curled around his shoulder and he turned back to Birdie to find her smiling warmly at him. Her eyes looked like rubies glittering in the faint shadows of the trees.

"It's rude not to tell a lady your name," She purred. The pad of her thumb swept across his jaw, coming to rest on his chin. He could feel the tip of her fingernail brushing his lower lip and heat crept up his face, making his ears burn. Where she touched him, his skin felt like it was on fire and it made his head foggy and his stomach hot. The rest of the world fell away and all he could see were her bright, burning eyes.

He sucked in a shaking breath, tasted something slow and sweet like honey on his tongue, “M-my name’s Mi—“

A bellowing roar shattered the thick tension that had blanketed the hair’s breadth space between Milo and Birdie. Milo jerked backwards, twisting to try and see what was coming for them out of the forest, but a hand clamped down on his shoulder, pinning him in place, something sharp pricking into his skin. He looked up and let out a strangled cry of fear; Birdie’s human appearance had warped. Brown and red feathers had sprouted from her skin, needle teeth filled her mouth, and her flesh had turned a steely gray. Milo screamed, trying to shove her away even as her long red nails sank into his skin through his hoodie and pulled him closer.

“BIRDIIIIEEEEEEE!”

A huge figure exploded out of the trees and smashed into Birdie. A meaty fist closed around her throat and tore her away from Milo, her claws ripping over Milo’s shoulder and shredding his hoodie. Milo was stumbled and fell backwards, clutching at his arm as blood welled hot and stinging through his fingers.

His savior was a creature that was almost as big as a tree with browned skin and dark hair. Two horns curled from the wreath of flowers and ivy that seemed to sprout from his skin and his lower half consisted of sleek brown fur over muscular digitigrade legs. A long tail with a tuft of dark fur lashed the air behind him and his enormous black hooves dug pits into the forest floor as he slammed the thing that Birdie had become into the trunk of a tree.

“I told you to stay out of my forest!” The huge man snarled, unconcerned by Birdie’s claws as they raked across his bare chest and over his arms. They didn’t seem to be doing much damage, “And assaulting a yearling—shame on you!”

“He’s fair game! He’s only a—ghrnk!” Birdie’s retort was cut off as the horned man pressed his weight into her neck, choking off her air.

“Last warning, Birdie. Come here again and I’ll pop your head off easy as a dandelion, I swear to Fates themselves! Now get out fo here!” The man hurled Birdie to the ground and she scrambled away from him, hacking and coughing. As Milo watched in terror and awe, the back of Birdie’s dress bulged until it tore, splitting down the middle and slipping off her thin frame as two, massive blood red wings unfurled from her back, a tail of feathers spilling out behind her. With a decidedly inhuman scream, Birdie launched herself into the air, beating her wings until she’d ascended above the canopy. Soon, she was out of sight and, eventually, even the heavy beat of her wings faded away.

Milo’s rescuer snorted, scraping a hoof across the dirt before he turned his attention to Milo. He instantly softened, a warm and friendly smile spreading across his face as he crouched down in front of the frightened teenager. Milo shrank away, half his hoodie stained in blood and fear making the wounds bleed faster as his heart thudded in his chest.

“Easy, little one, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m here to help. I’ll take you to someone who can heal your wounds for you,” And before Milo could get away the big creature had scooped him up in his broad arms, cradling Milo’s small frame to his broad chest, “You can call me Dan. This may be a bit of a rough trek but try to get some rest. You’re safe in my forest, on my word.”

Milo barely managed to get a out a breathless gasp before Dan made his way back into the trees. His footsteps were shockingly light for his size, his hooves barely disturbing the plant life beneath them as he ran. In his arms, Milo was barely jostled by the movement and, with the sudden peace that had befallen them, the shock and pain of what had happened truly began to set it. The jagged cuts on his shoulder were stinging horribly and pulsed with deep, throbbing ache, making tears well into his eyes and choke his breath. He was lost in a forest he didn’t recognize, had been attacked by a monster bird-lady, and was now in the arms of some kind of giant cow-goat-man.

Milo began to cry.

It was a strangled and choked sob that left his throat, something he desperately tried to smother down as the shock sank an ice cold stone into the pit of his stomach. Tears smeared across his cheeks as he turned his face and tucked it into Dan’s striped sweater, shivering with pain and confusion and fear. He kept his face hidden and his eyes closed until he felt Dan’s gait slowing and, through the iron stench of blood in the back of his throat, he caught the scent of sweet flowers and crisp water.

“Cad atá mícheart!?” Even with his vision blurred by tears, Milo could see the surface of the small pond Dan had stopped in front of ripple with the words that came clear and sharp from nowhere, “I smell blood!”

Milo gasped, pressing back into Dan’s chest as a figure rose from the water with barely a splash. They stood on the surface of the crystal clear pond as if it were solid glass, a robe of perpetually falling water was draped from their shoulders and arms, casting them in an outline of rippling crystal waters.

Dan crouched down at the edge of the pond, carefully depositing Milo into the soft grass and tiny clusters of flowers. Milo stared up at the figure who’d come from the water as he hurried forward, tiny splashes popping under his bare feet until he too was crouching over the teenager.

“It was Birdie,” Dan said, a little breathless, one warm and steady hand on Milo’s back, “She was playing her usual games with this youngling in the forest. You can heal him, right Jake?”

Milo swallowed hard, looking up into Jake’s eyes; they were a soft, pale blue, as cool and calm as a sunny day’s sky. Despite having just risen from the water, his blond hair was fluffy and dry, a crown of thin, crystalline spires rested on his head, and beads of translucent silver-blue hung from his ears and clung to his wrists like morning dew drops.

“Dan…” Jake said carefully, eyeing Milo with a curious sort of concern, “This is a human…”

“What? But…but he has a tail…”

Jake tore his gaze from Milo and looked up at Dan with a somewhat exasperated expression, “Dan, croí tairisceana, it’s fake. It’s attached to his sweater.”

“B-but he smells like fae!” Dan protested desperately. Milo looked between them rapidly, frightened and still very much bleeding out across the grass.

Jake’s eyes flashed as he turned back to the shivering teenager, leaning so close Milo could see the glittering, wave-like patterns running down Jake’s cheeks and curling around his neck. The tight navy leotard under that waterfall robe was iridescent and shimmered shades of cerulean and turquoise beneath the sunbeams and the reflections from the water’s surfaces. Milo shrank away from the man, watching him warily, sniffling and trying to contain his tears.

