#whose legs can snap someone's spine in quarters

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Welcome Home, Kauri

@gottalovethemwriters (won’t let me tag you!) requested:  I know Kauri said he’d be there when Jake wakes up but could we have a drabble or snippet -or whatever you want, honestly- where Kauri wakes up and has to convince himself it’s okay to stay? please?

CW: Domestic abuse survivor navigating trust and relationships, some trauma response, PTSD references, referenced consensual spice

Jake is still asleep when Kauri slides out of bed.

After years of finding his way into apartments and bedrooms and basements next to a series of men he can barely remember, whose names slip off his tongue like oil or stick like ash or just don’t stay at all, Kauri is an expert at getting out of bed without waking the other people in it up.

He inches along the cool sheets and he doesn’t allow himself to look back until he’s out, pulling on his pants from the night before, tossed haphazardly with laughter. There’s an ache in him, sweet and slight, the stretched muscles of a night spent moving, laughing, arching his back and wrapping his legs around Jake’s waist, hands on either side of the other man’s face. His fingers twitch at the memory of Jake’s stubble scratchy against his palms, his cheek, his lips.

He can still hear it, still feel Jake’s hands sliding along the outsides of his thighs, shifting up to his hips, murmuring things in his ear in that low, deep voice that the really tall guys get sometimes.

He looks back, once his pants are on. 

He gives himself a moment to love the ache, and mourn walking away from the promise he knows neither of them can keep.

Jake sleeps on his side, sprawled in the bed - king size, the one thing he told Kauri he couldn’t say no to when it was his own house, because he was six-foot-three and slept with his feet hanging off the edge of a bed his whole life since he was thirteen and he didn’t have to do that anymore, so he wasn’t about to - and the stress around his eyes and mouth drops away when he sleeps. Mussed-up blond hair and the line of his jaw catch Kauri’s breath in his throat.

The sight makes him forget, briefly, why he’s out of the bed at all.

I won’t be gone when you wake up.

He remembers.

“Sorry,” He whispers, too low-pitched to ever wake Jake up. He told Jake not to trust him - he’s told him a hundred times. Kauri can’t be trusted, he’s running from something inside of himself, and you can’t outrun your own emptiness. It follows you through every bus stop, every bad night spent sleeping on a bathroom floor or a park bench. It finds him through all the drinks and all the times he’s let himself be pushed up against the wall and taken, rough, and left limping to find the next direction to run.

He can’t run far enough to get away from this.

And Jake should have known better than to believe Kauri would be here, like he said. Everyone should know better than to believe Kauri’s promises.

He doesn’t believe them himself.

It’s with a burst of anxiety that he slides on his shirt, scratching lightly at the inside of his left wrist, digging into scars he wants to cover up with ink someday, maybe, but just… just can’t bring himself to do it. He’s had to hold still for too many needles, in his life. 

Jake breathes, heavy and solid, and there’s a gravitational pull to that breathing, to the promise that if he gets back in bed, Jake will shift, and lay his arm over Kauri’s waist, pull him close, and that deep breath would shift the hair on the back of Kauri’s neck and send shivers down his spine. Kauri feels like he could circle Jake’s light.

It would be safe, wouldn’t it?

He could be safe, here.

But he’ll just hurt everyone, in the end, when the ugly inside of him finds its way out. If he doesn’t stay, that means he’s never here long enough to let his guard down, and they’ll never see him long enough to see what happens if he does.

If he doesn’t stay, Jake won’t see the emptiness inside him, the white light and cold walls and 162 tiles and roses and champagne and you’re so fucking lucky anyone ever loved you that chase him, and chase him, and never stop.

Anxiety turns to fear, bald-faced and laid hideously bare in the early morning pinkish-light cutting through the blinds, as Kauri turns the doorknob slowly, silently, and slips out of the room. He’s a coward for not trying to stay.

He’s exhausted by running.

He can’t stop.

He pads barefoot down the hallway, shoulders hunched. Antoni sleeps in this room, he thinks, letting his fingers graze over the roughened texture of the old wood, to the smooth frame around the door. If he knocked on the door, Antoni would wake up and let him in, and help him remember how to stay.

He doesn’t knock. He keeps moving.

The floor would creak, but Kauri knows how to avoid all the noisy spots. He’s done this a hundred times, two hundred, a thousand. Stay with someone, get up while they’re sleeping, sneak out the front door, and be gone before they wake up.

No one has to miss him.

No one ever does.

Right?

His backpack waits, next to his shoes, and he slides it on over his shoulders, humming in a half-whisper to Keira’s murmured greeting from inside. She’s all he really needs. She’s not dangerous, she won’t lock the doors, she won’t depend on him in ways he can’t possibly reciprocate. 

He can’t be trusted, and Keira knows that. She’s been with him through every step, since Owen brought her home the first time in her big awkward box, since he named her, since the night Owen nearly killed him and broke her in ways that let her thoughts expand in ways they never could before. 

Breakfast locations near me? Keira asks in her faintly metallic, feminine voice, muffled from inside the backpack. 

“No,” Kauri whispers. “No breakfast. Let’s just go.”

Sensors indicate Kauri negative emotion feeling. Kauri reassurance require?

He moves out the door, sets the lock so it will click into place behind him, and closes the door. For a moment, he just stares straight ahead, at the nice little street, the sweet little neighborhood, the world that Jake lives in that is so far removed from what Kauri’s life has been. Run-down houses with cared-for yards, tricycles left out on sidewalks and in driveways, chalk drawings littering the world around him.

He hops down the stairs and starts walking. 

“No,” Kauri repeats.

Kauri reassurance require. Keira’s voice is firm. Keira reassurance provide. Kauri good.

“Kauri’s not good.”

Kauri good.

“I told him I’d stay and I’m leaving. He should have known better than to believe me.” The sky is blue only around the edges, and mostly dark still overhead. He can see the last stars as the light of the sun begins to slowly overcome the colder, smaller light they send. He remembers, vaguely, that stars are photographs of already-dead things, sometimes.

He’s a photograph of a dead man, too.

“It is common for survivors of long-term domestic abuse to be afraid to enter into new relationships”-

“Don’t fucking quote Triumph at me again,” Kauri snaps, and then feels guilt, nauseous and heavy. “I’m sorry, Keira. I just-”

Want to go back.

He ignores her, now, and walks faster away from the house, from Jake, from the promise of safety he has never been able to trust. There isn’t anything safe about staying in one place, giving yourself up to be hurt again. There isn’t anything safe about staying.

“I told him. I told him not to trust me. I told him. I said you can’t, you can’t trust me to stay, you can never trust me to stay I won’t stay. I’ll run, I always run, because I can’t-... I can’t do anything else. He knows that, I told him I can’t stay.”

But he’d promised to try, the night before, weeks ago, he keeps promising to try and letting people down. That’s what he’s good at, after all. Letting people down.

Running when they want him to stay.

Disappearing when they need someone to rely on.

Sleeping on park benches just to prove a point, to himself if no one else, or to Owen, who he hasn’t seen in years and won’t ever have to see again, right? But still he wants to show Owen that he doesn’t have to stay in one place, that he can keep running and running and if he just keeps running, Owen won’t ever hunt him down, not even inside his own mind.

One block becomes two, and then three. A few hundred feet becomes a quarter-mile, and then half. He stops at a bus stop, standing a few feet away from the little covered shelter area, where a tired-looking older woman is already sitting with a thermos of coffee and a small service dog in a vest lying calmly at her feet. If she looks at Kauri, he doesn’t look back at her.

Just another young man running from whatever he’d done the night before, wearing the clothes he was wearing then, with his hair mussed and sticking out or pushed down. Just another dumbass who partied too hard and lived to regret it, right?

I want to stay, Kauri remembers himself saying, and closes his eyes against the hot rush of tears that hits, unbidden, unwanted. He’d said that. He’d told Jake he wanted to stay, and it was true, but if he stays they’ll see how little there is inside of him. How carved-out he is, how empty.

Bus arrival approximately nine minutes from now, Keira says from inside the backpack. The woman sitting in the bus shelter looks over at him and raises her eyebrow.

“Fitbit,” Kauri says automatically, and she makes a noise that could mean bullshit or could mean she believes him, and goes back to drinking her coffee.

He thinks again of Jake sleeping, sprawled out, long limbs and muscled shoulders. The way his face has changed, as Kauri has known him, losing the last vestiges of roundness from being young and gone more angular. The line of his jaw has sharpened with time, just like Kauri’s.

He doesn’t realize he’s lifted his own hand to his face, feeling the spot where jaw and neck meet, the flutter of his pulse underneath it.

Last night he had felt Jake’s heart beating fast, pressed a palm over it, pressed his ear there just to listen.

Kauri heartrate accelerate, Keira provides helpfully.

“Shut up,” He mutters.

The woman doesn’t look over this time. Probably safer to ignore the guy talking to his Fitbit first thing in the morning, right?

Kauri stands there, minutes ticking by, and just as he sees the bus turning the corner at the end of the block, he shifts just enough of his weight from one foot to another to feel the ache inside him, as much emotional as physical. The ache of a night spent with someone who would rather die than hurt him, a night spent wrapped in arms that would - could - keep him safe.

The ache of a loneliness Kauri is tired of carrying, the rock he wants to put down more than anything on earth.

He turns and starts to walk away, listening to the rumbling engine as the bus pulls up to the stop, but he doesn’t go back and climb on. It would be old habit, to curl up in one of the seats ignoring mysterious stains and close his eyes, try to catch a little more sleep, before he gets out a few stops from now.

It’s easy to keep living the way he’s been living.

It’s harder to make the choice to stop.

Kauri heartrate accelerate.

“I know,” He whispers. His steps go faster, and faster, and then walking turns to running, his backpack smacking into his lower back. He ignores the flare of the ache inside him - or rather he holds onto it as tightly as he can, to the memory of laughing and lips on his neck and someone who wanted to look him right in the eyes the whole time because someone needs to show you you’re gorgeous, you never believe me when I tell you, I have to show you I never want to look away.

The slap of his shoes on the pavement is familiar but it’s not, too, it’s entirely new.

Kauri has been running from the tiny white room inside his mind, from hands around his neck, from a love that wasn’t, for too many years. He knows how to run from things, it’s a pattern he carries deep inside him.

What’s new isn’t the running - it’s that he’s not running away this time.

What’s new isn’t the movement of muscles, the soft sound of his jeans, the wind in his hair drying the tears in his eyes. What’s new isn’t a half-mile becoming a quarter-mile becoming a few blocks becoming one more turn around a corner and then a couple more blocks-

What’s new is the man he can see waiting for him, on the lawn, when he turns. Small as a finger, from the distance, but that doesn’t matter. Small in the distance, large in his mind, under his hands, in his heart.

Kauri stumbles to a stop, catching his breath, staring. 

At the end of two blocks, Jake is sitting out on a lawn chair in front of his house, and there’s another chair next to him, and it hits Kauri like a brick to the back that the extra chair is for him.

“I want to stay,” Kauri whispers, lips barely moving to form the words.

Kauri good, Keira says. Kauri good. Kauri good. 

“Go home,” Kauri tells himself. For a moment, a horrible awful dizzy second, his feet don’t move. “Go home, Kauri. Go home.”

Kauri go home, Keira supplies.

He starts running again. 

Jake looks up when Kauri comes to a breathless stop in front of him. He’s still wrecked from sleep, his hair looks ridiculous, and his blue eyes are sparkling as he gestures to the chair. He’s wearing a loose pair of sweatpants and a red t-shirt, and he’s never looked better, in Kauri’s eyes, than he does sleep-shadowed and touched by early morning sun. 

“H-hey.” Kauri’s voice is breathless.

“Hey,” Jake answers, sipping his coffee from a deep blue mug he bought a few weeks ago, at a farmer’s market. Kauri was with him. Kauri picked out the mug.

There’s another one, pale with milk and sugar how Kauri likes it, settled on the sidewalk in front of the second chair.

“Door’s open,” Jake says, voice low, deep and soft. He doesn’t ask Kauri why he tried to run, or why he stopped, what brought him back. “I made coffee for you.”

“You… you were awake when I left.”

“Yeah.” Jake gives him a slight smile. “I told you - I’ll never stop you when you have to go.”

“But?” Say it again. Say what you said last night. Please, please, please say it again.

“But,” Jake says, and holds out his free hand, “The door will always be unlocked, for you, Kauri. I’ll always be waiting to let you back in.”

Kauri takes Jake’s hand in his, his long, thin fingers interlacing with Jake’s. He slides the backpack off his shoulder, lets it fall, gently to protect Keira inside, to the ground. Kauri good, Keira says, voice a little hushed. If she were human, it might be a whisper. Jakob Stanton reassurance provide. Kauri good.

“Kauri good,” Jake agrees, and Kauri moves to him like falling into orbit around a sun. “She’s right. You’re good, Kaur. You’ve always been good.”

“How did you know I’d come back?” 

“I didn’t.” Jake grins, flashes slightly crooked teeth, evidence of a childhood where money for braces was never an option. His nose is a little crooked, too, evidence of having it broken more than once. It’s all a part of him, and it’s all perfect. “I hoped, but… mostly, I just didn’t mind risking looking like a fucking idiot out here in two lawn chairs by myself, for you.”

Kauri laughs, and the tears in his eyes are part of the laughter now, as Jake sets down his mug to pull him close, arms around his waist, resting his head against Kauri, cheek pressed to his stomach. 

Kauri heartrate accelerate. Kauri go home.

“Kauri go home,” Kauri repeats, placing his hand on top of Jake’s head, running fingers through the mussed-up blond, sliding his palm down to cup the back of his head, fingers just brushing the nape of Jake’s neck. “That’s what I did.”

“Welcome home,” Jake says, eyes closed. “Welcome home, Kauri.”

“Welcome home, me,” Kauri whispers. Fear shivers over his skin, the hint of a memory of hands around his neck, locked doors, and pain. He lets it happen, doesn’t run from the memory this time, doesn’t try to chase it off. Just... lets it be there, and then feels the fear fade under the determination he’s made to stop running. “Welcome... welcome home.”

“Right. Now drink your coffee before it gets cold and ruins my big romantic gesture.”

Kauri laughs loud enough to start a dog barking halfway down the block.

---

Tagging Kauri’s crew:  @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @moose-teeth, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly

[cellophanejpeg]

dancing with our hands tied || pt. i

Pairing: Marcus Pike x female!reader

Summary: Marcus is your boss and you really enjoy working with him. But a work trip to the west coast makes him visit the past and you realize not only you like him, but you’re deeply in love with him. The only problem is that you both work together and it would never work. Or so you think.

a/n: so basically i had to split this bad boy in two cause i was writing a whole damn the mentalist episode. all you need to know is: i know nothing about how the FBI works or how crimes are solved, so i made it all up. deeply sorry if i offend any fbi agents that could be here?? if you don’t watch the mentalist, basically patrick jane is an asshole that can read people’s body language and points them out in public. that’s really all you need to know, it’s a dumb show tbh. also, this contains detective work and law enforcement, which, during times like this, i would understand if you don’t want to read this. don’t forget to donate to the black lives matter movement and sign petitions against police brutality. i’ve reblogged a variety of posts with link for donations and petitions, they're under the tag #blm resources.

Warnings: mutual pining, some angst, a pinch of fake dating

Word count: 6.7k (and there’s more coming)

part ii | MASTERLIST

The badge around your neck swings as you run and you have to hold it in place. The streets of L.A. are full of curious eyes, gathered behind the yellow tape; you check your phone one more time and sigh. No messages, no missing calls. It’s not like him, you know something’s up.

When you show your ID to the police officer that’s in charge of controlling the people, he lets you duck under the tape and approach the other agents already in the scene. You exhale, panting from your run as you introduce yourself.

“I’m with the FBI,” You tell them after stating your name. They all eye you like you’re from another dimension.

“What’s the FBI’s interest in all this?” Asks a red haired agent whose name you don’t know.

You take a look at the corpse on the ground. “‘Cause this is our guy.”

Crouching next to the lifeless body, you take a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of your jacket and put them on; with gentle fingers you tilt the dead’s head sideways so you can look for a specific mark behind his ear.

"Yep," You tilt the man's head for everyone to see a burning scar on the shape of an eye. "The Crystal Eyes gang.” You take the man’s hand to show the pinky finger ring the gang members wear, but it’s missing. Furrowing your brows you notice the tan line on his finger, where the ring should be.

The only man who actually smiles at your statement is the blond, blue-eyed guy. The rest of the agents sigh and roll her eyes, and you frown already irritated. First, your partner doesn’t show to a crime scene of a case he’s the head of, then these CBI agents are clearly not your fans.

The woman who seemed to be the boss rolls her eyes at the man and looks at your direction. Her blue eyes darting to you with anger and you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or the man with the arrogant smile. When she speaks, her voice is demanding, like she’s also your boss. “Are you leading this case on your own? Where is your partner?”

It takes everything in you not to tell her to fuck off. “He’s–” You swallow. “Coming.” You stand, looking away as you take off the gloves and discard them. Taking another look at your phone, you sigh in disappointment when you see nothing. Fucking hell, he’s not coming. What an idiot. “So, this guy’s name is–”

“You’re lying.” A voice interrupted you. It’s the man with the arrogant smile. “He’s not coming, is he?” You watch the way he smiles at you. “You keep checking your phone and the way you looked away when you talked tells us you’re either waiting for someone’s call or you’re checking to see if something happened to him.”

Fuck. How does he know all that? Were you that transparent or are you just a bad liar?

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” You ask him, shoving your hands in the pockets of your FBI jacket.

“Jane.” He smiles, showing you an ID card that has a picture of him above the name ‘Patrick Jane’. “Consultant.”

Nodding slowly, you frown at him. “Jane.” You tilt your head as you speak. “He’s coming, don’t worry. If he doesn’t arrive, he must have a great, great excuse for his absence. Either way it doesn’t concern you. What you do need to know is that him and I are after this gang for about a year now, and this is the first lead we have in three months. We’re more than capable of handling this.”

“Clearly not, if your partner is not even here,” The boss says. You exhale sharply. You were going to kill your partner.

“Listen, Agent…”

“Lisbon.”

“Agent Lisbon,” You repeat her name. “I know it’s hard to see a case being taken from your team, and I’m sorry about this, but– You gotta let me do my job.”

Lisbon sighs, crossing her arms “What do they do? The gang. Do they sell drugs? They kill people? Maybe there’s something we can help you with.”

“Well, I’m with the art squad so…” You pause. “They steal art.”

You watch as all the agents look at their boss and an awkward silence tenses the air. Lisbon widen her eyes and then looks away from you, clearing her throat. It’s like their own unspoken thing.

“Art?” Patrick says, amused. “From where?”

The way he says it makes it look like a joke and you’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not.

“Art galleries, museums, you pick.” You shrug, crossing your arms in a defensive manner. “They see a place with an expensive art piece? They steal. It could even be a rich man’s living room. When it comes to Crystal Eyes, they don’t give a fuck.”

Silence hangs in the air and you could hear a pin drop, even out here in the open. Finally, red haired woman, Van Pelt clears her throat, alleviating a bit of the tension you still don’t know why it’s there.

“And, uh–” She swallows. “These robberies involve killing other people or…?”

“No, they usually use a stealth strategy.” You almost sigh, relieved for the broken silence. “Although, one time, they killed an old man at his own mansion when the robbery didn’t go as planned. I don’t believe this an accident, though.”

“Interesting,” Jane mumbled. “Hey, do you happen to know an Agent–”

“We’re done here!” Lisbon interrupts him and starts walking away. You watch her give him a look only a wife would give to her husband. Quickly glancing at their hands, you notice they use the same ring on the same finger.

Of course they’re married.

Lisbon says your name, getting your attention again and nods at you. “He’s all yours. Have fun.”

And with that, her and her team walk away from the scene. Sighing, you check your phone one last time. Still, no messages, no missing calls, not even a text. Nothing. Gritting your teeth, you shake your head.

“Godammint, Pike.”

…

You and your team had been in California literally for half a day before the call for the dead guy came in. It’s the first lead you all have on this gang in three months, so as soon as one of the informants let you know one of the leader were in L.A., you all flew to the west coast and based yourselves in one of the FBI quarters.

As soon as you walk in the big room, you see Marcus’ sitting at his desk, typing something on a computer that looks like it hasn’t been used since the 90’s.

“Pike!” You exclaim, getting his attention. His face changes from focused, to confused, to a tired look in a matter of seconds. Strolling towards him, you watch as he leans back on his chair. “Three years I’ve been working with you and you’ve never pulled a stunt like this!” You slam your hand on his desk, making everyone around you jump, except from him. “If you wanted me to look like an idiot in front of the CBI guys, well, you did it!”

He raises his hands in defense and says your name, the low baritone of his voice is enough to send shivers down your spine, but not right now. Not today, when you’re angry at him like this.

“Oh, please, do tell,” You grunt, shifting the weight of your body to one leg as you cross your arms. “I’m eager to know why you didn’t show in such an important crime scene, leaving me alone to deal with them.”

Marcus gaped at you for a second and then sighed softly. “I got stuck in the traffic.”

You roll your eyes. “Bullshit. I was miles away and managed to get there before forensics.”

He stared at you for a moment and then sighed. “I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.”

“Well, let this be the first and last time.” You warned him, pointing a finger to him.

“May I remind you I’m your boss, Agent?” He gives you a teasing smile, leaning back on the chair.

You sigh shaking your head. “Yeah, you seem to forget that sometimes.”

His eyes left yours and you felt a pang of sorrow for him, not knowing exactly why. You and Marcus have always had a love-hate relationship. Even though he's technically your boss, you've always treated him like equal. Yelling at him in front of colleagues wasn't a new thing, and to be honest, he’s already used to it. Shaking your head, you stroll over to the furthest desk and sit down, claiming the spot as yours for the time you stay in L.A.

Marcus Pike is an excellent agent. He’s dedicated and hardworking and a damn good boss. The man was born to lead, the passion he has for his job impresses you. Ever since you’ve joined the squad, you’ve been assigned with him as your partner. Back then, everyone told you how lucky you were to be working beside him. Three years later, you still feel lucky to work to have him as your partner. Just not today.

Needless to say, you have a mild crush on him. When you first met him, your first thought was that he was incredibly handsome. And then you were gradually being acquainted with his work style, with the way he worked hard, so your feelings for him just grew stronger over the time. You’ve become closer him over the course of the years and you know him just as well as he knows you. Which is why you just snapped at him. He’d never allow such thing if any other member of the squad talked to him like you did.

Little do you know that Marcus is harvesting a crush on you too. It’s been a while since the feelings had started to make its way to his heart. He’s not sure when it started, but he knows it’s there. He feels it every time you smile and laugh at one of his jokes. He feels it every time you come up with a lead, every time you arrest a criminal. He feels it when he sees you wearing the FBI jacket, looking so pretty with your hair in a low bun or in a ponytail. Hell, he feels it when you’re mad at him.

Marcus glances at you, from his claimed desk and sees you looking at the computer screen, forehead creased in concentration as you filled in the report from the crime scene. Sighing, he looks back at his own computer, feeling his heart sink. Three years you’ve been working together and not once you showed up with a boyfriend. Claiming your job was more important to you at the moment, you just stated that you have no time for relationships. You want to focus on your career, make a name for yourself.

Which is why you and him would never work.

The clock ticked slowly that morning as you all put the leads together to find out who killed the man of the gang. His name was Liam Dixon and he had a big name in the gang, his picture pinned on the cork board from your office back in New York for months. And now, he just drops dead. During a briefing, someone suggested it might have been an accident, a mugging that went wrong, but you know it’s more than that. Saying that the only thing that has been missing from the body was the ring, you argued that it could be either personal or a gang conflict that went wrong. Marcus agreed with you. The orientation he gave everyone is look into police calls for stolen art recently in L.A. That way, you can all have a hint where the gang is acting.

When lunch time arrives, you sigh as you check your phone and stand from your desk. Organizing your desk, you pick up the post-it notes and empty coffee cups and throw them in the trash, when you see a figure approaching you.

“Let me make it up to you,” Pike says, leaning his hand on your desk. “I know a good place where we can have lunch.”

…

Going on lunch breaks with him isn’t unfamiliar to you, but you’re still upset at him, so you order a salad and eat in silence as he eats his own meal too.

“How was the crime scene?” He tries to make conversation.

“You’d know if you were there.” The words come out too fast from your lips and you quickly shoot him an apologetic look.

“You’re still upset?”

Waving a hand at him, you shook your head. “I’m just being petty.” You swallow your food. “The scene was packed, lot of curious eyes. I got there and the CBI guys were in the scene.”

He nods, considering his next words. “Is Patrick Jane still a part of the CBI team?”

“The consultant?” Your voice gives a hint of surprise. “Yeah, he was there. Kinda weird guy if you ask me.”

Pike laughs softly, shaking his head. “Don’t let your guard down near him. He’ll read you like an open book.”

“What do you mean?” You take a sip of your water, eyeing him.

“He’s… Very observant,” He explains. “He’s good at reading people and he has no filter. If something is bothering you, he will let everyone know.”

“Huh.” You smile. “What a weirdo.”

Silence hangs in the air as you both eat. A comfortable silence, a good one.

“Did you meet Lisbon?” He asks, suddenly.

Frowning at him, you nod, biting a piece of broccoli. “Yeah, do you know her?”

Marcus sighs, drinking the rest of his water. Something in his demeanor tells you he’s… Sad, maybe? His eyelids drop to his plate and his shoulders slump as he hangs his head low. You’ve been coexisting with him long enough to tell he’s not okay. Then, a thought occurs to you.

“She’s the ex, isn’t she?” You ask, quietly. He looks up at her and nods, his expression changing, covering the trace of sadness from his face.

Marcus had told you about an ex who left him for another man during one of your stakeouts together. It broke your heart to know that a man like him, so sweet and hardworking, was left twice by women who didn’t appreciate him. You told him that they it was their loss and, after he laughed at your corny attempt at comforting him, you said that if they didn’t leave him, you’ve had never met him. That night, he looked at you like you were the light of his life. Every time you remember, you feel butterflies on your stomach and smile to yourself.

It was nearly two years ago.

And it’s not like Marcus is not over Lisbon, after all it’s been five years since the breakup. But he’s still not ready to face her. Not again. Not after the last time he saw her with Jane and felt his heart bleed. He just doesn’t want to get hurt again.

“How is–” He clears his throat. “How is she?”

“Fat.” You shake your head, grimacing at him. “Her hair was all over the place, pimples on her skin, bad breath, lettuce on her teeth–”

Marcus lets out a laugh, shaking his head. It’s the kind of laugh that makes him throw his head back and wrinkle the corner of his eyes, and, god, his smile is beautiful. He laughs genuinely and you know that, because you've heard it before. You hear it when you are in stakeouts together and you'd crack a joke he'd really liked. You hear it in birthday parties of the members of the squad, when he’s tipsy and drunk happy. You hear it when you make your snarky remarks at the perks you arrest. You could watch him laugh for hours and you would never get tired of the view, of the sound of it. It makes your stomach churn with pleasure to know that you’re the one who provoked this laugh on him. As he wipes the corners of his eyes, you smile at him, laughing softly.

“Nice try, but–” He laughs. “Thanks.”

You just shrug, shaking your head. “Is that why you didn’t go to the crime scene?”

Pike’s smile fades away and you regret the question when you see the expression he gives you. Something tells you to take it back, to apologize and leave it like that, but if he didn’t want to face her… Then, maybe, he still has feelings for her. And the thought, somehow, hurts you.

“Yeah, I, uh–” He swallows. “I don’t think I’m ready to face her again.”

“Oh.” Is all you say.

After finishing your lunch, you both pay the bill and leave the restaurant. The thick, awkward silence grows heavy between the two of you as you both walk together back to the quarters. You want to speak, but you don’t know how to comfort him, how to make him feel better. And then a different voice calls his name.

“Marcus?”

You both stop walking and turn around. Lisbon and Jane, hands laced together, are staring at the both of you. Marcus’s heart almost stop at the sight, his breath get caught on his throat as he widens his eyes.

“Teresa,” He replies, a surprised tone in his voice, eyeing Jane and nodding at him. “Patrick.”

“I see you kept the, uh–” Jane points at his own face to indicate a beard. “The look.”

Marcus nods at him, but doesn’t respond. You nod shortly at Patrick and glance at Lisbon.

“How– How are you?” She asks, looking right into his eyes. A shot of jealousy hits your heart, and you swallow hard trying to push the feeling away.

“Good,” Marcus answer, smiling. “You?”

“Good.” She smiles at him and you have to look away. Pursing your lips, you discreetly take a deep breath and cross your arms.

This woman had Marcus wrapped around her finger and really discarded him when she decided she didn’t want him. She played with his feelings until she got tired and left, not knowing she had a great man who was in love with her and was willing to do anything for her. She doesn’t know how lucky she was for having him. The anger sets in your chest faster than expected as they make small talk, but you don’t listen to them. You can’t, or you’ll explode with anger. It’s Jane’s voice that pulls you out of you thoughts.

“You’re jealous.” His voice is directed to you and both of them stop talking to look at you.

“What?” You frown in confusion.

“Your lips.” He points to his own lips as he talks. “They’re pursed together. You’re crossing your arms to shield yourself, and you have this… Sour expression on your face.”

Widening your eyes, you look at Pike but he’s just as surprised as you are.

“You have feelings for Agent Pike and you’re jealous that he’s giving attention to his ex girlfriend.” Jane smiled triumphant. You gape, feeling your heart speed, and the heat on your cheeks as you look at him surprised. Lisbon shoots a look at Jane as if she’s saying stop reading people without their permission. Your eyes are focused on the ground, knowing that if you look at Pike, it'll be game over.