“Come on, now, little one, Dan and I aren’t going to hurt you.” Jake told him with a gentle smile, “My pond’s magical, I can heal you.” He slid his hands under Milo’s arms and lifted him into the cool waters, helping him rest against the edge as the water lapped at his chin. Milo clung to Jake’s arms, shivering, wincing at the stinging pain in his shoulder, afraid of going under the water and being unable to come back up.

“You can call me Jake,” His fingers were light, summer raindrops and midmorning mist, as they helped ease Milo out of his torn hoodie, “I’m a water fae. And this is my good friend Dan,” Milo watched as Jake handed the drenched shark hoodie over to taller creature still on the shore, “He’s an earth fae, has a particular affinity for flowers. This is his forest. So my questions for you, little shark, are what do we call you, what is a small mortal like you doing in the Green Country, and why, of all things, do you have a fae woven garment?”

Milo frowned at the ropes of dark red blurring and smearing away in the water before he took a deep breath. Steeling himself, he glared up at the water fae,

“I dunno where this Green Country place is or what you mean by fae garment or whatever. But name’s Milo and I’m looking for my dad!”

Jake blanched and Dan made a strangled noise on the shore, nearly dropping the thin wooden needle and hemp colored thread he’d been using to mend Milo’s hoodie. Milo immediately got the sense that he’d just done something very, very wrong.

“Buachaill dúr!” Jake hissed, ducking low in the water and looking around frantically. One the shore, Dan got up and began to pace the perimeter of the clearing, turning his head this way and that, “Don’t you know anything!? Giving your name out like that! Honestly!” The water rippled angrily around him for a moment or two before it stilled again and he let out a sigh, “It’s out there now and the wind will carry it away. If we’re not careful…nh. I suppose there’s…nothing for it…”

“What? What did I do? I don’t understand?” Milo straightened up in the water, edges of his damp hair clinging to his neck, panic twittering a frightened bird in the ribcage of his chest.

“Names have power, little shark,” Jake said in a low voice, sympathetic, genuinely concerned as he sifted thin streams of water between his narrow fingers, “Giving someone your name gives them power over you and not all fae are as kind as Dan and I. You should have given us a nickname or a false name. Anything but your real name.”

“How do you know it was my real name?” Milo challenged, sticking his chin in the air.

Jake looked at him with those crystal blue eyes and then said in a very soft voice, almost a whisper, “Milo.”

And Milo felt it.

He felt his own name reverberate in his chest, tug at something deep inside him that resonated through his bones and made his scalp tingle. It was as if someone had tugged on the very thread of his being. He felt like if they pulled any harder than he would come completely undone and would cease to be Milo at all. It left a sensation like fear that someone could know him so intimately, but somehow gave him comfort that anyone knew him like that at all.

It left him dazed and gasping, blinking stars from his eyes as Jake’s cool and gentle hands kept him from slipping under the surface of the water.

“That’s why you don’t give your name to fae,” Jake was all sympathy and soft touches, hoisting Milo out of the water and setting him on the grass as Dan came back from his circuit around the clearing, “Now, we need to get you back to the mortal world before—“

“I don’t want to go back!” Milo shoved Jake’s hands away with a scowl, “I’m looking for my dad and I’m not going back to the foster home until I find him!”

“Foster home,” Dan repeated, brow furrowing as he settled back down on the grass and picked up the hoodie again, “You don’t have parents?”

“All I have is that hoodie,” Milo nodded to the shark-tailed sweater Dan was still stitching up, “It’s the only thing my dad left me. I never even met my dad and my mom gave me up when I was real little. This forest—or, the forest I was in earlier?—was the last place my dad was seen. So I’m looking for him.” He wrapped his arms around himself and then blinked in surprise, peering at his shoulder, “Ah! My arm! It’s healed!”

“I did say my waters were magic,” Jake said smugly, leaning against the bank and resting his chin on his folded arms, “And I still think we should return you to the mortal world. It’s dangerous for humans to be in fairy country, especially now that you’ve said your name aloud.”

“And I said I’m not leaving!” Milo said stubbornly, “Unless you can help me find my dad, I’m not going anywhere!”

Jake looked helplessly at Dan who simply shrugged and snapped off the thread he’d been using. He handed the hoodie back to Milo who took it gladly and clutched it to his wet chest, grateful to have it back. He looked more relaxed now that he had it with him again.

“That sweater was made by a fae,” Dan said, tilting his head slightly, as if he were observing something curious to him, “It’s very special and carries a very strong magic. You should take good care of it.”

“I always do,” Milo said. And he meant it.

There was silence for a moment, filled with the sound of the forest around them. It was a weighted quiet, one where danger paced on the edges, just out of sight, in the shadows of the trees and on the distant horizon; an uncertain future. But in that moment, between the three of them, there was a comfort and companionship that was sprouting, a tiny bud of a blooming flower, still green and climbing from the shell of its seed. All it needed was to be nurtured.

“You should stay here for now,” Dan finally said and Jake snapped his head up, looking shocked at the suggestion, “It’s going to be dark soon and finding a way for you to get back will be too dangerous to do at night. You can’t go back the way you came in, so we’ll have to find a different path for you to take.”

“I’m not leaving,” Milo repeated with a huff, “But I’m not sleeping on the ground either.”

Dan chuckled, climbing back to his hooves,

“Then let me work a little magic…”

*****

It only took a little bit of gentle coaxing and some whispered words for the giant, old tree sitting right at the edge of the pond to billow out and up, forming a massive hollow in the base of its trunk. The grass smoothed itself down into a short, soft carpet, a short, rather fat tree melted itself into shallow sort of bowl that Dan packed with feather pillows and satin soft blankets, and sweet scented flowers curled into vines that draped over the entrance to give the little hut some privacy.

Milo was absolutely over the moon to see magic in action and he pestered Dan for several hours afterwards about how it was done. Jake laughed at the pair of them which drew Milo’s attention and the water fae soon found himself under a barrage of questions about his own particular magic. By the time it seemed Milo had exhausted his inquiries, the sky was turning soft pink and bruise purple and silver-white stars were beginning to show themselves against the blurring colors. The air was growing cooler, the tropical heat weather turning to an autumn night chill.