"Of course she has feelings for me." Pike laughs softly after a short awkward pause. You shoot a look at him, a frown in your brow, confused as hell. "She's my girlfriend."

A silent pause hangs between all of them. Agent Lisbon frowns deeply, widening her eyes to the both of you. Jane's smile fades away. Pike's smile grows wider. And you… You just look at him in shock, thinking about how quickly he thought of the lie. It's unnecessary to lie, there's no point in telling the CBI that you were together, except–

He wanted to impress Lisbon. Of course.

Trying to conceal your emotions from Jane, cause he'd know if you're lying, you smile at the couple and laugh softly. Marcus approaches you and lays his palm flat on your lower back. A touch that makes you tense and melt at the same time. The warmth of his hand gives you some comfort and, despite everything going on, it's a comfort you needed for a really long time.

"We're trying to keep it a secret, for now." The words roll off easily from your lips and when you see, you're already wrapping an arm around his torso, smiling as brightly as you can. "Because we're coworkers, and we don't know how the squad would react." And then, with a playful tone, you look at Pike. "But someone can't keep his mouth shut."

Marcus laughs, shaking his head. A fake laugh.

"I just can't contain myself." He leans towards you to press his lips on the crown of your head. “I’m too happy with you.”

It shouldn’t make your heart jump, but it does. You look up at him and give him a real smile this time, your eyes softening as a light breath leaves your lips. He looks at you and notices it, slightly tilting his head like a confused puppy, reading your expression too well. Your smile fades for a moment as you look away, but the fake smile returns when you look at Patrick.

“Oh,” He says, looking a little too disappointed.

“We have to go,” You tell them, smiling. “We got a gang to catch.”

As soon as you both are out of their sight, you let go of each other. The walk back to the quarters is silent and awkward and you have to put an effort to not blush the entire way. Pike warned you, the man is good at reading people. And he really has no filter at all. You just hope that your partner thinks Jane is wrong, you can’t afford him knowing about your feelings for him.

When you reach the doors to the quarters, he calls your name, stopping by the steps. Looking back at him, you see him, with his hands on his hips and his eyes on the floor. You swallow, feeling your heart speed up.

“About what Jane said–”

“He was wrong.” You’re quick to interrupt. Marcus’ eyes dart up to you and you have to stop yourself from sighing.

“He’s never wrong.” His voice is soft and there’s a hint of something in his eyes. It’s something sparkly, like– Like hope. You have to look away, pushing the feeling away as you shove your hands in the pockets of your jacket.

“Well, he was,” You tell him, and when he says your first name, “We’re coworkers. Don’t worry, I don’t have feelings for you.”

With that, you turn your back to him and enters the quarters, the lie still burning your throat. Heading straight to the bathroom, you feel your eyes watering. By the time you lock the door, they run down your cheeks and you sob. You didn’t know why it hurt so much to lie to him, but it does.

You’re really into him, aren’t you?

…

Another member of the gang was murdered. Frederick Hale, second to leader of the Crystal Eye, was found dead by gunshot wounds almost in the same street Liam Dixon was found. When you and Pike got the crime scene to identify the body, forensics were almost done with everything.

“That doesn’t make sense,” You say, gripping you tea mug on the table. During the briefing, your brain is working like a machine, trying to figure out why the member of the gang were dropping like flies.

“Could be a coincidence.” Russell suggested, shrugging.

“It could be, but two members in the same day?” You argue.

“It’s not a coincidence,” Pike tells everyone. “Ballistics came through. Liam and Frederick were killed by the same gun.”

It doesn’t surprise you. You knew it was too good to be a coincidence.

“So, someone is definitely taking them out.” You nod.

“Maybe they both fucked up, and the man was mad about it.” Davis shrugs.

“No, it’s not like Yosef,” Pike says, sitting down and crossing his arms. The shirt tightens around his arms and you look away quickly, not letting the horny thoughts distract you from the investigation. “He doesn’t eliminate his members like that.”

“What if someone’s infiltrated in the gang?” You bite your thumbnail, like you always do, a habit Marcus noticed you did in the first week of working with you. You do it when you’re concentrated, thinking of something important.

“Like an informant?” He asks, looking at you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“No, no. Like– Someone who joined it with the specific purpose of killing them?”

“Like an avenger?” Davis scoffs and you shoot an angry look at him.

“Yeah,” Pike says, nodding. “I thought the same thing.”

Finally, finally you look at him. He gives you an assuring look as he's saying I agree with you and I have your back at the same time. That’s a thing you like about him. The way you both communicate without words. You open your mouth to agree, but his phone rings before you make a word out. He picks it up, dismissing you all with a wave of his hand and you sigh, standing up and walking to your desk.

You only get to turn the computer screen before Marcus makes a quick beeline for you and asks if he could talk to you for a moment. Outside. Feeling your stomach churning, you nod, knowing something is wrong. Following him to the back patio of the building, you take a couple of deep breaths, preparing yourself for whatever is coming. When you both are in a safe distance from the other members of the squad, he turns to you and sighs.

“That was Jane on the phone.” He explains, quickly.

A frown is on your forehead. “Jane? Patrick Jane?”

“Yeah.” He breathes, wetting his lips with his tongue and exhaling softly. “He invited us to a double date.”

A laugh escapes your lips and you smile, thinking it’s a joke. “A double date with who?”

His face is serious when he answers. “You and me, him and Teresa.”

The smile falls from your face and you tilt your head, knowing there’s more to it. “And you said no, right?”

Marcus’ gaze is on the floor as he avoids the question by staying in silence.

“Pike.” You insist. “Tell me you said no.” No answer. “Please, tell you said we’re going to be busy or that we had plans already.

You wait for his answer until he finally looks at you again. “I said yes.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you close your eyes and sigh deeply. Marcus bites his bottom lip, eagerly waiting for an answer, leg bouncing in anxiety.

“Why?” You ask, eyes still closed.

“I-I– I just–”

“Is this about Teresa?” You interrupt him before he could think of what to say. “Is this you trying to prove a point to her?”

“No!” He answers too quickly and you narrow your eyes at him. “Y-you know I can’t lie to Jane, he’ll know if I do!”

“Not even on the phone?!” You argue.

“Trust me, he’d know.”

Looking away, you sigh, crossing your arms. Marcus knows he’s putting you in a difficult position and the truth is that he doesn’t actually know why he said yes to the date. Maybe he just wishes he could go out with you and, knowing you would refuse his invitation if it was a normal situation, he accepted to continue to lie to Teresa and Patrick just to go out with you.

“Fine.” You finally answer. “When?”

“Tonight, eight o’clock.”

Sighing, once more, you nod. “Okay. But his ends tonight. No more lies. We’re here to work.”

He raises his hands in defense. “I promise, boss.”

“Fuck.” You mumble, walking away from him and ignoring the teasing nickname,

This is bullshit.

 …

Why this had to happen?

You look at yourself in the mirror for the hundredth time. The hotel room is a mess, clothes all scattered around the floor and bed. You didn’t bring any date clothes. Not even a casual dress. Not even a formal dress. You weren’t counting on going on a fucking date with a fake boyfriend.

The only formal set of clothes you bring is a plaid gray skirt, with length just above the knees, and a blazer in the same color and pattern. You put it in your suitcase just in case you’d have to attend an audience or be in the presence of a judge. Pairing it with a long sleeved black shirt and a pair of your usual office heels – black stiletto heels with a pointed toe – you decided this is the outfit.

Many times you imagined what your first date with Marcus would be. Your imagination liked to go far, from movie dates to fancy dinners, after all, it doesn’t hurt to think, right? But you never, ever imagined it would be like this. Faking a relationship to impress his ex. It kinda hurts, you realize, being a pawn to his game. But, deep down, you were dying for an excuse to go out with him. Even if it might be unprofessional. You just wish it would be you and him only.

A soft knock on your door announces he’s ready. You check your makeup and adjust your hair quickly, before walking to the door. You open it to a see a very handsome Marcus Pike standing at your door. He’s wearing a black suit and tie, like he usually does at work, but something is different. He’s neater, his hair is combed in place and his beard is trimmed and… Is he wearing cologne? The smell invades your nostrils and intoxicates you quickly, in a good way.

“Should I have shaved?” He asks, when you don’t speak. You blink, returning to the real world.

“No.” You shake your head, smiling. “You look– You look great.”

A shy smile curves the corners of his lips. “You too.”

You wave a hand at him, grabbing your clutch bag and closing the door behind you.

“I didn’t bring anything fancy, so…” You try to explain yourself.

“No, no, you look–” He hesitates. “You look beautiful.”

Feeling your cheeks warm, you look away from him, clearing your throat. Marcus is still amazed by you, looking so different tonight. Your hair is down and he fights the urge to run his fingers through it. In the three years he’s known you, he tries to think when he ever saw you with your hair down and he can’t. This might be the first time.

“Shall we?” You pull him out of his thoughts. He nods, and offers his arm for you to hook yours in it. You feel nervous, but for some reason, there’s a good feeling settled in your stomach.

Soft classical music reaches your ears as you enter the fancy restaurant, Marcus following right behind you, his hand hovering your lower back. As soon as you enter, a receptionist smiles and asks for your names.

“Yeah, we’re under the name Jane,” Marcus says, nodding once at her. She checks a list and tells you both to follow her.

She guides you both to an empty table and, for a moment, you think maybe they’re late, until you realize it’s a table for two. Your stomach drops and you swallow, frowning confused at the lady. Marcus laughs softly and shakes his head.

“No, there must be a mistake,” He says.

The receptionist frowns and checks the list again. “It says here you’ve reserved a table for two, Mister Jane.”

Marcus gapes at her as she walks away leaving you two behind. A waiter is politely waiting for you both to sit down at the table to hand you the menu, but you just look at each other, mouths hanged open.

“Maybe–” You say, swallowing hard. “Maybe we’re at the wrong restaurant.”

“No, he did this.” He whispers to you as you look at him, confused. “He set us up.”

A scoff leaves his throat as you look at him, pale and shaking. Does that mean you’re on an actual date… With Marcus Pike?

“What do we do now?” You ask, holding your clutch bag tightly with your hands.

“Well, we have two options. We can leave, and that’s okay if you want to.” He looks you in the eyes, leaning slightly towards you in honesty. “Or we can have dinner.”

The look you give him is one he can decipher. He can’t tell if you’re offended by the proposition or just thinking about it. Deep down he’s hoping you say yes, hoping you’d have dinner with him, just you and him. Then, a shy smile curves the corners of your lips and you shrug.

“Okay,” You tell him. “Since I’ve put on makeup and got all dressed up.”

He smiles at you and walks to the table to pull the chair for you to sit on. As the waiter hands you the menu and Marcus sits down in front of you, you try to calm down your nerves and try not to think you’re in an actual date with Agent Pike aka your boss. You order white wine and him Whiskey. After the waiter leaves, a moment of silence hangs between the both of you until you laugh nervously.

“I gotta admit,” You say, laughing. “Going on a date with my boss is kinda… Weird.”

Marcus stares at you for a few seconds and you wonder if saying the d-word was a bad move. But then he smiles, looking down at the menu and shaking his head.

“Just… Don’t think of me as Agent Pike. Tonight I’m just Marcus.”

“Marcus.” You repeat his name and nod. “Okay, Marcus… So what do you do for fun?”

Marcus breath almost hitches at the way you say his name and he imagines a thousand scenarios where you say his name like that. He clears his throat and swallows, closing the menu and looking at you.

“You know, the usual,” He answers. “Drink beer, watch TV.”

You smile, raising your eyebrows. “That’s all?” You tease. “You’re going to tell me Agent Marcus Pike doesn’t have a hobby?”

“C’mon.” He laughs. “You know which are my hobbies. You’ve known me for years.”

“Hmm, yes.” You smile. “But you said you’re Marcus tonight and I’m just trying to get to know you.”

Marcus looked at you with warmth in his eyes. A certain look that makes your stomach churn in pleasure, your heart speed and your cheeks warm. It’s something different. Perhaps the first time you look at his eyes like this in three years of knowing him.

“Alright,” He finally says. “My hobbies include watching TV, cooking and martial arts.”

A frown grows between your brows as you look at him surprised. “Cooking? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, I decided to give it a try last month.” He shrugs and waits for the waiter to serve their drink before continuing talking. “I keep burning water, I don’t know why I even try.”

A laugh escapes your lips. A genuine laugh. “That bad, huh?” You take a sip of the wine as you watch him nod. “You just practice. I can teach you some recipes if you want. My mom tells me I’m an excellent cook.”

“Yeah, maybe you should.” He gives you that look again and you clear your throat, playing with the stem of your glass of wine. Marcus’ fingers slowly approach yours, barely grazing at your skin before pulling away at the sound of the waiter’s voice asking if you were ready to order.

Marcus orders the special stake and you the mushroom cream soup. The food is good, tasty, but you really wished you could have something simpler. You didn’t mind, as long as you’re with him. The night goes by with laughter, talk about your personal lives and stolen looks from each other. By dessert, you both were buzzed off by the alcohol and kept laughing at everything.

“Wait, you threw up on her?” You ask, a wide smile on your face as Marcus tells you a story about his very first date, where he got too drunk and everything went wrong.

“On her shoes!” He replies, burying his face on his hands.

“Oh my god!” You put a hand on your mouth to muffle a laugh.

“I was seventeen, okay?” He argues, laughing too.

Wiping a tear from the corner of your eyes, you sigh, feeling your face warm. You both fall into a comfortable silence as Marcus reaches for your hands on the table. Your fingers touch his and you feel the warmth of his body sending shivers down your spine. You realize you want to hold his hand forever, the feeling of his rough palm on yours is comforting to you.

“I’m having a great time.” He confesses, a closed-lipped smile on his face. An involuntary smile curves your lips too, letting the feeling take over you.

“Me too.” Your voice is small, shy. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” He agrees and fall in silence again.

Suddenly, an urge to tell him how you feel hits you. It may be the alcohol, but you can’t shake off the thoughts of confessing your feelings to him from your mind. You shouldn’t do it, not even your drunk self knows it. But the pain of yearning for a man, a good man, and not being reciprocated hits you and you don’t like the feeling.

“It’s getting late.” You whisper instead and he nods, asking for the check. He insists on paying, despite your protests.

The cab ride back to the hotel is silent and he’s not touching you anymore, but you wished he was. You wished he reached out for your hand, laced them together and pressed his lips on your skin. You wished this night never ended, you wished you would never let him go. The buzz of the alcohol is already faded when you both arrive at your hotel room, pulling the keycard from your wallet. Marcus walks with you and you look at him, smiling.

“So that was fun,” You say, biting your bottom lip.

“It was.” He smiles back. “We should do it again some time.”

Your heart skips a beat at small offer and all you can do is nod and smile. God, you really want to kiss him. You really want to kiss that stupid face, wipe off that stupid grin and pull him to your room. Licking your lips, your eyes set on his and he seems to notice because he licks his own lips, making your breath hitch.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” He says, looking right into your eyes.