Once, and only once, was the pleasant atmosphere broken. Milo had wandered to the edge of the clearing, curious but unwillingly to stray too far from the two fae who had treated him so kindly. Dan and Jake were talking quietly to one another when Jake suddenly bolted upright and spun in his pond, flinging a hand out in Milo’s direction. A tendril of water snapped snake-like through the air, lashing itself around Milo’s wrist and dragging him away from the bush he’d been standing next to. The teenager stumbled, dropping the handful of berries he’d been about to pop into his mouth. He glared at Jake as the water fae had released him.

“What the hell’d you do that for?”

“Don’t. Eat. The food.” Jake said seriously, “Never eat the food in Fairyland. Or you will never, ever find your way home.”

Milo stared at him with an odd blankness, a faint crease between his brows that was a mixture of so many emotions it would have been impossible to give it a name. When he spoke, his voice was hollowed out and tinged with painful rot,

“I don’t have a home.”

*****

It was dark.

Milo had long since fallen asleep in the small house Dan had made for him, once again in his hoodie and wrapped in blankets. He was breathing softly in the quiet of the forest’s night sounds, only stirring occasionally in his dreams.

Dan watched him through the curtain of leaves and flowers for a moment, affection and concern and maybe a tinge of longing in his warm eyes. Then he turned away, tail swinging back and forth, his hoofsteps as soft as ever. Jake was on the opposite side of his pond from the little hut, acting like he was ignoring it even as it was clear he was keeping it in the corner of his eye. Dan crossed around the edge of the pond and settled down in the grass nearby. The surface of the water looked like a small patch of the sky, violet-blue-black and sewn with diamond stars, only disturbed every so often by a firefly’s flickering light as it darted across the pond. Pale white blossoms in the branches of the giant tree-turned-hut glowed in the moonlight, and the sounds of the night forest hummed a soft lullaby into the dark.

Jake was leaning against the bank again, lazily turning his fingers around some purple flowers that had opened their petals wide to drink in the night. Dan watched him for a long stretch of quiet time, neither of them speaking, just enjoying each other’s company, acutely aware of the mortal presence asleep on the other side of the pond.

“He shouldn’t stay here,” Jake murmured, his eyes lidded and almost tired looking. The crystals on his wrist shimmered with reflected starlight, almost like chips of ice in the night, “It’s not safe.”

“His name is on the wind,” Dan said with a heavy sigh, “He’s not safe anywhere. Even if we found a way for him to go back, some fae could still come through and snatch him.”

Jake looked solemn, dropping his hand from playing with the flowers and folding his arms to rest his head on them again. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, and sighed. A breeze rustled through the clearing, stirring up a scent like apple blossoms and sugar. The surface of the pond didn’t move.

“We could adopt him.” Dan offered and Jake shot up to fast he caused a wave to roll across his pond, splashing in on itself before it calmed again, “No, wait, Jake, hear me out, all right. He—he’s alone. He said it himself, he’s alone and he doesn’t have a home or a family.”

“Dan—“

“Jake! Listen! His name is already on the wind! He’s in danger as it is,” Dan sounded like he was pleading, “But—but if we adopted him, if we keep his name, then no one else can take him. And you and I both know we won’t…we wouldn’t…he wouldn’t be a thrall, Jake, he’d be safe.” Jake bit his lip, glancing towards the hut, nervously weaving his waterfall robe through his fingers, “He doesn’t have anybody. And he said he’d stay here anyway. If…if we can just do one good thing…Jake…we’d be…all he has…”

“His world,” Jake’s voice was low, careful, afraid, “We’d be his world, Dan. We’d have to—do you know what that would take. This place…it’s not for humans. Even if he has that sweater, this place will eat him alive if it can.”

“We’ll teach him.” Dan said resolutely.

“He’d need to learn of the Courts, of where he’s not to cross, of how to speak to fae so they can’t own you.”

“We can do this, Jake.

“Dan!” Jake sounded desperate, his gaze searching, his mind grasping for a reason why this was wrong, why they shouldn’t do this, why they should forget the boy and leave him to the mortal world. But he’d known the second Dan had suggested it that he wanted to protect that little boy. A child, abandoned and alone and hurting, blessed with a fae gift he didn’t know the origins of, unafraid of the wonders and dangers of the Green Country. A brave and noble soul like the knights of old legend.

“Maybe we could find his father…” Jake said, more to himself than to Dan. But his friend answered anyway.

“You know he’s probably a fae, right? His dad is probably fae so—“

“He’s probably here somewhere.” Jake sighed, shoulders slumping in a defeat that had happened long before, “All right. All right, we’ll take his name. Tá mé ró-shean le haghaidh seo…”

Dan chuckled, his smile bright in the dark, tail flicking happily in the grass.

They both turned to look at the hut where, behind a curtain of sweet, colorful flowers, in the quiet belly of an old tree, protected by magics as old as time, was a little boy with fire red hair and lightning in his soul who had wandered into the forest alone.

The little boy, Milo. The son of summer storms.

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

Translations: Cad atá mícheart!? = What’s wrong!? croí tairisceana = tender heart Buachaill dúr! = Stupid boy! Tá mé ró-shean le haghaidh seo... = I’m too old for this...

[who-gave-atlas-a-pencil]

nothing like a funeral (to make you feel alive)

A/N: Title comes from the acoustic version of “Life is Beautiful” by Sixx AM.

Summary: It’s been a long day for both of them, but they’ll live.

Read on AO3 for notes.

Written for @eldritchjackalope . Tagging @shwarmi​ as requested.

The trouble starts, as usual, with a shoot-out.

The wood right next to Matthew’s head splinters as a bullet rips through it, two inches east of being fatal. On his other side, Clayton cusses a blue streak to make Swearengen blush and Matthew wonders, not for the first time, how it is that he ran away from a war and still finds himself getting shot at on the regular.

“They’re gonna try to flank us,” Clayton says, the words half a growl.

Matthew nods his understanding. “Then I suggest we flank ‘em first.” He listens to the sharp rapport of gunfire around the front side of the Deadwood bank and gestures for Clayton to go right before ducking around to the left.

Out toward the front, a glass bottle shatters with a burst of heat Matthew can feel from fifty feet away. One of the bandits screams and Matthew finds himself more thankful than he usually is for Aly’s good aim. Miriam’s going to miss that whiskey, but it’s gone to good use.