And you should say no. You should draw the line, tell him you work together and that would be inappropriate. But instead you say,

“Okay.”

And then his lips gently press into yours as you close your eyes. The air escapes from your lungs as you reach for his neck, pulling him closer, his own hands cup your cheeks, kissing you tenderly. It feels amazing. The sensations his lips give you are beyond your imagination. As you open your mouth, allowing him you slip his tongue in, you sigh, deepening the kiss and tugging at his hair.

Then, you sober up. You pull away too quickly and wide your eyes, the blood draining from your face and your throat closing at the realization you just kissed your fucking boss.

“Shit,” You mumble, backing up. Marcus calls your name softly.

“It’s okay–”

“No.” You interrupt him. “You’re my boss, we work together.” You exhale sharply. “We can’t.”

“Sweetheart–”

“Don’t.” You raise a finger to him. “Please– Just don’t.”

Fumbling with the keycard you enter your room without giving him a chance to speak. The place it’s still a mess from your private fashion show, but you don’t care. Tears spill from your eyes as you remove your shoes and your clothes, not bothering to putting on pajamas or organizing the room before burying yourself under the covers.

Well, now, you’re really fucked.

_

tags: @madadlorian​ @xo-dragonette-xo​ @rosetophighlander​ @adikaofmandalore​ @pedropascalito​ @fioccodineveautunnale​ @burningsoulbloodyheart​ 

let me know if you want to be tagged in part ii!

[megalony]

Fatal attraction- Part 2

This is my new royal! Ben Hardy series I am working on which I hope everyone is going to enjoy, feedback is always appreciated.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogermeddow @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @rogahs-drowse @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @peterquillzsblog​

Series masterlist

Summary: Ben and (Y/n) are in an arranged marriage to form an alliance and they both want to make this marriage work. But when they have to get to know each other and there is a power play in their marriage, things aren’t going to be easy.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh no, you don't have to do that, I'll do that." The words came out slightly rushed like (Y/n) was trying to win a race or put her order in first before anyone else. The way her cheeks flushed when she spoke and how she was quick to step away from the window and try to hurry but still look composed made Ben bite the inside of his cheek as he watched her, wondering what she was doing.

(Y/n) punctured her teeth into her lower lip in a feeble attempt to stop her eyes from wandering over to the left to catch sight of Ben, but the more she tried not to look, the more desperate her eyes became to drift over his way. When her wide orbs fell on his frame, an uproar of butterflies started to flutter through her stomach and chest.

How did he have the boldness and the brass nerve to stand there and get changed whilst there was someone other than (Y/n) in the room? How could he carry on dragging his rather tight fitting trousers up his legs and begin doing up his belt whilst a maid had entered the room? If it had been (Y/n) stood in her underwear when someone else entered the room she would have been running to hide away but he didn't even blink or look like it bothered him at all.

What bothered (Y/n) more than her husband's bold nature was the fact that three servants had already been in and out of their shared quarters and it wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning yet. (Y/n) may have been brought up in a royal household such as this but her anxiety never died down through the years. People wandering in and out never settled well with her despite them simply doing their jobs and now she was married it made her beyond paranoid.

What if she and Ben grew to become closer than married strangers? What if they joked around or messed around or were childish or got frisky and someone were to hear or walk in? (Y/n) would hate for anyone to wander in and catch her and Ben in a compromising position, she would never be able to look them in the eye again.

Reaching the rather large bed a few feet from the window, (Y/n) leaned over the bed and pulled the covers from the maid's hands as nicely as she could manage.

Needless to say, the maid was quite taken aback that (Y/n) was telling her not to make the bed, which was part of her job. (Y/n) could make a bed herself, she could set the pillows straight and pull the covers up just fine, she could tuck in the ends of the sheets if they were loose and make it look presentable. (Y/n) could iron her own clothes and hang them away, she could dress herself and make her own chambers look presentable without someone needing to waltz in and do that for her. She was privileged but she was not incompetent or ignorant.

"It's not a problem ma'am, I can do it." The maid whose name (Y/n) didn't know yet had a gentle smile that looked motherly and endearing and the look in her eyes suggested she understood, or at least she thought she understood something.

"I- I appreciate it, but I can make my own bed, there's no need for you to do that. I'm sure you have other things to do around here." (Y/n) tried her best not to sound rude or patronising because she wasn't trying to be mean, she was just trying to maintain some control and order. She didn't want everything done for her, (Y/n) didn't know how things had been for Ben but for herself, she did a lot of things herself.

"If you're sure, ma'am." Taking a step back, the maid clasped her hands together in front of her and nodded her head as if trusting (Y/n) to make the bed which wasn't an important task in anyone's eyes.

"Thank you... um, could you see to it that no one comes in every morning to make the bed, or draw the curtains? No one has to tidy up in here or try to put the clothes away, I can do all of that myself." (Y/n) looked down at the cover as she started to pull it up and drape it over the pillows once she straightened them out in their place. (Y/n) noticed over the past three days that Ben ended up scattering the pillows everywhere, he seemed to drag them with him whenever he moved or turned over.

She also realised that Ben had quite taken to wrapping himself around her like a vine and smothering her at night, not that she was really complaining at all. (Y/n) had never shared a bed with someone before and as much as she hadn't imagined it going like this, she was finding that she quite liked the closeness.

"Certainly ma'am." With that the maid left the room, a slightly confused expression on her face because she wasn't expecting that. She would have to tell all the staff so no one ended up going in their room in the morning by mistake. This wasn't how anyone else in the royal family did things.

"You're blushing."

Ben's comment snapped (Y/n) out of her thoughts and it only caused the redness to deepen on her features and her head to tilt down so she wasn't looking at him. Her hands froze in place on the cover when Ben's hands grazed over her own to help straighten the cover.

"Doesn't it bother you, having people wandering in and out every morning?" (Y/n) slowly tilted her head up until her eyes could see Ben through her lashes that were acting as a veil to protect her. There was a look of vulnerability and curiousness in her eyes and on her face that seemed to reel Ben in like a fish on a hook.

"It used to, but it looks like that won't be happening anymore." The slight curve of his lips showed he wasn't mad, he didn't seem displeased or pleased, he looked rather neutral about the subject as if it didn't affect him at all that (Y/n) had just dismissed the staff from entering their room in the mornings.

"I just... why do we need someone to open the curtains in the morning? I can make the bed, I think we are both capable of pulling a curtain back and tidying things away or hanging up clothes. What if we were ill or just wanted a lie in for once?" Why was it necessary for them to do hardly anything at all? They weren't special, they were just people and (Y/n) couldn't stand people doing everything for her, it made her feel like she was incapable or not in control.

(Y/n) lifted her head when the bed was made and Ben started to move, her eyes followed him as he walked around the bed until he was standing next to her but continued to stay silent. For a moment, she thought he was just going to walk away and not even comment on what she was saying. But then he leaned closer to her until his lips were brushing against the shell of her ear.

"Now I think you're just trying to keep me in bed all to yourself."

The moment those words were whispered against the shell of her ear, shivers ran down (Y/n)'s spine and a smile she could only describe as cheeky fell onto Ben's features before he started to walk away.

(Y/n) was trying to piece together who Ben was and work out what he was like but the only thing she had deduced over these past three days was that he was very, very cocky.

Turning around, (Y/n) tried to settle her heart that was beginning to beat a lot quicker behind its confinement of her ribs. She didn't need to read anything into what he had just said, he was teasing her because it was part of who he was. But nevertheless, his words made her chest feel like it was pumped with air and it made her blood rush to her skin. Trying to steady herself and walk slowly instead of hurrying to keep up with Ben, she followed him out of their bedroom and into the smaller adjoining room in front that was more of an office than anything else.

Staying quiet, (Y/n) slowly walked over to the desk that was placed just a few feet from the large window that gave a view of the gardens that (Y/n) was desperate to explore. The sight the palace gave was certainly a very eye catching one, it was far better than any of the views (Y/n) had seen from the palace she lived in when she was growing up.

Leaning her weight back, (Y/n) sat on the desk and held onto the edge but she kept her gaze focused on the view she knew she would never quite get used to seeing every day.

"I think I'm going to take a walk today." (Y/n) knew she didn't have to tell Ben where she was going or where she would be every second of the day, but she still thought she would tell him what she was planning to do today. It would strike up a conversation in the least and she knew Ben must know some places around here he could recommend for her to go and visit.

"Okay, there will be someone about downstairs who can escort you." Ben let his eyes lower from looking at (Y/n) to looking at the clasp of the watch he was trying to strap to his wrist. His eyes switched between the watch and the papers on the desk he was also trying to read quickly so he knew what kind of meeting he would be walking into soon.

"Hmm? Oh, I don't need anyone to show me around, I'll be fine I shouldn't be going too far." (Y/n) didn't bother to look over at Ben and she wasn't being rude, she was forming a map of the grounds in her head and the perimeters she was going to go beyond. There was so much she wanted to see, there were so many gardens of the palace that (Y/n) wanted to explore but today she wanted to explore the outskirts of the palace.

She wanted to see what it was like outside of the palace perimeters and observe the people and the streets and houses and businesses. She had seen very little when travelling here and most of her time was either spent in the palace or at the church to get married. She had been here for a week now and she felt it was time to do some exploring. (Y/n) would rather explore on her own than have someone show her around.

"No, I meant a guard, you can't go out on your own. Just find two of them downstairs and they'll head out with you. Go wherever you want and they'll follow silently." Ben held his wrist up so he could push the clasp of the watch in place before he lowered his arm and reached out for one of the papers. His tone wasn't dismissive but he was talking like there was just a small miscommunication between them.

Ben knew there would be a few guards without anything to do, (Y/n) could just find anyone she liked and ask them to go with her and they wouldn't object. She needn't know they were even with her, it would be like two shadows following behind her.

Turning her head to look at Ben, (Y/n) felt her brows furrowing and her lips pursing as she pushed herself off of the desk she was sitting on. She didn't want a guard, she wasn't in danger. No one was making threats towards her and no one was going to suddenly attack her, she wasn't going to stray too far or get too close to anyone, she was only going to explore her new homeland.

Biting her cheek to stop herself from arguing with him, (Y/n) curtly nodded her head, resting her hand on his shoulder for a few seconds before she started to walk away. He wouldn't know straight away if she went out alone and (Y/n) certainly wasn't going to tell him that it was her intention to do so.

She didn't need to be supervised everywhere she went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where have you been?"

Turning her head to look back over her shoulder, (Y/n) rose her brow at the rather crude tone of his voice. She didn't have to inform him of every movement she made during the day and he had no need to sound so rude towards her. She had gone out like she was permitted to do, she hadn't broken any rules by leaving.

"I told you this morning, I was going out for a walk to explore." Turning her head back so she was looking at the bookcase in front of her, (Y/n) scanned through the various novels to try and find something worth reading.

"And I told you that you can't go out on your own. That's not me deciding that rule for you, that's a rule I have to go along with as well you can't just ignore it." It was clear by the way Ben was suppressing the aggression in his tone that he was trying very hard not to get angry but he couldn't help it. He hadn't said that just to try and spite (Y/n) or to gain control over her, no one in the Royal family could go out on their own because it was dangerous.

"Ben, I don't need to be followed everywhere, I was perfectly fine on my own today." (Y/n) spoke calmly because this was not an argument she wanted to have or one she saw worth having. But the look on her husband's face told her that it was too late. Ben's expression was really making (Y/n) feel like she had done something wrong, he was looking at her like she had just told him she was walking to the moon.

"You're not being serious, are you?"

"Why not? I'm not the Queen and no one knows me here, they've barely seen my face in any wedding photos. I understand you're trying to be cautious but I don't need-" The people barely knew what (Y/n) looked like and she had guessed this morning that they weren't going to recognise her. All (Y/n) had done was walk out of the palace grounds and head down near to the town, she didn't get close to anyone and when she did she had turned around and made her way back again.

(Y/n) didn't want constant eyes on her because it made her unsettled, she knew Ben was cautious and it was for protection but she didn't need it. When she was growing up she had made sure she had some time alone and that she could go on walks without any guards having to follow her, (Y/n) wanted things to be the same here too.

"Why not? You're married to the King, that's a pretty big reason not to go out alone (Y/n). Whether you like it or not you're a royal and you're high priority, walking around this place alone isn't an option and people know you left, they saw you. Surely back home you never went out alone, you're the princess for God's sake." Ben didn't know how things worked back home before (Y/n) came here but he knew how things happened in his country. She couldn't go anywhere alone, not even in the palace that was now her home.

Shaking her head, (Y/n) grated her teeth together before she tried to walk out of the room. But she didn't get very far before Ben's hand reached out and gripped her upper arm to stop her from walking past him. His head turned to the side so their gazes locked and when (Y/n) tried to pull away, he held her tighter.

"I know this is hard and it's not what you want, but you can't go around acting like you're nobody when you're somebody. People will recognise you wherever you go, protection is a necessity."

"It's only a necessity when you give the people cause to pose harm to you." (Y/n) hadn't done anything, she hadn't been here long enough to give the people anything to make the mad at her except marrying Ben. People started to attack when they felt they weren't being treated equally or when someone of the Royal family did something stupid or rash or wrong. (Y/n) had done nothing of the sort.

Pulling her arm away, (Y/n) tried again to walk away from Ben but he simply moved so he was stood in front of her. He didn't like leaving arguments unfinished, he wanted to sort this out now rather than pick up the pieces later.

(Y/n) felt like part of her was being childish because she knew why she had to be protected. Protection had been a part of her whole life, but for once, (Y/n) wished she didn't need it. She wished she could be normal, that she could be a nobody and have a decision in what she did and how her life went.

"I know privacy and normality matter to you, but your protection matters to me. Next time you decide to wander off without a guard, come and find me. At least that way I can go with you."

When Ben finished speaking he moved out of the way to let (Y/n) walk past but she found herself rooted to the spot, her eyes unable to look away from him as she tried to decipher if he was being serious or not. He was willing to let her go out without a guard if she would let him go with her instead. Ben would rather go along with (Y/n) than have her go somewhere alone.

But that wasn't what he said that was catching on (Y/n)'s thoughts. He said that her protection matters to him, he wants to keep her safe.

Did that mean that he cares about her?

[w0wcatsstuff]

Levi Fanfic

I’ve been writing a fic about my fav shorty, Levi Ackerman! It’s called ‘Treacherous’. This is the first chapter! If you’d like to read more check either of the links in my bio :3 Or I could keep posting here if you guys like it? :3 Please leave feedback, I love constructive criticism! 

Summary: Levi and Ava grew up in the underground together, until Levi left leaving Ava lost and confused with her only friend. Now, Levi is Captain Levi, humanity's best solider, and Ava is a doctor who tends to the wounded scouts and citizens inside Wall Rose. They've avoided each other until they couldn't any longer.

Lots of angst, but lots of smut and feelings eventually!

“Dr. Shaw...Dr.Shaw..AVA!” Hands abruptly shook her awake and Ava blinked her eyes open. Sunlight filled the dusty room. Her assistant, Madeline, stood in front of her, an anxious look on her face.

“What is it Madline?” She asked, rolling away from the young girl, letting her eyes shut again. Just a few more minutes of sleep, please. She was tired, she was always tired, that was the life of a doctor inside the walls. When she wasn’t treating the injured scouts she was making house calls and taking care of the sick citizens. It was her and Madeline’s responsible to keep the city healthy. 

“The scouts have returned from their mission beyond the walls. There’s going to be injuries.”

“Of course there are,” Ava grumbled. “I’ll be down in a few minutes, get the clinic ready please.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” Madeline replied and Ava listened to her walk away and the door shut.

She sighed as she sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep away from her tired eyes. Just another day. She told herself, forcing herself out of her bed. She headed to the bathroom that was connected to her private quarters and splashed her face with cold water hoping it would wash the drowsiness away. The reflection in the mirror was not her favorite. Her face was pale and dark circles were under her green eyes. When she was younger, still learning her trade, her eyes had some sort of sparkle to them, but that was years ago. She raked her fingers through her tangled brown hair, trying to tame the knots, before pulling it up into a ponytail away from her face. She headed back to her room, stripping out of her night clothes and pulling on a pair of dark pants, a light weight  grey blouse, and a simple pair of boots. The last thing she needed was her apron, which was somehow still white despite the amount of blood it would end up covered in after treating the returning scouts. How many times has Madeline replaced this without me noticing? She wondered, tying the apron behind her. 

When Ava made it down to the clinic Madeline had already finished setting things up in anticipation of the scouts that were shortly going to be arriving. Beds were made with clean sheets, their table was filled with medicines, bandages and operating tools. Hopefully we don't need those today. Most of the time their operations on returning scouts were pointless; too much blood was lost or infection had already set in their bodies for too long. Ava had given up hope on saving the wounded years ago, how could you remain hopeful after seeing dozens of people with limbs ripped off and not being able to save 80% of them? Madeline was still determined; she’d work herself to tears trying to save those clearly marked for dead. She was still young, only 17. When Ava was her age she had the same hopeful spirit. 

“They’ll be here soon,” Madeline told her, her voice shaking with nerves.

She’s too young to see this much death. Ava nodded, brushing a loose piece of hair from her eyes. “Are we prepared?”

“As much as we can be,” Madeline replied. “We’re low on antibiotics.”

“Of course we are,” Ava sighed. “The inner city wont send us anymore. They think it’s a waste to use on the scouts.”

“So do you..”

Ava arched an eyebrow looking at her assistant. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve already decided their fate before they’ve arrived. You don’t think any of them will make it,” Madeline’s dark eyes broke away from Ava’s gaze.

“I’ve treated enough returning scouts to know what to expect at this point,” Ava replied curtly. “If you really want to pursue being a doctor you should accept the reality of the situation. These aren’t our normal house calls, or treating the rich folks in the inner walls, Madeline. These are the scouts who go out and face the titans. They come back broken and in missing pieces.”

“Yes, but-” The door to the clinic burst open cutting off Madeline’s reply, which Ava was more than thankful for. 

“Doctor!” A breathless scout was in the doorway. “We have injured troops.”

“Of course,” Ava nodded at the scout, “Lets get them in here and I’ll see what I can do. Bring those with the worst injuries first.” 

The next few hours were filled with blood, and of course, death. A man without a leg who was practically dead when he hit her table. One death. A skinny female scout who’d been trampled by horses and suffering from massive internal bleeding; Ava didn’t even know how she had held on long enough to make it here alive, but she didn’t last much longer. Two deaths.  Another female scout whose ODM gear had failed and resulted in her falling from the trees, had a head injury and a broken leg was unconscious when Ava saw her. Depending on how bad her head injury was, she might survive, but again, she might not. The worst was a young man missing both a leg and an arm. Titans had ripped him apart and Ava couldn’t help but wonder how he survived at all..or didn’t get eaten. As she pulled the makeshift bandages off what remained of his limbs the stink of infection filled the clinic. Madline looked as if she was going to be sick and tears were welling in her dark eyes.

“Madline, if you need to step away,” Ava started but was cut short.

“No. I need to do this.”

“We’re going to have to amputate, to his shoulder and top of his thigh. That might save him, but we can’t tell how far the infection has spread. If it’s in his blood there’s nothing we can do without antibiotics.”

“We have antibiotics,” Madeline’s dark eyes looked up at her. 

“The ones we have aren’t strong enough, not for something like this. And I’m not willing to waste what little we have hoping for a miracle.”

“Dr. Shaw! We have to try!” The tears were back.

Dammit, she’s too soft for this.

“If he even survives the amputation, Madeline. I know we don’t have any sedatives left, the trauma alone could shock his body and kill him.”

“You’re hopeless!”

“No, I’m a doctor,” Ava snapped back, “I’ve treated injuries like this before and I’m being realistic.”

Both of their words were pointless, as the man on their operating table had stopped breathing. Now the tears broke free from Madeline’s eyes and streamed down her face. Ava sighed, pulling the white sheet over the dead scout’s face. 

“Go home, Madeline. I’ll get someone to come retrieve the dead,” Ava’s voice was emotionless. 

Madeline hurried out of the clinic without speaking another word. Four scouts brought to her and only one survived, and that one's fate wasn’t even guaranteed. Ava walked to the sink, scrubbing the blood off her stained hands. The scent of blood, death and infection still lingered in the air. The door to the clinic opened and Ava sighed.

“Madeline, I told you to go home,” She snapped.

“Dr. Shaw,” The voice sent a chill down her spine and her heart stopped for a moment.

No, it can’t be. Ava turned to face her guest, keeping her lips pressed  in a straight line. 

“Captain Levi,” She said shortly, eyeing the man standing in front of her. 

“How many survived?” His grey eyes looked around the room, stopping on the sheet covered scout.

“One,” She wiped her wet hands on her blood stained apron. “And she isn’t a guarantee. She has head trauma, I don’t know if she’ll wake up.” 

“One,” The permanent frown on his face seemed to deepened, if possible. “Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor? Why didn’t you save them?”

Ava blinked at him, trying to contain her anger. “I can’t replace torn off limbs or magically cure internal bleeding, Captain,” She snapped. “Maybe you should control your squad better and I wouldn’t have so many dead on my hands.” His eyes met hers and she could see the anger in them. Before he had the chance to reply she snapped at him again. “Have someone come get these bodies out of my clinic. I don’t want them rotting and disease to spread.”

“Doctor,” He started.

“You can leave, Captain,” She dismissed him, turning her back to Levi.

“Ava, when are you going to let this grudge of yours go?” His voice sounded softer and that only made the anger inside her grow.

“Grudge?” She laughed in disbelief, “Oh, I don’t know, Levi. When are you going to apologize for running off with your Uncle Kenny and leaving your friends behind to fend for themselves?” When she turned back to face him she thought for a moment she saw pain on his face. “And, it’s Doctor, not Ava, you lost the right to call me that a long time ago. Now, please leave my clinic.”

The pain she thought she saw on Levi’s face disappeared and he glared at her. “Of course, Doctor,” He practically spat the word before turning and leaving, slamming the door behind him.

[lokispettigerr]

To Summon a Witcher: Chapter 5- Geralt x Reader (NSFW)

Summary:  Reader lives and works in one of the most romantic cities in the US, Charleston, SC. However, because of the city’s colored past, romance isn’t the only thing that can be found there– it is said that ghosts, goblins, ghouls and the like make the city their home. When Reader meets one of these creatures she has to get the help of someone not quite so human in order to be free, but he frees her from much more than she ever expected.  

Word Count: 1,987

Warnings: Angry Daddy, Violence, Spooky shit that Daddy protecc reader from

A/N: So far, with the exclusion of chapter 1, this CHAPTER IS MY FAVORITE!

Taglist: In reblog

When I awoke Saturday morning I left my room to find Geralt laying on the couch. His eyes, as stunning as the sunrise, were already open.

“Morning,” I said with a yawn.

“Mmm,” he replied, his voice sounding rougher with the fading tendrils of sleep. I shuffled into the kitchen and started making breakfast. Normally, I wouldn’t eat breakfast. I wasn’t much of a breakfast person, or much of a morning person. I was certain my heavily muscled guest however, needed nourishment.

I put down enough slices of bacon to fill an old cast-iron pot.

The mapley, enticing scent filled the air as the bacon grease heated and popped. “Smells wonderful,” Geralt said. I jumped, turning to face him. How long had he been standing there?! “Timid, Enchantress?” He asked with a smirk. “Not usually!” I exclaimed. “Can’t you make more noise? How are you this quiet when you move? You’re huge!”

Geralt looked down at his waist. He shrugged, clearly indifferent.

“I can hum.”

I had a hard time imagining the aggressive Witcher of last night humming tunes as he walked about.

“Nevermind,” I snapped.

The bacon cooking was growing increasingly louder and I had a hard time hearing anything over it, but I was certain I heard him chuckle.

After I scrambled some eggs, buttered toast, and whipped up southern style grits, we sat down to eat. I had a cup of coffee, almost too hot in my hands. “Would you like some?” I offered. He hmphed and I took that to mean he did.

I drank my own coffee black and didn’t add anything to his either. If he wanted something, he could tell me-- though he didn’t seem to be particularly verbose. We sat in silence other than our utensils scraping the floral plates and the muted thump of coffee mugs on the wooden, four-seater table. I nibbled at a slice of crispy bacon then cleared my throat. “Well, I… I’ve had an entity attached to me, Witcher.”

“Hm…” He sipped his coffee, “Tell me about it.” I felt like I was about to tell my life troubles to a therapist. Perhaps I should go lie down on the couch and ask Geralt to put on some reading glasses while he looked over the rim of them at me and scribbled madly away in a leather-bound notebook. “A few months ago, during a storm, I walked home through a local cemetery.” He snorted, “Why would you walk home through there?”

“I wouldn’t have, had it not been for the storm,” I said, “I know I wasn’t alone there.”

“In the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“No, you wouldn’t be,” he stated. “Something out there, made of shadow and chilled wind followed me home. It hasn’t left since.” “Why do you think it followed you?” The Witcher asked. I wanted to evade his question-- very few knew my secret. If people knew, they would think I needed to be hospitalized. But, if I wasn’t completely honest with Geralt he may not be able to help me, or things would go awry. “I see it,” I sighed, “I feel it.” He shook his head and took a sip of his steaming coffee, “You see things happening around you, inexplicable things?” He asked. “Well, yes. But I see the entity as well, Witcher.”

For the first time since his arrival, Geralt looked surprised.

“What you are claiming is extremely rare. During my time the ability was nearing extinction. I would imagine that during your time-- what’s the year now?”

“2020,” I answered. He paused, “2020 then. I would imagine that the ability does not exist at all.” “I’m not lying. I see it. It has pointed ears that sit on top of its head. Deep red eyes that look like clotted and cold blood. It’s hunched over with arms that near the ground. It looks perverse! This shadow thing! Like it should walk about on all fours, yet it stands on its hind-legs. “For days it will seem as if it has finally left me. Hope will begin to grow in my chest. But then, when the sun has set or is hidden behind the clouds, I’ll feel its frigid breath on the back of my neck. The noise it makes… A whisper of nails against a chalkboard or gravel turning under someone’s shoes as they run away from a murder.” “Take me to the cemetery,” Geralt demanded.

I nodded, though I had no desire to ever return to the graveyard, I knew better than to refuse his demand. I took one last nibble of bacon, finished my coffee, and told him once I was done washing up I would take him there.

My hands shook as I walked away from him. What had I gotten myself into now?

The sun shone brightly overhead. Though it was chilly out, walking under the rays of the sun made it seem warmer than it was. What few red and orange leaves were left on the trees clung desperately to the limbs, shaking and quivering like a death rattle.

Surprisingly, the french quarter was quiet with the exception of a few people walking their designer-suit-dogs and people returning from a stop at the local market, their arms hoisting bags laden with the freshest finds, aromatic baked bread, and carefully arranged bouquets.

I watched as any person passing by Geralt would cross to the other side of the street, giving him a wide berth.  

I sniffed. He didn’t smell bad, on the contrary, his scent was inviting-- like freshly crushed pine, saddle leather, and the smell of smoke still wafting from a campfire that had long been put out but still burned with hidden embers. I looked at the towering man walking silently beside me, at his hands that he held relaxed along his side, at the manly sway of his big shoulders, at the way the breeze twirled his loose silver curls, and how the sun glinting off his hair made him look like some cast down angel of destruction. Geralt must have felt me watching him, our eyes met briefly and I looked away. I pointed at the wrought iron gate before us covered in twisting vines, “It’s there.” The cemetery looked less threatening in the bright afternoon light. Birds flew from tree to tree, singing their gay songs and squirrels scampered up and down thick-girthed trunks whose roots came under the fence line and pushed through cracks in the cobblestone. In the summer, the smell of the magnolia blossoms and the honeysuckle would lay thick in the soupy air, but now it reeked of decay from the dead, molded leaves, mixing with the clay underneath. I moved behind Geralt, my fear letting me step back for the familiar stranger to take the lead. I fought the urge to reach out and grab the back of his graying tunic or to link my fingers in his. Instead, I crossed my arms under my breasts. Geralt looked back at me before opening the gate. “You’re cold, Enchantress?” He asked with a small smile. “I’m fine.” Geralt shrugged and pushed through the gate, the rusted hinges creaked loudly in protest. Geralt walked along the overgrown path and I followed in his footsteps. We traveled as far back as the south end of the graveyard. Geralt looked around us before stepping off the path and into a walled group of headstones, many of them dating back to the early 1800s. I wondered if he noticed the dates on the headstones and what it would feel like to see the dates of the dead from his future, but in his present, from the past. If he was disturbed or conflicted, his face did not show it.

He moved between the headstones comfortably, looking like death himself. He led us to a shadowed corner of the graveyard, compared to the rest of the graveyard this area was wild chaos. It was obvious, the place had been forsaken by the groundskeeper long ago. A stone crypt reached up toward the sky. A dog looking gargoyle stared down at us from above the door. It was a gruesome looking thing. Did it wake at night, wandering about the cemetery? I wondered if it would still be here if we were to come back tomorrow. The gargoyle seemed to hold authority both in its stature and in its gaze as if it held dominion over all the residents in the graveyard.

“Witcher,” I said, my voice wavering. “What are we doing here?” He turned and looked over my head, making sure we weren’t being watched. Though the door of the crypt was bolted shut and chained with aged links, with one shove Geralt opened the door.

For a moment, I thought about waiting for him outside of the crypt. A cloud passed over the sun, causing a chill to race up my spine.

I darted into the crypt after him.

In the gloom of the crypt, I could barely make out Geralt’s hard form. He stood still, not even appearing to breathe.

I heard rustling and my heart jumped. We were not alone!

“Come to me! Now!” Geralt growled, his arm reaching for me.

“But--.”

“Now!” He roared.

I leapt towards him, unsure if I was more afraid of whatever was in the crypt with us or Geralt.