Matthew rounds the corner and comes faces to face with one of the outlaws. He reacts on instinct, unloads three rounds into the bastard’s chest and watches the light leave his eyes before he hits the ground. He doesn’t think about it, just steps forward easy as breathing and aims at another man across the street who’s pinning the ladies down. On the other side of the building, he hears the familiar pop of Clayton’s Colts and takes it as a good sign, squeezes the trigger of his revolver and watches the bandit across the street go down.

It doesn’t take long after that. The people they’re fighting used to have numbers, but they certainly don’t have skill. Between the combined efforts of all involved parties, it’s only another minute or two before the gunfire stops and fades into an echo, and Matthew dares to take a breath.

There’s six bodies in the street but he doesn’t know any of them, and it’s a welcome change. Matthew holsters his revolver and leaves the doorway he’d taken shelter in, meets Miriam in the middle of the street. Her dark eyes are gleaming with a mixture of adrenaline and pride, and she slings an arm over his shoulder to pull him in for a tight hug. “Nice shooting, Matthew,” she whispers, pleased as punch.

Matthew grins. “You did a fair job yourself. You’re quite adept with that rifle these days. You too, Bella,” he says, nodding in her direction as she approaches and Swearengen appears with a glass of whiskey on the balcony of the Gem, surveying the situation like he always does.

Bella's got her pistol tucked away again and looks innocent as the virgin herself, but her smile is sharper than a wolf's. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve been practising in my free time.”

“Explains all the fucked up lanterns I keep findin’ around town,” Clayton drawls, approaching from behind Matthew with Aloysius not far behind. “You could take out all that excess rage you got brewin’ on somethin’ a little less flammable. There’s plenty of whiskey bottles around this place.”

“That’s a mighty fine idea except for the part where I need those bottles myself, unless you want me to stop with all the little fires I keep settin’,” Aly interrupts, raising an eyebrow and leaning on his rifle. “I don’t mind either way. My baby and I are real good together on our own.”

“Barring any further discussions of Mister Fogg’s unique relationship with his weaponry, is everyone alright?” Miriam’s voice has an edge to it that was absent only moments before, and he knows they all notice. She’s come a long way since that day three months ago in the street when she’d sobbed over Clayton’s body, but the road to forgiving Aloysius is a long one and she’s yet to reach the end of it. Everyone confirms their intactness to her with various gestures and jokes, and Matthew notices the way Arabella’s arm snakes around Miriam’s waist just a little too snug to be counted as friendly.

Not that he has any room to judge, or any reason.

“Sounds to me like a situation well-handled,” Aloysius says, clapping his hands together. “How about a drink at the Gem? First round’s on me.”

“I’ll handle the second out of courtesy,” Miriam says, her smile strained at the edges around the old joke. They all drink free most days at the Gem, but somebody always has to play along. The five of them turn toward the saloon, their backs to the bank and the bodies on the ground, already being moved away by a beleaguered Bullock and his deputies. Matthew turns away last. Maybe that’s why he’s the one who sees it – the way the shadows by the doorway shift in anticipation just as a bloody hand grasps at the frame and a man halfway to bleeding out steps into view with his gun raised.

Matthew sees where he’s aiming, and he doesn’t think twice. He slams into Clayton to knock him out of the way on instinct just as the gun goes off and it works, thank Christ, it fucking works. The bullet misses him entirely.

It buries itself in Matthew instead.

He makes a sound, though he doesn’t quite mean to, his hand flying to his chest as the blood begins to pour warm and thick through his fingers. He gapes like a landed fish and another gun goes off and oh, there’s arms around him now, Clayton’s arms, and he staggers back into them while his eyebrows furrow together in pain.

He didn’t expect it to be like this.

“Matthew!” Clayton’s hands are tight around his arms, his eyes wide with an unfamiliar fear. “Matt, you fuckin’ idiot, what did you do?”

Matthew blinks, confused. Clayton always feels so warm when they’re close like this. Three months ago, his body had been cold. He’d bled out on this street, quick and messy. It won’t happen again.  

The blood between his fingers is moving sluggishly now, clotted up and clogged in the fabric of his vestments. They'll never clean up right, but he doesn’t think it’ll matter. Matthew meets Clayton’s eyes, gapes uselessly for words that don’t come. The ground beneath his feet gives way to a dark pit. Don’t let me go, Clayton says, and Matthew tries but his hands are too slick with bloodsweatfear and they slip on the ropes, send him falling uselessly downward-

Miriam’s screams follow him into the dark.

---

Matthew wakes in a room on the top floor of the Gem with Clayton standing over him and pulling at his shirt. He’s had this dream enough times to know what comes next but there’s something wrong with the way the fabric sticks to his skin, the way Clayton’s face is twisted with panic.

Matthew grabs the gunslinger’s hand from where it’s pulling at the collar of his shirt. “What are you doin’?”

Clayton shakes him off. “Don’t talk, you stubborn fuck, just stay still.” The shirt isn’t going anywhere, and Clayton swears loudly as he draws the knife at his hip. He grabs a fistful of the fabric of Matthew’s vestments and cuts and the sound of ripping fabric echoes in the room before Matthew can even begin to process what’s happening.

He winces as the sticking cloth pulls away from his skin and grabs at Clayton’s hand, another question forming on his lips only to die midway when he sees the look on his face. The knife clatters to the ground and Matthew follows Clayton’s stunned gaze to his own chest and finds, quite suddenly, that breathing is a lot more difficult than it’s supposed to be.

There’s a bullet wound square over his heart. He knows why it’s there, understands why it’s a cause for concern. What he doesn’t understand is why it’s not bleeding anymore.

He blinks, waiting for some logic to occur to him. He’s gone loopy from injuries before, has even done it in front of Clayton on at least one occasion, and for a moment he’s convinced that’s what’s happening now. Then he touches the wound and finds the blood already drying like a thin coat of paint.

The door opens and Miriam rushes in with Bella, bandages and surgical instruments and a bottle of whisky in hand. They see Matthew propped on one elbow and the bottle hits the ground with a sound like a window breaking and somehow, it feels like a metaphor for every moment that is now converging.