His hand palmed the side of my hip and pulled me behind him-- blocking me with his body.

And, oh my, I was shocked at how tiny I felt up against him.

I peeked around his thick arm.

From behind a bolted sarcophagus, a huge, long-haired, black dog prowled.  His lips were drawn back to expose his pointed teeth and a snarl ripped from his throat. It was clear we were trespassing.

“Geralt! What is that?!”

Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around Geralt’s waist, it was like hugging solid steel. I couldn’t even clasp my hands together. He was huge and I didn’t think I would ever get used to it.

With a sudden and sharp movement of his hand, a wave of force emitted from his finger-tips.

Amazingly, it sent the ferocious dog flying back.

It hit the wall of the crypt with a solid thud and let out a frantic yelp. The dog got to its feet with its tail tucked between its legs as it ran from the crypt, out into the graveyard.

I let out a sigh and Geralt moved me around to face him.

He held me tight against his chest, my face buried between his pecs.

From beneath my waist, a solid thick poke stabbed into me-- must have been the adrenaline again. “Geralt--,” I started. “Are you alright?” His voice was filled with sincerity.

“I-I’m fine.”

He instantly let go of me as if realizing for the first time that he had been clinging on to me desperately, and tight enough to crush me.

“Come on, then,” he said in a hushed tone.

Geralt was silent as we left the graveyard. When we finally made it back to the house, the sun was setting in the sky.

“So…,” I said. “The entity following you is not just any entity, Enchantress. A Grim has attached itself to your soul. For why I do not know. It doesn’t make sense. But I am certain, none of this will end until it drives you to madness, or death, or both. It would cause your soul to be separated from your body, driven by insanity, making your soul ever restless.”

The words fell, heavy in the air and covered me like a net of fear.

Geralt must have seen the anxiety in my eyes and he moved closer to me.In a murmur that sounded like the most comforting of lullabies, he said, “Everything will be alright. I won’t allow that to happen. I swear it.”

And with that, I knew it would be. Everything would be alright.

[spockfallsinlove]

@sciencebluefeelings prompt: Jim has a kink in his back from sleeping on emergency rations, triggered by Tarsus IV.  in other words: another angsty Tarsus IV with Spock helping Jim fic kirk/spock. 2.4k words. angst, ptsd, jim’s poor back 

Jim can feel when it’s getting bad again.

It’s a snaking feeling up his spine, a tingling under his skin. It manifests in ticks that seem to have nothing to do with the root of the problem: rearranging the papers on his desk into specifically-sized piles, adjusting himself in his chair on the bridge into ten different positions in ten minutes, inability to throw things away, checking and re-checking that he sent comms an unnecessary amount of times.

This time, what triggered it was reports of attempted genocide occuring on planet Varga, with the use of a fungus that would kill most vegetation and cause mass starvation. After reading the report, it took Jim too long to leave his cabin for his shift that morning.

And Jim knows it’s coming, tries to temper it. Since he knows it’s coming, the really bad part of it all, he convinces himself that it’s manageable.

But then it ramps up.

Inability to throw things away graduates to storing those things under his bed, in his drawers, in his closet. He begins to take extra non-perishable food items from the mess hall and stores it in his desk until he can barely shut the drawers. He takes a box of emergency rations from medbay to keep in his room (Bones tries to talk to him about this, but backs off when Jim snaps at him). These rations make it to the same place they always do, when things get this bad: under his covers, where he curls around them in a distorted fetal position, the sharp corners of the ration bars digging into his sides.

It is, in a warped way, comforting, when he wakes up from his vividly real nightmares of crying children and concave stomachs: the sharp corners of the ration bars reminding him that he’s still alive, still grounded in reality.

Things will get back to normal soon. This mania, Jim knows, will only last for a little less than a month.  Bones unsolicitedly gives him caffeine hypos for the exhaustion, and Jim switches to hot water showers instead of sonics in order to ease his aching back.

Spock is, of course, more observant than Jim would like him to be. He can feel Spock’s eyes on him when he’s rolling his shoulders and wincing on the bridge. There’s a tightness in Spock’s lips when Jim trips over his own words when giving an order and punctuating the ends of his sentences with yawns.

But unlike Bones, Spock doesn’t say anything; doesn’t crowd Jim with questions. It’s a method of friendship that Jim can appreciate, he thinks as he settles in bed for a fifth night with the rations rustling around in his sheets. Spock knows where his business lies, and that’s not poking his nose into Jim’s affairs.

Until the away mission.

They’re running from a pack of particularly hostile aliens. Shortly after leaping over a rock, Jim feels something crack in his spine and he’s on the ground, sprawled flat on his stomach.

Spock has to hoist him over his shoulder and carry him the rest of the way back to the beaming-up coordinates.

“Perhaps a visit to sickbay is in order,” Spock suggests after they’ve energized, watching Jim hobble his way off the platform.

“It’s nothing a hot water bottle won’t fix,” Jim says lightly. Spock looks impassive. Jim waves his hand. “Seriously, Spock, it’s nothing. All sickbay will get me is a Bones barking at me to eat more vegetables and exercise more frequently. I just need a night of rest.”

With an eyebrow raised, Spock suggests, “At least allow me to be your replacement for the rest of your shift, Captain. So that your rest can be expedited to the present instead of seven hours from now.”

Jim does his best to straighten his crooked spine and look stately as he nods in agreement. “Yes, perhaps that’d be good. We have that summit meeting at Starbase 24 tomorrow—wouldn’t want to be at half-mast in front of Admiral Komack.”

Spock’s lips twitch, the only indication that he appreciated Jim’s stab at humor. “Indeed, Captain.”

Jim waits until Spock has left the transporter room before slowly making his way to his quarters, praying that Bone won’t materialize around a corner with a hypo in hand.

For the next seven hours, Jim tries his best to be comfortable lying straight-backed over the rations. They crinkle in protest every time he adjusts. He can practically hear his back shrieking at him every time he moves.

It’s hours of agony until someone beeps the intercom for his door.

Jim barks, sitting up against his pillows, “What?”

“Captain, may I enter?” Spock asks from the other side of the door.

Jim curses under his breath. Sweeps his blanket over any visible rations and pulls it higher over his chest. “You may,” he calls back.

The door slides away to reveal Spock, looking nothing like a man whose had a continuous twenty-four hour shift, with the last seven being acting Captain.

Jim feels a warmth in his chest that tugs his face into a smile. “How was the shift, Spock?”

“Uneventful, Captain. Starbase 24 contacted us to see if we were on course for the summit meeting—I affirmed that we were.”

“Excellent.” Jim feels his lower back spasm; he resists the urge to shift. “I should be ready to beam down at 0800 for the meeting.”

“Yes, sir.” Spock visibly hesitates. “I came to inquire—are you feeling satisfactory?”

Jim scoffs. “Careful, Spock, you’re starting to sound like Bones.”

Spock, if possible, raises himself to straighten further. “I am deeply grieved to hear that, Captain.”

That gets a happy laugh out of Jim; he feels his back relax from the movement. “I apologize, Mr. Spock, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Negative, Captain.” Spock adjusts his hands behind him. “I merely wanted to inquire after your health and see if I could be of any assistance.”

“Assistance? What, are you going to sternly tell my spine to do its logical job and stop causing me grievances?”

There’s a crinkle around the corners of Spock’s eyes. “Negative. I came to offer my chiropractic expertise.”

Jim asks, “Your what now?”

Spock takes a step forward. “My mother was ailed with scoliosis as a child. As a result, she experienced frequent soreness and misalignment in her spine. My father and I thought it only logical to become well-versed on the subject, so that we could help her when needed.”

“Well, that is logical,” Jim says, “but I don’t want to trouble you if—”

“It’s no trouble,” Spock cuts in, almost too quickly. He ducks his head, adding, “Sir.”

There’s a silence that hangs over them. Jim realizes belatedly how dark it is in the room, with the lights only at forty percent. He tries not to appreciate Spock too much in this dim light, how it softens his features and makes his chocolate eyes all the deeper. Spock, his straight-laced Vulcan first officer who essentially just offered to massage him.

“If you are uncomfortable with my suggestion, please say so,” Spock says, voice pitched lower, with a touch of strain. It makes Jim realize that he’s been making Spock wait for his answer.

And it’s this vulnerability in Spock, Jim’s desire to keep Spock from feeling embarrassed, that makes Jim forget the rations in his bed or the food stuffed in his desk drawers. It makes him say, “Of course I’m not, Spock. I would be honored if you helped me.”

Spock nods, shoulders minutely deflating. “Very good, Captain. In that case, I will ask you to sit on the edge of the bed.”

Jim forgets the rations and the food, that is, until Spock moves forward toward him, and puts a hand on it, making a move to sit down. Both of them freeze when Spock’s movement elicits a very loud, very obnoxious crackle.

Spock stares at Jim, silently demanding an explanation. Jim stares right back, feeling his cheeks literally bursting into flame.

“I, uh…” Jim shifts against his pillow; there’s more crackling as the rations are further shifted around in his sheets. “Maybe now isn’t a good time, Spock, I—well—”

Spock is just looking more increasingly horrified, and Jim can’t blame him, especially can’t blame him for lifting up the sheet at Jim’s feet to examine the cause of what’s causing such a racket. Spock sees the rations, at least fifteen clustered around Jim’s ankles alone, and stares.

“Captain…” Spock begins.

Jim feels his jaw working, but he doesn’t know what to say. He stares at his hands.

“Jim—”

“I don’t want to explain,” Jim snaps. He still can’t meet Spock’s eyes, because he knows what he’ll see in them: pity and judgement and something else he doesn’t want to mention. “Don’t ask me to explain, Spock, because I don’t want to, alright? I can’t. Just leave it alone.”

Jim expects Spock to run. To calmly replace the sheet back over Jim’s legs and then bolt right out of the room and then declare the lunatic captain unfit to run the ship.

Instead, Spock stands. He folds his hands behind his back and stands back at a respectable distance. “Jim,” he says again.

When Jim finally looks up at Spock, there’s nothing what he expected: no pity, no judgement, no shame. Just understanding. “Jim, do you want me to leave, or stay?”

Jim swallows; it gets caught in the closing of his throat. He considers only a moment before saying, “Please stay, Spock.”

Spock nods. He gestures for Jim to move to the edge of the bed.

Jim obliges, his legs dangle over the side as he sits in a hunched position. Spock sits behind him, the ration bars crinkling under his weight. If this bothers him, he gives no indication.

Voice steady, Spock says, “I am going to examine your back now, to see where the ailment is stemming from. This won’t take a moment.”

Jim nods. He feels Spock’s gentle but firm fingers press into his back, wandering up and down his spine. There’s a calming rhythm in his explorations of Jim’s muscles, one that makes Jim’s eyes feel heavier, his shoulders feel lighter.

“I found it,” Spock says after a few long minutes. “It’s the lower part of your spine. What position do you often sleep in?”

“On my side,” Jim says. “Often not straight.”

“It could be causing the problem.” Spock’s fingers press into Jim’s lower back, right on the sore spot, and Jim has to suppress a sigh. “I don’t detect it’s spinal; simply the muscles are overworked and tight in this area. It can be solved through massage.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jim says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Indeed. Are you comfortable in this position?”

Jim nods. He feels Spock’s fingers press into his muscles again with more firmness, more direction. “Thank you, Spock,” he says.

“Of course, Captain.”

Taking a steadying breath, Jim continues, “For this and… for not prying.”

Spock is silent. His fingers continue to press into Jim’s back. He finally says, “I will not pry. I simply wish to state that I am available to you in a capacity that goes beyond a First Officer’s duties. As a friend.”

Jim closes his eyes and pushes against the tide of feeling rising in his chest. “I appreciate that, Spock.”

“It is no trouble, Jim,” Spock replies, and continues to push at Jim’s back.

It’s been years since Jim’s allowed something like this. For someone to help him, just for the sake of it. Bones constantly pushes Jim to take care of himself, to seek emotional help—and Jim appreciates it, despite the annoyance of it.

But with Spock, it’s different. With Spock, Jim feel as though he can just allow himself to be helped—mainly, because he knows that Spock will only offer help since it’s the logical thing to do. There’s comfort in that. That logically, friends help each other, so that they can continue on in life being happy and healthy.

It’s logic, Jim insists to himself, that makes him say on a quiet breath, “Tarsus IV.”

Spock’s hands still.

“It’s…” Jim clears his throat. “It’s about Tarsus IV.”

He doesn’t explain further. He knows he doesn’t have to, that Spock is brilliant enough to put the rations and the lack of sleep and the events that happened on that planet together in order to create the whole picture. Jim knows he doesn’t have to, based on the sharp intake of breath Spock takes before his fingers begin gently pushing into Jim’s shirt again.

“‘In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.’” Spock says.

“What?” Jim asks. He turns his head to look at Spock over his shoulder, worried Spock might be having a stroke.

“A quote by Albert Camus I read once,” Spock explains. He puts his hands in his lap. “You possess within you an invincible summer, Jim. This period of winter will not falter it.”

“Metaphors, Mr. Spock?” Jim tries to tease, although his chest is bursting with about twenty different kinds of emotion.

“Only for you, Captain,” Spock spars with a twitch of his lips. “Please turn so that I may continue to aid your back.”

“Yes, sir,” Jim says teasingly, moving his head back to neutral position. He feels a smile, a genuine smile that he hasn’t felt in weeks, pull at his lips. He closes his eyes and focuses on Spock’s brilliant fingers pushing into the tight spots Jim didn’t even know he had, drawing out the pain and smoothing it out.

And if Spock leans in further toward Jim’s back, enough so that Jim can feel the warmth emanating from his friend, Jim just smiles and doesn’t say a word.

↳ prompts are open for mowripro, send one to my askbox.

[a-collection-of-villainous-aus]

Pirate Au

(Drabble 2 slides this out and hides back under my rock)

Tap, tap, tap went Demencia's fingers on the massive glass tank The Captain now had in his cabin quarters, after all this is Black Hat, he can do as he pleases.

We're not exactly going to question him are we, not when he can rip your spine out your arse and the crew have witness him doing just that when a navy officer dared to give him lip, it is safe to say no other fleet have attempted to stop him.

"You should be happy the Captain gave you an aquarium, could have been thrown back into the sea, now you have the attention of a king!"

Demencia tapped the glass again, wanting him to react or swim, something!

"Why you laying there, curled up in a corner like a shrivelled worm."

Every time she made those sounds his tail twitched, his tank was bare, made of four walls, him and salt water its only contents, a porthole that looked out on his vast home, making this imprisonment all the more cruel.

To be kept from its cooling depths and sail amongst fellow sea creatures, of course he was going to lay down if only to keep it out of sight.

Happy indeed!

They chose to be on this watery landscape, he did not choose to be in this blasted box!

He was not one of your common merfolk who lived in a glittering city of pearls and lights, the merman lived in a deeper part of the ocean where the sun barely touched him.

Of course if any of these damn morons had any idea about his kind they would have known that!

"Hey fish man, what do you call yourself?"