Matthew laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Somewhere in his throat it turns into a terrified keen and he tugs the shredded vestments back around him, his guts clenching inside while his fingers clamp white knuckled on his arms, the blood rushing away from the pressure he’s applying except maybe it’s not, maybe he doesn’t even have blood inside him, maybe it’s all just decoration, maybe he’s just fucking insane he’s done it now he’s snapped he’s gone they’re gonna tie him down and lobotomise him pick pieces out of his brain until he can’t find a way to scream them all awake anymore and give them all away-

“Come on, Matty, ease up, I got you.” Clayton’s hands hold on tightly over Matthew’s and then his arms are back around him again and Matthew clings to him, his breaths suddenly more shallow than they were on the street when he still thought he was dying. “I got you, come on.”

“I think our services are best suited elsewhere, Arabella,” Miriam says, grabbing the supplies from her hands to place them on the lone chair in the room. There’s something in her eyes but Matthew doesn’t know it, can’t make sense of the hidden meaning. “We’ll be downstairs with Aloysius if you two gentlemen need anything.”

The door closes again and Matthew knots his fingers in Clayton’s vest, breathing hard, trying to focus on the somewhat awkward soothing motions of Clayton’s hands across his back. The last time they were close like this, he was bleeding from a knife to the leg and for a terrible, warped moment Matthew wishes he was there again, pressed up beside Clayton and lightheaded from the blood that had poured out of his leg like it was fucking supposed to instead of seizing up and staying put. It’s an awful thing to consider but that doesn’t stop him from thinking and wanting it just the same.

“Where you at, Matty?” Clayton’s voice is an anchor in the sudden storm of his mind and Matthew clings to it with all his might. “You here with me?”

“I don’t know.” Matthew is scared to look at Clayton’s face, far from certain what he’ll see there. Of everyone he knows that Clayton will understand, but that’s wrong too. Clayton shouldn’t have to understand. Clayton should never have dug his way out of a coffin should never have been in a coffin should never have been underground he still remembers the way the wood felt beneath his hands, flimsy and cold in comparison to how solid the man inside it had been and maybe he should have jumped in front  of the bullet then, too, because apparently it wouldn’t have done him any harm anyway. “What is this?” he chokes out. “Clayton, what the fuck am I?”

“Alive.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You’re alive enough for me,” Clayton says, tightening his grip. “I ain’t about to judge on accounts of bein’ natural or not.”

Matthew wants to say something, wants to protest, but he can’t make himself do it. Instead he buries his face in the crook of Clayton’s neck and shudders breathlessly, trying hard to grasp at some semblance of control when the very concept feels like a hideous joke. He’s not sure how long he stays there, just knows that Clayton keeps a steady hold on him the whole while and doesn’t say a word. He’s grateful for that, really. Conversation is a skill far beyond him right now, but he lets himself be held until his breathing returns to normal and the world stops spinning at long last.

Cautiously, Matthew pulls away from Clayton, exhaling slow and deep. Clayton’s grip loosens but doesn’t drop entirely, and his slate blue eyes are bright with concern as they fix on Matthew’s face. “You alright?”

Matthew nods, swallowing hard. “Better.”

“Good.” Clayton nods toward the hole in Matthew’s chest without ever looking away. “What are we doin’ about that?”

Never thinking about it again, Matthew doesn’t say, both because he knows that’s impossible and because it’s not what Clayton’s asking. He can’t go around with a hole in his chest, bleeding or not. “Think Bella brought up some things, left ‘em on the chair.”

“You want me to do the stitchin’, or you want her?”

Matthew doesn’t want to look at anybody but Clayton right now, but he knows he’ll have to face them eventually. “I suppose we all might as well go on this adventure together,” he says hesitantly. Clayton nods, his grip falling away completely, and Matthew feels the loss like a tangible thing. Without thinking he grabs for Clayton’s hand before he can get out of reach. Clayton stops immediately and looks back at him, but Matthew doesn’t meet his eyes. He just swallows and stares at their joined hands. “Don’t go.”

Clayton nods. “Alright. Just a few steps.” He squeezes Matthew’s hand and pulls away just enough to open the door, their fingertips still brushing as he does. He says something to someone Matthew can’t see and then he’s back on the bed beside him, fingers resting against the pulse point of his wrist while Matthew holds his hand tight enough to crush it.

There’s a knock on the door before too much longer. It opens slowly to reveal all three of the others, wide-eyed with concern as they look at Matthew. They make their way in and then stand there, awkwardly silent, none of them daring to address the elephant in the room.

It’s Miriam who finds her voice first. “You feelin’ more composed, Reverend?”

“Much,” he says, mostly honest.

“Then we should get that hole in you resolved. Arabella?”

“Of course.” She starts doing something with the needle and thread as Miriam comes to sit on Matthew’s other side.

Aloysius stays standing at the door, looking between Matthew and Clayton long enough that he starts to grow uncomfortable. It’s Clayton who brings the matter to attention though, his voice careful and measured. “Somethin’ on your mind, Mister Fogg?”

Aly shakes his head. “Just thinkin’ that the pair of you are two of a goddamn kind.”

“And?” Miriam snaps.

“And nothin’. It’s a good thing. Ain’t neither of you belongs in the ground just yet.” He looks at Clayton but doesn’t hold his gaze for long, eyes going to the floor.

After everything, Clayton’s forgiveness toward Aly had been a cautious, quick thing, given far more easily than it had been due. They’ve all talked with him about it on different occasions, but the bad air between them still hangs heavy sometimes, and just now Matthew can’t deal with the weight of it, the way Clayton’s mouth tightens wordlessly around the edges. “Then I suggest we all be thankful to whatever deities we’re inclined to,” he says, “because it seems neither of us are going to be heading anywhere.”

Clayton’s eyes flash toward Matthew with gratitude, and the tension eases somewhat. “Got bigger fish to fry anyway,” Clayton says, nodding again toward the hole in Matthew’s chest. Arabella steps forward with an alcohol soaked rag in one hand and an apologetic expression on her face as she starts to clean the wound with a practised carefulness.

For all her attempts at being gentle, it still hurts like a bitch. Matthew grits his teeth and closes his eyes and thanks God that Clayton’s always with him when these things happen, because it’s just about the only thing keeping him from slipping back into memories that are far worse than his current sense of doubt.

Arabella’s halfway through stitching before she finally breaks the silence when Matthew winces with a particular emphasis. “It’s a bit strange,” she says quietly, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Cynthia was always better at sewing than I was, but somehow I keep finding myself holding a needle.”

“I imagine your sister used quite a different canvas when she did her work,” Matthew says, careful not to flinch when the needle goes through skin again. “There are some things people frown upon displayin’ on the walls.”

“The concepts transfer better than you might think,” Bella replies, and he feels the pain in her eyes as keenly as his own. She’s come a long way in being able to talk about it, but loss is always a terrible thing.

Miriam touches Matthew’s arm, drawing his attention away as Arabella begins to sew. “You make it awful hard to keep that good heart of yours beating, sometimes,” she says, her voice strained the same terrible way it had been three months ago. “That was a very foolish thing you did.”

“Not nearly as foolish as it could have been. Seems my heart hasn’t been beating for some time.” It’s meant to come out as a joke but it falls far too flat in the silence and Miriam just holds his hand tighter with a look on her face like her own heart’s breaking.

Aloysius clears his throat quietly. “I ain’t lookin’ anything to start anything, and if there’s a God He knows I don’t deserve an answer to this but….about that heartbeat thing. You got any ideas, Reverend?”

Matthew shakes his head. “When I left the cavalry, things had been…close, for a time. I made it out, by what grace I don’t know, but I managed.”

“Well, I imagine being bulletproof must have helped in that endeavor,” Bella murmurs. She breaks the thread on his stitches and gestures for Matthew to finish removing his shirt. “Do you remember when that started?”

“No,” Matthew admits with another frown. “As far as I can recall, I’ve always endured injuries the same way as everyone else. I can’t even begin to think when that would have changed.” He turns on the bed to face his back toward Bella so she can address the exit wound, struggling with the distinct memory of when he had nicked himself shaving and bled for twenty  minutes, of having taken his shoulder out of commission for three days climbing trees as a child.

He’s so lost in thought that it escapes him for a minute, the way the silence spreads sudden and cold in the room once he isn’t facing the others. As soon as Matthew picks up on it, he stiffens with a sudden nervousness and looks over his shoulder to see what the hold-up is.

Instead, he sees four different variations of shock staring back at him – Arabella’s jaw dropped, Aloysius’s eyes so wide with shock that Matthew half-expects them to pop out of his head, Miriam’s hands trembling just barely in her lap. Clayton’s expression is neutral as ever, but there’s something shuttered about it now, like he’s making a special effort to keep his face clean of any giveaways.

A deep, cold wariness creeps into Matthew’s chest and settles like a rock in his stomach. “What is it?”

Of all people, it’s Aloysius who finds a way to speak first. “Nothin’ major, Reverend. Think we’re all just tryin’ to wrap our heads around you bein' shot in the back before.”

“What?” Matthew’s hand flies up to his back on instinct, blindly groping for proof. The contortion is strange and pulls at his stitches and Arabella has just started to protest about the risks of tearing them out entirely when he finds it, his fingertips sliding through the fresher blood on his back to find a long-healed scar over his heart, big and round as a quarter.

His traces it once, twice, a third time. He thinks of his last ride with the cavalry, how they had sabotaged the munitions of a nearby camp and the fuse had been wrong and he’d woken up as the only survivor in a fort full of corpses. He’d taken his life and he’d ran as fast as he’d been able to manage, not caring what it looked like, what any of them would have to say if they went back through the bodies and found his wasn’t there.

He’d thought he’d made it. He really had.

Miriam’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes, and it’s only then that he realises he’s started laughing again, soft with disbelief. “Reverend?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

Matthew blinks at her and stupidly tries for a bravado that falls entirely flat. “I suppose this explains the fog, then. Guess I wasn't so lucky after all.”

“Oh, Matthew,” she says, and her face crumples like a wet piece of paper and then she’s hugging him the way his mother used to, tight and sturdy as an iron clamp, her face buried in his shoulder. He returns the gesture on instinct, far past the point of registering if he’s getting more blood on her dress because it hardly seems important.

There’s a lot of things that don’t seem important right now. Matthew breathes slow and steady and pulls away long before he really wants to, tugging the shredded fabric of his shirt back over his shoulders. Arabella protests on the grounds of still needing to bandage him but he shakes his head and she lets it go, her lips tight with concern. There’s not much to say after that and none of them bother trying, just filter out one by one again until it’s only Clayton and Matthew in the room again.

Matthew can feel Clayton’s eyes on him like a physical weight, but he doesn’t meet them. He just studies the blood under his fingernails, on the floor and both their hands. There’s supposed to be more of it for a wound like his, but there isn’t and there won’t be and he knows that, feels sick thinking about it.

“’f you want, we can take this back to the church,” Clayton murmurs after a long while. “Oughta get that wrapped up still, even considerin’- well. All of it.”

Matthew laughs and doesn’t look up. “Don’t think I belong there, in light of recent revelations.” Clayton opens his mouth in an admonishment but Matthew cuts him off before he can really start. “I wonder if that’s why Cynthia came back? Makes sense that somethin’ soulless couldn’t send anyone else’s soul on.”

“And who says you ain’t got a soul?” Clayton shoots back, the words an obvious challenge.

“How could I possibly know? Whatever it is that brought me back, it – maybe it was God, but we don’t know that. You said it yourself. God don’t play cards.”

Clayton leans forward onto his elbows. “You remember playin’ poker at the pearly gates, Matt?”

He shakes his head.

“Didn’t think so. You remember fuckin’ around some wasteland where you couldn’t see shit and all you heard were voices around and a bunch of hands?” A pause, another shake of Matthew’s head. “Well, that’s good then, because I do.”

“Clayton-”

“No. Look at me.” He hesitates and Clayton reaches out, guides his chin up with one hand. It’s not a rough gesture, but it’s far from gentle, and when Matthew meets the other man’s eyes he finds them burning.  “I’m not sayin’ that to get sympathy, I’m sayin’ it to make a point. If I got through that and came back and I ain’t damned, you don’t get to say you are.”

“But-”

“No buts. Not on this. I ain’t inclined to arguin’ much, Matthew Mason, and sure as hell not with you. But I’ll say this as many times as it needs sayin’. You’re not soulless. Anyone in this fuckin’ town has a soul, it’s you.”

Matthew’s always been stubborn as sin, and he knows it. There’s an argument on his tongue immediately, but it fades away like it’s been burned in the wake of Clayton’s gaze, his certainty. Matthew doesn’t think he’s ever heard him say so much at one time, and he doesn’t know how to react to being the subject of it now, doesn’t know how to react to any of this. “We have no idea what’s kept me here. How can you be so certain it’s good?”