Hands fisted and against his head, pressing them tighter against the bag, he could understand her language, speak it even but he had no reason to oblige an answer, but damn it if she tapped that glass. One. More. Time....

He would throw himself out just to claw her to pieces with little care for consequences.

Gills at his ribs flared and relaxed, sighing, this trap was bigger than it looked, he'd tried swimming from one end to the other but an enchantment has been placed on the aquarium so that it never ended.

Something told him he that he was going to be akin to a pet until his captor grew bored and decided he would be more useful as fish fillets.

Tap. Tap. TAP.

Pupil's becoming slits he rushed her, seeing red wanting nothing more than to rip her to pieces, shoulder crashing against the glass, yes it hurt, no doubt would even bruise, but that didn't matter just as he was preparing to spring out, Black Hat walked in and grimaced at the scene before him.

"How many times have I told you, not to enter my room without permission girl."

His prize was clearly agitated, usually he could care less if Demencia vexed someone so they lost their mind, but this was one he wanted to preserve.

She had barely reacted at their guests threat display, being around her Captain had desensitised her to such things and was merely watching out of curiosity.

"What? I was just simply curious about your new pet, I bet you wonder what he looks like under that bag."

Demencia shrugged, giggling as she tapped the glass again, grinning as the merman pounded his fists against the glass in frustration, letting out another screech.

Black Hat had, had enough of this, picking up the silver serving dome on his table from last nights meal and putting it over Demencia's head, clanging a spoon on its surface until she got the bloody message.

"Owwww you know my ears are more sensitive...ohhh...I see."

Peeking out from under the dome, casting a look at the merman whose arms were folded and while his face was hidden it was clear he was thinking; See how you like it.

"Yes exactly, now I would prefer if our guest was not driven insane by your doings, we can converse later, but for now this is the company I seek."

"But sir, you have him in your room, he will always be here!"

"Hmm yes, might even stop you entering and trying to smell my clothes."

"Pffft what do you mean try?"

The pirate King inhaled deeply, no he was not going to snap, top lip rippling in a soft grow which of course it would only make her eyes light up excitedly, though out the corner of his own he noticed his treasure watching only to hastily swim back and curl up on the aquarium floor once more.

Placing a claw under the lizard girls chin he purred

"You would not want to disappoint your Captain now would you?"

"Of course not!"

"So behave, check the rounds and see where that bear of a man Fives is with my breakfast."

"Yes Captain Black Hat!"

She saluted him running off absolutely giddy, she would never wash her face again, well she would because Hat would insist but for now NEEEEVERRR.

When Demencia was out and door closed a long sigh escaped him, pinching the bridge of where a nose would be.

"You know for a mad woman, she really is the most reliable of my crew."

With hands clasped behind his back he walked forward, stopping in front of the merman, observing the creature before him, fins swaying gently, gills parting with each breath, taking in how scales met flesh.

Really quiet a fetching thing if he did say so himself.

"My name is Black Hat, though I am sure you already know that, there are few who do not."

Casually looking over his claws as he spoke, because of course everyone knew who he was right, so this creature should be impressed by his name alone.

Materialising a chair from nothing the demon sat, leaning back in that chair we all know he has in his office in cannon verse, cause come on that is a noice chair!

One leg over the other, elbows resting on its arms, steepling his fingers, odd indeed, most would be quivering now...so there must be something wrong.

In their shared silence, wood was creaking, ocean waves lapping and the chatter of men could be heard outside, he continued staring through clear water making a small hmm sound in though and suggesting

"Perhaps you are sick, I am quite knowledgeable in mermailian anatomy...though to be fair I have only used such information to kill your kind."

Oh, now that had a reaction, the creatures tail suddenly appeared to have circular patterning of bright sky blue rings, no doubt they would look marvellous in the dark.

Body tensing as he curled into himself, spines raising as a defence mechanism, which meant from what he could see this merman was both predator and prey within his own habitat, Hat could also not deny he was somewhat curious as to what this creature looked like under that bag.

So he wasn't sick...oh ho he was pissed at him!

A smirked formed on the demons features, chin on hand cooing teasingly

"Ohh is someone sulking, really you should be honoured that I am giving you so much attention."

So this land walker really was so arrogant to assume everyone needed his praise!

There he'd been swimming around , simply curious about the oddity way up high an peculiar power surge and of course being somewhat of an explorer himself had ventured to where it was coming from only to get caught in that bloody storm.

So really what it was really this Captain wanted him to acknowledge his existence, perhaps this would be amusing after all.

Unfurling himself the merman, stretched arching his back, this display might have been more pleasing without the mask but none the less this Hat fellow seemed to be showing signs of interest.

Rolling on his side head propped up with a hand, he knew body language could speak more than enough.

Inside he was feeling absolutely smug as shit as that single eye watched his other hand, claws caressing along his hip, subtlety taking up the remaining dead scales, either way Black still seemed focused.

Black Hat's mouth suddenly went dry, well that was unexpected, loosening the frills at his throat, curious as to what he'd do next, that beautiful tail, rising and falling gently much like a contented feline.

"Are you trying to entice me, you are doing a poor job of it."

The demon scoffed, despite the fact it was a blatant lie.

Pushing himself from the tank floor he swam closer so that the Captain could admire him more.

Perhaps more than this dark being expected because he could not help but chuckle, noticing how he'd tried to cover up the fact he'd looked down.

Black Hat cleared his throat, nostrils flaring just enough to actually be seen momentarily and disappearing once more, this certainly was a turn of events, also one would be blind not to notice this was one of the finer specimens of Mermailian kind, a little fun just might be in order.

Small dull thuds on the glass took him from his thoughts at first the demon wondered what on Earth he was doing before noticing there was a purpose and a pattern as it kept repeating.

Was it his name?

He flipping well hoped so!

Flug, his name was FLUG!

Right then, well if Flug wanted to play...

Standing, adjusting his coat and belt, Black Hat walked up steps that did not exist, leaning an arm over Flug's tank, voice husky and beckoning him to the surface, grinning as he seemed to have learned that it was best to be obedient to him.

Flug hesitated a moment, feigning at being coy, looking down and shyly coming up.

"Come to me my pet."

The merman paused, so his voice might have had a genuine effect on him, leaving a warmth in his belly he'd not been expecting.

Its tone making his ear fins want to spread out and take in the seductive tune all the more while damning the gentle flush of purple in his pale skin.

A long claw extended, hooking in one of the ties in the merman's mask, Flug could not deny even in all his stubbornness they were beautiful hands.

"So, we finally have a name for you, Flug."

Silence fell upon them once more, holding his hand to rest his cloth covered cheek against his palm, trilling softly, keeping a watch on Hat, moving in closer.

The Captain loosened a tie, taking in how those fine peacock coloured scales dusting along side his throat disappeared continued on under the cloth.

They had forgotten everything around them, or so at least Hat believed.

Flug felt the sharp tip of his thumb at his chin ready to lift his mask and saw his moment.

His other hand had been concealing the dead scales he'd been peeling off earlier, a concoction similar to shredded soggy snake skin, clumped and pulpy, he of course threw it straight at the demons face, making a nasty thick squelching sound.

"Why you little-"

Flug saw how quickly his eye turned from white to black, its pupil crimson and despite his fear, flicked the last little piece that remained on his finger tips at him, if he was going to die, damn the consequences, but what actually happened was far from expected.

The last piece had landed in his mouth completely throwing him off his rage to a frozen silence before he started laughing

"Well played little fish."

His captor was laughing!

That was not the reaction he'd wanted at all, huffing and tying his bag back up he went back to sulking in the corner.

"Complain all you want my little scaley beauty, you are not going any where."

Only this case if Flug was standing he would be much taller than him, not that Hat was going to admit that any time soon.

A few moments later Demencia was bringing in his breakfast, thankfully he'd cleaned off all the much his pet had thrown at him.

" So did you have an interesting conversation?"

She enquired cheerfully.

"I managed to pull a name from him."

"Oh what is it?"

"Flug, his name is Flug."

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter forty (boston cream pies and feathers)

November 6, 1988. Oswego, New York.

“Where are we?” Lars asks me in a muffled voice.

“Right here.”

I turn my head and I can tell we’re back at Black Orchid, even with the coat of freshly fallen snow all around us. I recognize that door, and I raise my knuckles to the panel. There’s silence. Then it swings open to reveal Mrs. Hamilton wrapped in black lace and leather and smelling of rose water. Her face lights up when she sees us.

“There are my boys!” she declares. “Morgan and I were just wondering about you—come on in!”

We step inside the place where we’re met with a blanket of warmth and a kiss from Morgan.

“You guys need to take care of yourselves better,” she advises us, brushing off the front of my coat. “Come on, take a load off.”

“I do not like the way you looked at me when you said that,” I confess, and she bursts out laughing at me.

“Also there’s someone waiting for you on the second level, Joey,” Mrs. Hamilton nods up the stairs on the other side of the room.

“Who?”

“Go check it out. We’ll take care of your clothes for you guys, make sure nothing happens to them.”

She and Morgan offer to take the checkerboard outfits Marcia and Sonia gave us, and then Lars follows them towards the kitchen. I make my way to the stairwell and up to the second floor, where I'm met with the warm aroma of chocolate coupled with fresh baked bread. Cindy and Lupe are seated at the little table before the stage with a quartet of Boston cream pies, each of them the size of my palms, each of them glazed with a thick layer of chocolate: the former has her hair brushed over the side of her shoulder and embedded with tiny specks of silver glitter throughout, and is wearing a little low cut black dress lined with lace; the latter has her hair tousled all around her head, is sporting those hoop earrings, and a little black leather jacket. Cindy adjusts the neckline of her dress right as I walk up to them.

“There he is!” she greets me, and gestures to the chair in between them. “Have a seat.”

I round the table to the chair and nestle down in between them. Cindy pushes one of the pies in front of me and Lupe leans over my shoulder. I turn my head to look at her little chin resting upon the point of my shoulder and her dark eyes staring back at me.

“Hello, lovely,” I greet her in a low voice, feeling the butterflies flutter up inside my stomach.

“Sexy boy,” she whispers to me. Cindy picks up a fork and sticks it into the side of the pie, and holds the bite right before my mouth.

“Eat up, Mr. Stallion,” she commands to me and I open my lips for the bite. Light and fluffy with the chocolate and the crème. Perfect. I swallow and she gives me another bite. Lupe, meanwhile, runs her fingers over my chest.

“Ladies, please,” I insist, putting my hands up as if to resist them.

“Oh, come on, baby boy,” Lupe says to me in a breathy voice, stroking my chest.

“Yeah, you know you want some of this,” Cindy adds, gesturing to the pie in front of me. “A couple of girls who'll take off their clothes for you and some decadent cake to go with it.”

“Not really what I was expecting for breakfast, but I will take it, though.” I open my mouth for another bite of Boston crème pie which is then followed by Lupe laying her hand on the right side of my face for a kiss on the left. Cindy then puts down the fork to do the same for the right side. I've got a mouthful of cake and two girls kissing me at the same time. Ha!

“Please—” I beg in between their kisses.

“Admit it, there's no way you can resist this,” Cindy whispers in my ear.

“The only thing that would make this whole thing better is if Gwendolyn was here dancing for us,” I confess.

“My darling sister has a little touch of the flu, I'm afraid,” she admits, bringing her lips closer to the underside of my jaw. “But I've got you covered, big boy—”

She kisses my neck and that's when I feel my jeans tightening. I'm growing in between the legs at the touch of every kiss from both Cindy and Lupe. I shift my weight to get comfortable again but he's only enlarging. Lupe touches my chest with a caress as light as a feather.

But there's a part of me resisting this. There's that cake right in front of me. I lunge forward to the fork for another bite for myself, but Lupe grips onto my wrist.

“I want—” I plead, groping at the plate of Boston cream pie. “I want—I want—!”

Lars emerges from behind the stairs with a smarmy grin on his face.

“Ooh, free cake!” he exclaims, oblivious to the fact I'm being groped at myself.

“Help me,” I beg of him.

“Oh, come off it, man—look at you! You fucking—STUD!”

“He wants the cake, though, Cindy,” Lupe tells her.

“Definitely. I don't blame him, either—it's quite delicious.”

“Come back any time, though, baby—” Lupe whispers into my ear before kissing my neck again. Cindy licks her lips at me before they both stand up. Lars takes Lupe's seat next to me once they step away; I sink down in the chair with the fork in my hand.

“God damn,” I mutter to myself.

“I'll say,” he adds, taking a bite out of his little cake. “They were all over you.”

“I like the way Lupe was touching me,” I confess, inserting the tines of my fork into the cake for another bite, “—you know, down my chest and all along on my neck. She really knows how to please, that one.”

“She's the youngest, too.”

��Right. It's like it's natural for her. And I'm not the kind of guy who'll have at it with just anyone, either.” I think about my encounter with Dominique in her and Matt's house. She isn't just anyone, and neither are Lupe or Gwendolyn for that matter.

“So how do you want to get back to your place?” he asks me. “I don't feel like opening yet another wormhole, especially after Molly overheard us last night.”

“And it also just seems like overkill, too, y'know? 'Cause I live nearby.”

“Right!”

I take the bite of cake and then swallow it down.

“There is the bus stop up by the country club over here, though,” I point out.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I took it over here on the night before my birthday and that was legitimately how I found Maya. I just happened to be there.”

Lars gapes at me with the tines of the fork pressed to his bottom lip. “Shit, man. Why didn't you add that to your story before?”

“Didn't even think about it 'til just now.”

“Fock man, that explains everything. What time does the next one come?”

“What time is it?”

He glances at his wrist again.

“A quarter to ten.”

“Shit, we gotta go.”

“Oh, snap—I wonder if we can take these with us.”

“I'm sure we can.”

We pick up our cakes and hurry back down the stairs to the first floor. Mrs. Hamilton, Morgan, Cindy, and Lupe are in the next room talking about something as we're headed out the front door. I'm eating the cake with my fingers as we're walking at a rather fast clip down the sidewalk towards the bus stop. The clouds are funneling in from the lake and the winds are picking up: as long as it doesn't snow again, we'll make the bus on time. I lead Lars to the corner and to the left of us, across from the actual bus stop itself, stands the storm drain, now filled with a low snow pile. I stuff the remainder of the cake into my mouth and point at the drain.

“This is where I found her,” I tell him with my mouth full.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, taking another bite of cake. I guide him across the street to the stop, and within a couple of minutes, the bus lumbers up to the curb to take us back to my neighborhood. Upon climbing aboard and taking a seat next to the window on the left side, I peer over my shoulder to look at Black Orchid again, and the Denny's sign, and beyond that stood the stadium lights lining the hockey rink. I guess I'm just an idiot but it's clear to me now in broad daylight.

It takes us twenty minutes to return back to the stop a few blocks from the complex, and once we're off, I guide Lars away from the bus stop and hold up a finger at him.

“I have to take care of one other thing, though,” I explain to him.