Clayton’s eyes soften like chips of ice in a child’s hands. “’Cause I know you, and I wouldn’t if it weren’t for whatever luck’s kept you on your feet. I ain’t gonna be angry about that. I don’t care what it is.”

Matthew can’t help it. He stares at Clayton, even though he knows he shouldn’t, that Clayton hates it, that it’s a foolish thing to do for so many reasons that he can barely begin to list them all. He stares and he finds himself drifting again, only this time rather than drifting away he feels himself pulled in closer to Clayton and farther to sea, off his feet and into the uncertain depths of things he hasn’t felt for years and is half-afraid of still.

He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s done to deserve this or how he’s even here when he’s supposed to be underground, but Clayton’s right about one thing. They’d never have met if things weren’t what they are. Whatever God or other force is responsible for that, it’s holy enough to hold to.

Matthew lets out a breath he hasn’t noticed himself holding and nods once, twice. He trusts Clayton’s judgment. He trusts him. “Alright,” he says, “You wanna take this back to mine? Think we could both use a drink while we clean up.”

Clayton nods, stands up, and hands Matthew his coat before he can even ask. “I’ll follow you,” he says, and holds open the door.

---

The evening finds them in Matthew’s room above the church, still together and not particularly bothered by the alcohol they’ve been having. They’ve been trading a flask between the two of them for a few hours now, taking periodic sips from it and talking in between or else sitting in a strangely companionable silence. Clayton doesn’t stray too far from arm’s reach and whether that’s intentional or not, Matthew can only be grateful for it.

It’s late, and he’s turned the lamps down. The only light in the room comes from streaks of early moonlight and the slowly dying fire through the slats of Matthew’s stove, and Clayton is next to him on the bed, close enough to touch if he was feeling brave. He isn’t though, which is why Matthew takes another drink instead and sits the flask between them again, leaning it up against Clayton’s leg. He’s been staring at the fire for some time now, and if the silence weren’t so companionable Matthew thinks he’d be concerned.

He should go to sleep sooner rather than later, he thinks. Miriam will be wanting to see him tomorrow, and probably Swearengen unless he’s missed his guess. He likes to be in the know about everything, whether it’s his business or not. Matthew’s in the midst of weighing the merits of not telling him anything when Clayton speaks beside him, a low murmur that breaks the silence. “Got a question for you. Dumb one.”

Mathew blinks, perplexed, then shifts. “I suppose that will excuse if my answer is equally foolish. What’s on your mind?”

“Today,” Clayton says, then stops himself without warning. “Earlier, after all the fuss this afternoon.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” he prods.

“Forget it.”

“What is it, Clayton? What’s goin’ on?”

“This afternoon, when you knocked me outta the way. You really didn’t know?” Clayton bites out the question like it physically pains him and doesn’t look at Matthew.

He frowns, not entirely convinced Clayton wants an answer, much less an honest one. “No,” he says anyway. “I didn’t.”

“Then why?”

Because I wasn’t about to watch it happen again, Matthew doesn’t say. His hand drifts absently to his now bandaged chest and he shrugs. “You’ve been through enough on that street, is all. Didn’t seem fair to let you go through it again.”

Clayton closes his eyes and breathes out slowly through his nose, like he’s contemplating something difficult long and hard. Matthew knows what he’s thinking without him saying it, because it’s been going through his mind too, a non-stop loop of thinking about how much worse it could have been, how much worse it almost was. “It was mighty foolish of you, Matty. Brave, but stupid.”

“I know,” Matthew says, swallowing back a very different kind of pain at the sound of the old name. “I would apologise, but I’m afraid it didn’t really occur to me to think it through at the time. It was instinct more than anything.”

Clayton snorts softly. “Instinct, huh? You and your protective streak. Gotta be wider than the fuckin’ town at this rate.”

Only because I’ve got so much that’s worth protecting, Matthew thinks. He watches Clayton watch the fire from the corner of his eye and thinks, for a long moment, about what might happen if he said what was on his mind for once. This thing between them, whatever it is, will have to be addressed one day. It feels bigger with every passing week and he knows he can’t be the only one who sees it, not when Clayton is so much more clever and observant than he ever will be.

But whatever they have to discuss one day, they won’t do it tonight. Neither of them have that sort of energy, and even if they did, well. They’ve both covered themselves in too much of each other’s blood for the day to be saying anything too heartfelt. Instead of talking, Matthew stands, stretching carefully. “Think it’s time I head off to sleep. You going back to the Bullock for the night?”

Clayton nods. “Probably should.”

“You don’t have to.” The words are out of Matthew’s mouth before he can think to stop them, and even though he thinks he’s lost enough blood today that blushing should be a moot point, his cheeks warm traitorously. He gestures vaguely toward the bed and the room at large. “There’s room enough for two. If you want.”

There’s a long, strange moment where Clayton just stares at him and the silence feels somewhere close to endless. Then he nods. “Might as well. Heard we’re expectin’ a storm. This is probably 'bout to be the only warm place in the whole fuckin' town.”

Matthew’s heard no such rumours, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, he waits for Clayton to move and pulls the covers down, curling up on his side on one half of the bed. He’s stretching the truth a little about how much room there is but at this point they’ve shared smaller spaces. Clayton joins him a moment later, doesn’t even make an argument about taking the chair this time. It says a lot about how bad the day has been, really.

They lay there in silence, the room too dark to even see each other’s eyes. It’s almost a surprise when after several minutes, Matthew feels a hand against his chest, a little cool and somewhat shaky. There are matching bullet holes in them now, and it’s a strange thing how comforting it is to not be alone in this. Matthew covers Clayton’s hand with one of his own, places the other against where he knows Clayton's own scar is. “Glad you’re alive,” he murmurs.

Beside him, he feels Clayton shudder so faintly it’s barely noticeable. Beneath his palm, the heartbeat is steady and strange, colder than life but so much warmer than the grave will ever be. “Me too,” Clayton says.

Whatever any of this means, Matthew has no idea. He supposes they’ll figure it out together now. It’s as scary a thought as he’s ever had, but the company makes it easier, and when he closes his eyes the shadows behind them don’t chase him to sleep for once. He hopes that when Clayton finally drifts off, he’ll feel the same.

It’s been a long day for both of them, but they’ll live.

[posidven]

《nepenthe》- RK900 x Reader

warnings: character death, mentions of gore, implied smut (kinda?? barely??)

word count: 1.2k

a/n: hihihi so number one i poured my heart and soul into this so i really hope you guys like it and two it’s also for sadie ( @connorshero )’s 1.6k challenge!! i’ve never been more proud of something i’ve written, so thank you for that!

It was the nights where he bathed in moonlight that you truly tasted rapture. The evenings where he slipped into stasis earlier than you could fall asleep, a rarity that you relished so lovingly.

The ones where you spent what you wish could be eternity slipping through the sheets, skin against skin, bare for exclusively the other’s eyes to intercept.

The tender sensation of his fingertips upon your skin always evaporated too abruptly. You eternally yearned for the feeling of his lips against yours once more, returning you to your disposition of ecstasy, to no avail.

It was nights like this where all you could do was hark to the vibration of his thirium pump simulate the movements of a human heart, trapped beneath a slate of plastic and the ever so sleek synthetic skin.

Midnight hours where you could scrutinize his features, piece by piece that you felt alive. The ones where your fingers helplessly outline his frame.

You crossed each freckle dusting his figure, planted there deliberately by his creator. The salient line of his jaw, that flawlessly orchestrates his dark exterior. His lips, still lingering with the warmth superintended to cater to your touch.

It was natural to disregard the wicked things when bodies merge with sheets. The rhythm of one another apprehending your thoughts for the moment.

The strain of the day to day, the stinging of the antiquity, all swept aside by the tangibility of manufactured lips against your skin.

It’s simple to shift elsewhere from your existence when a being as faultless as him wavered over you. He was perfect, constructed to be so. Though somehow you can’t help but question, at what cost?

He appeared consequently different tonight. The harmony was wiped from his image, replaced by a look of derision as his eyes fasten amidst yours.

You shiver in the crisp air, longing for heat, yet he remains motionless. It was all so pleasant at first. Resting on a park bench, observing the river as it progressed, however, something had shifted. His LED wavered amidst a golden yellow and burning red. He nictitated suddenly and presently you’re here.

You gaze down the barrel of the gun, aimed flawlessly between your eyebrows. Burning tears discharged from your eyes, spilling down your features.

He bared no regression. Stoic and absent, utterly converged on his mission.

You aspired to beg and implore. Assure him you love him and he didn’t have to perform this rancorous symphony; was any of that worth it? This isn’t the person you fell in love with anymore. This is an automaton.

He wouldn’t observe the rattling sobs and shakey pleads, you grasped that. Still, notwithstanding any judgment you nevertheless did it. You ached to live.

Nines trembles irregularly. He was convinced he was in Hell. He’d never considered that variety of thought, but if the world incorporated a Hell for androids, this would signify it.

He discerned it was the Zen Garden, but something was altered. The ornamental trees that formerly streamed overhead were distorted, ravaged of their leaves. Presently transcendent structures that hung hauntingly.

Snow plundered in rich flakes, the wind prompting it to encompass the neighboring area. Temperatures were exceedingly dejected for living conditions.

He embraces his jacket parsimoniously throughout himself, striving for any fraction of buffer from the cold.

He was remarkably bewildered. One instant he was beyond with you. He was able to analyze your peculiarities as you reposed your head on his shoulder. Forthwith he was here.

The android called out to you over and over, but with each diminutive commotion he made, the howling of the wind got more boisterous.

Over it all, he could detect your voice. Your appeals for him to spare you. His chest perceived as if was caving in.

“It’s okay, Nines. I love you.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Your voice was misconstrued, encircled by static, still, it was you. What were they doing to you? what was he doing to you?

Abruptly he was actuating within what once was the garden. His mechanical body battled the wind the greatest it allotted.

The further he propelled himself the more warped your speech had become. He could scarcely decipher your words anymore.

“Nines I’m-“

He couldn’t help but recapitulate onward. This wouldn’t be the concluding moment he heard you; it cannot be.

An enervated glow intercepts his attention beyond the rivulet. He struggles to accost it, the rigid contingencies growing worse by the instant.

His body is rapped to the ground by the collapse of a branch, only he proceeds to haul himself towards the luminosity.

The wind is too strenuous to get back up yet he advances to push on. His terror of whatever he may be perpetrating on you drives him onward. He was only a few feet from the object now. the glowing outline of a hand blaring through the snow. The world around him was spinning, his vision beginning to blur. He was losing control. 

A ringing noise in the background grew in intensity by the second. He was positive these were his final moments. The space blossomed to become darker and darker, the only whisp of light belonging to his chance of escape. 

It demanded the entirety of his strength to strike his hand onto the object and peel back the layer of manufactured epidermis. The melancholy hue whirled before scanning his hand. He fastened his eyes closed, anticipating whatever prevailed advanced of him, yet abruptly all was still. 

The weight of the garden and the nibbling cold melted, vanishing in an instant. He reopened his eyes, half expecting to view a landscape of emptiness, but he’s exactly where he started. He’s with you. 

The stream cascaded elegantly in the environment, naive to the agony of the preceding minutes. He sighs composedly to himself before his scanners expose an object in the field. 

A human silhouette extended dormant in the grass, the mix of residual rainfall and dense blood seeping through their attire. It was you.

His mind suddenly began to bounce to the situation that had unfolded while he was trapped in his mind palace.

He pointed the gun to your head. He watched you beg for mercy from the one person you’d presumed you could esteem. He tugged the trigger and allowed the bullet to shatter through your skull, regarding your body as it crumbled to the ground. 

It was a putrid symphony. The concise crescendo leading up to the nauseating snap-the cartridge bringing the production to a screeching halt. 

The android, believed to be incapable of emotion leaned down towards your corpse. The light benevolently diverted from your eyes, your soul slipping elsewhere amidst it. 

Bewailings deserted him in onerous quantities, the most astonishing of all. He pines for the song of your heartbeat as his fingertips graze your figure, scrutinizing every detail. He crosses any mole, freckle, plus scar, each placed by the tenderness of nature. He sketches your lips, still soaked by the antecedent waterworks. He lifts his hands from your face, stained by crimson gore, the aroma or iron prowling in the air.

It was easy for Nines to forget the pain of daily life as watched you smile. The tainted feeling of grief, all washed away by your features. He concluded you were faultless, yet somehow he nevertheless questioned, at what cost?

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