Glancing both ways, I lead him across the street, exactly back the way I first came to Black Orchid, back to my place. But we don't return to my place: I keep walking up the block, up towards the House of Grey. Snow blankets their roof and I see the lamp in the front window switched on. Good, they're home. Lars is right behind me as we stride up to the front door. Before I can knock, it swings open and Billy pokes his head out. There's a look of concern upon his face.

“Hey,” I greet him.

“We're glad you got here,” he says to me.

“Why's that? What's up?”

“It's Brick.”

I think it might be the wind, but a cold chill runs up my spine just now. I glimpse back at Lars, whose eyes are wide with concern.

Billy lets us inside. The house is warm, and Barney and Spence are seated at the table, looking as though they've been waiting for me. I turn my head to the living room and the couch where they had laid him down. He looks normal, like the Brick I've known for years, but there's something off about him.

His eyes look as though they're made of clay.

He's got feathers, feathers like the ones I put on my mask for Halloween and the ones I have in the old headdress, decorating his face, the crown of his head, and all down his shoulders and his chest. But I'm coming closer to find the feathers don't even look real. The stems look as though they're made of wires, like the tiny white wires I saw up in Seattle holding the electronics together, while the plumes are made of this weird glossy blue stuff: they're jutting out of his skin like they're part of his body. Lars gasps right behind me.

That Boston cream pie isn't settling with me now.

“What the—What the honest to God fuck,” is all I can stammer out.

“He's still alive by the way,” Spence assures us. “Like he's breathing and he makes these weird little whimpering noises every so often, but he hasn't moved.”

“We turned the lights out a little bit ago and they glow in the dark,” Barney adds.

“When did—this happen?” Lars stammers.

“Like right after you left,” Barney replies. “They just sprouted out of nowhere as Bill was making us breakfast.”

“Did you take him to the hospital here in town?” I ask them.

“Yeah,” Billy assures me. “They're baffled. They don't know what it is.”

I return to Brick and those feathers in his skin, which is now as pale white as a ghost. He has that exact same look on his face that Maya had just before she transformed into that dragon monster thing. He looks like Maya when I found her, worse than her in fact.

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him, Joey,” Spence confesses in a soft voice. I hear Lars step away from me and into the kitchen to join them. But I'm still standing there, staring at his face and those itchy looking feathers growing out of him. I hope he doesn't turn into a monster or worse. I'll save you, buddy. You’re my best friend. You and I go back years, to when we played hockey together in the back yard. I can’t lose you.

And I’ll save Maya, too. I'll have to save her first if I must.

I’ll figure this one out, even if it kills me.

****************************

And that’s a wrap! Hang tight for book two!

[aalt-ctrl-del]

05 _ Straw Spun to Silk

First - A Gentleman in a Coat

05 - A Gap in Wake and Dreams 

Chad sat up quite suddenly and the rush sent him through a tizzy. He stole a breath and flopped back onto the warm covers and blankets piled onto his bed; he didn’t recall falling asleep with such heavy burdens. He didn’t recall falling asleep at all, or what it was he was doing last.

 A flash of color and distorted sounds rocked in his mind; snickers lodged behind crooked, long teeth. He could envision the face, but nothing else. And it brought hot, salty tears to his eyes. It was a dream, a ghastly, awful nightmare with no merit. He told his sister a story and went straight to his own bed. Nothing happened between then and him waking up, hot and frightened; by apparitions that meant nothing to his mind. Nothing, nothing at all happened that he couldn’t recall directly.

 Someone was at the door.  Chad twisted in his sheets, heart leaping as his mother entered. Lorraine stopped in the doorway, she dropped the ceramic pitcher she carried and dashed to Chad’s bedside.

 “Chad! Oh, Chadwick!” Lorrain enveloped the boy and blankets into her arms and held tightly. “Thank the lord, you’re awake.”

 Chad struggled out of his mother’s embrace. He… didn’t understand why it felt wrong; perhaps because she wasn’t the hugging type. It was almost regretful shrugging her off; in the next moment, Lorrain snapped away from Chad and took him by the shoulders. She shook him hard. “We were worried sick! What happened to you? We looked everywhere, all across the town and the woods! Door wide open, you gone – what were we to think?” She was still shaking him, even when her rant prattled off.

 Chad was at a loss, and gawked numbly at his mother. His mind remained in that dense fog, and couldn’t sift through to his lingering thoughts before awakening in bed. A dry rag lay beside his pillow, some of the blankets were from the hall closet – meant for guests. His body was weary and sick yet; he remembered being lost. Wandering lost, through marsh lands and sludge.

 “I don’t… know,” Chad finally squeaked. “I don’t remember.”

 Lorrain held his eyes with a stony stare, and then released his shoulders. She sighed as she stood, and brushed off her apron. “You’ll rest up for the remainder of the day, and be ready to resume class the next morn. No buts.” She returned to the entry and gathered up the pieces of ceramic. “And get back under those covers. You’ll catch your death.  What a mess….” Lorrain undid her apron, and used it to mop up the excess water while gathering up the porcelain shards in its folds.

 Chad watched, head poking from beneath the covers. It was stifling and retched, but the moment his mother left the room he shoved his arms out from beneath the cocoon. Sunlight flittered in from his window, and slid across the carpet. There was nothing to do, but dwell on what happened but that in itself was a futile effort. The only real evidence of his whereabouts was the wooden mask, which he and his brother shared; he distinctly recalled its involvement. He carried it along, and wore it; he didn’t recall why. Now, the mask was tied around his bedpost; something he would never do, as it didn’t belong to him alone. His brother would come home someday, and they’d play tag in the woods with the other kids. Someday.

 From the recesses of his subconscious he could cue in on the colors and sound, and the delusion of a carnival; a once magical place he visited with his brother long-ago.

 But it became a nightmare in his memories whenever he visited the illusion. The rides had teeth and spines, and all the wild beasts became sick and twisted – the creature hummed the same rhyme. Eyes leered from the depths of circus tents and box carts, cackling or crooning….

 “We all float down here, yes, we do. And if you come along, you’ll float too.”

 When next Chad awoke, he barely exhaled in relief. His father was beside his bed, looking down on him. Mason placed a hand on his forehead, beneath the freshly damp rag there.

 “Why did you go?”

 “I don’t remember,” Chad burbled. He was torn. He was exhausted yet and wanted more than anything else to return to his rest, but there were terrible things awaiting behind his shut eyes. “I don’t remember leaving the house.”

 “So your mother says,” Mason grumbled. “You got up… before she and I were awake, and you left the house. You can’t think of a reason?”

 Chad couldn’t figure where his developed these impressions; Chad didn’t understand his own self. He could hardly think straight. His best defense was to lay, eyes hooded, and hope his father left.

 “Chadwick. Answer me.” Mason nudged Chad’s shoulder. “What prompted you to go outside?”

 “I didn’t go outside,” Chad murmured. He burbled something else, but it was lost to his ears. Rest was mercifully uninteresting, and it felt mere seconds passed before he awoke. This time, to his mother dumping his book bag on his legs.

 “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Lorrain scowled. She tugged the blankets back and over the book bag, and pried Chad out of the covers. “Get yourself cleaned and ready for school. Go on.”

 The events of that morning proceeded in surrealism. Chad managed to get himself cleaned up and downstairs, with time to make himself so breakfast and get his little sister settled in her toddler pin. He hardly realized that an hour had passed and only a half hour remained for him to reach the schoolyard.

 His parents were nowhere to be found at this time; his father probably left for work, and his mother might have been out calling on neighbors. On a whim, Chad didn’t finish his breakfast; he took his last crust of toast and a few bites of sausage and left them to one side of the porch.

 He lingered there, staring off into the distant thicket that crowded in the backside of the yard. The sun was rising steadily higher, casting the timber and leaves with a bronze glow. If not for the twitter of birds, the yard might be silent, completely and utterly. He struggled to rekindle the voice he was certain was singing the night before last – a tune about offerings and tarts, and what could be bought.

 Chad made certain Abigail was secure in the toddlerpin with Stiltskin, and only recalled his book bag was still upstairs. He snatched it and flew out the door with a quarter an hour to race the three miles.

 Some semblance of normalcy began to reassert itself once Chad made it to the school. He was nearly an hour late, but he was present. Mostly. That was more than what could be said of some of his peers, and whose parents had not called in to excuse the absences. Lessons moved along normally, with Chad struggling through with his Language Arts. As often the weekend did when students returned to school, the oddity that was the past few days evaporated from Chad’s awareness. He might’ve been grounded and bed ridden, but that was in the past. A fever dream.

 “I want to spend a few days in bed,” Hugo smarted, as he came over with his lunch bag. “Take a day off from helping my dad in the shop.”

 For now it was he a Chad, seated under a tree a few yards from the schools backside. Chad frowned and shrugged.

 “I don’t think you want what I had.” Chad accepted a bit of the sandwich Hugo offered. He hadn’t packed his lunch that day, and forgot the money to pay. It wasn’t much, but he appreciated a little bit of kindness. “It kicked my ass.”

 “It kicked your ass,” Hugo taunted. “You’d get sacked by an amobah.”

 Chad watched as Neil approached from across the yard.  “Did Tucker show up today?” Hugo made an unintelligible sound around his PB&J. Chad cupped his hands around his mouth and called to Neil.

 “I didn’t see him this morning,” Hugo added. “You can have the rest of my milk. If he’s still contagious, I can run by and visit.”

 “That’s not funny,” Neil hissed. He was close to the group, he caught the gist of Hugo’s topic. Neil tossed down his bag and took a spot beside Chad. For a moment he was quiet, not even digging into his bag lunch. Chad and Hugo waited with baited breath, barely sparing a glance at the other; waiting for Neil to resume terminated train of thought. After a minute, he looked up at Chad. “You’re okay?”

 “Yeah.” Chad hesitated. “But what? What’s the matter?” Another long, painful pause followed. Neil appeared visibly unnerved.

 “Stew,” he mumbled. “Y’know, the annoying do-no-wrong from my class, lives a block over form my house. I was on my way home, and a whole crew of police were parked outside the home. There wasn’t an ambulance, and the doctor’s car wasn’t there.  There was another car, I didn’t recognize it. I… don’t think Martin’s coming back to class.”

 The three were silent. The only permeating sound was that of their classmates, running free and wild while the break lasted. Chad spoke up first:

 “But, what happened?”

 “I don’t know,” Neil admitted. He pulled his lunch parcels from the bag and browsed through the wax covering. “Mr. Kipper, lives a few homes down from the Lancelot’s place, he said Stew went missing.  Chad? You okay?”

 Chad rubbed at his face. He wasn’t crying. “I’m fine. Dust, or something. Did he say anything else about Stew?”

 “Nothing,” Neil muttered.  “Didn’t say much about anything, aside from being careful. Typical adult stuff. You didn’t pack a lunch today?”

 Chad shook his head, still lost in some thought. “I wasn’t feeling too hot this morning.”

 “Your parents still sent you out,” Hugo sniggered.  “Harsh.” Neil nodded.

 “I had a weird dream,” Chad went on.  He took an offered cookie from Neil and ate a bit around the edge, his eyes gazing off. The school had a small neighborhood around the premises, but mostly older people lived in the homes. No kids lived close to the school itself.

 “Really weird,” he repeated. “I got lost in the sewer with this other kid, and we were trying to find our way out. But there was no way out? No, we were really fucking lost.” Hugo laughed. “It sounds stupid now I’m sayin’ it aloud.”

 “Why’d you be dreaming about the sewers?” Neil posed. “I get they’re kind of creepy and all modern, what with all the work they put into them.”

 “Wasn’t your dad on the project?” Hugo prompted. He was chewing carrot sticks, and being loud about it. “But he quit! Didn’t say why?”

 “He wouldn’t talk about it.” Neil raised his shoulders, he was thin but taller than Chad. Not by much. “Mostly, he said they didn’t pay enough for how dangerous it was – sort of like mining. Some of the tunnels collapsed, and when they tried to dig out the ruble, more often than not they’d get another collapse. I think a few they couldn’t recover. He wasn’t the only one to resign.”

 Again, the group lost themselves in silent thoughts. Hugo cast his eyes back to the school, expression dire. “None of you saw Tucker this morning?”

 “I wasn’t around,” Chad offered, when Neil failed to reply. “It’s weird you mentioned the collapsed tunnels. I thought there was one in my dream, or I… crawled through this tight narrow clog—”

 “Shut up about a dream,” Hugo snapped. “You must’ve heard something from someone, maybe your parents.”

 “You shut up!” Chad rebuked. “You don’t get it, it felt real. The smell, the water – I was soaked through!”

 “But who cares?” Hugo tossed his arms up, upsetting his remaining foodstuffs. “What does the damn sewer have to do with anything?”

 “Because some other kid was down there too, and at first I thought it was Sterling!”

 Hugo glowered at Chad, and Chad matched the vicious scowl. Neil didn’t do or say much, aside from look over at the two, before shifting his eyes back onto their peers frolicking and oblivious.

 “Forget it,” Chad barked. “Forget what I said. Pretend I never came today.” He tossed aside the uneaten portion of his cookie, and stormed back to the school.

 For the remainder of the class day, Chad didn’t bother much with what he could remember. He fretted over his sister, and dwelled on the plate he left out before hurrying off. He couldn’t grasp what relevance Stew’s disappearance would have with a sewer, but he could almost perceive someone there; on the floor of the slimy, wet cement. And the out of place outline of a man garbed in carnival colors, a painted face, and a large, wet grin.

 When class concluded, he flew home in about half the time it took him to reach school that morning. He burst through the front door, said hello to Abigail and grabbed her up, hugging her tightly. Abigail was amidst the toddlers deep sleep, but she patted his shoulders when she registered that this was her dear family.

 “I’ll get you some lunch ready.  How’s that sound?” Chad sniffled. He set his sister back in the toddlerpin, and went into the kitchen.

 While the milk warmed on the stove, he ventured out to the back porch and checked the plate there. A couple large birds hung around, pecking at the pieces of sausage, and ants had clambered into their mindless single file to assault the bread. With a sigh, Chad left the food where it was. He really didn’t want to bring a colony of ants into his home.

 Chad gave Abigail her bottle, and then took his book bag upstairs. He’d work on his missed assignments later, but after he cleaned the kitchen and finished some chores around the home. He had his set of tasks that needed completion during the week.

 He dumped the books onto his bad, and noted the wooden mask still hanging there. In the first place, why would he hang the mask on his bed? No one, aside from his brother, actually owned it; it was a shared treasure.

 Seeing the mask rekindled his ire for his friends, specifically, Hugo; making light of his night terrors when Stewart – Neil’s classmate – went missing. What if his dream was somehow connected? He was certain no one, and certainly not his parents, had mentioned topic or point that Stew or anyone went missing. Chad only remembered the sewer, and the body…

 Chad smacked at the mask on his bedpost, and sat with his back pressed to the mountain of blankets left piled on the bed. They rolled off, and tumbled over his shoulder.  He pressed his eyes into his palms, and shook. No crying, he wouldn’t cry. If his father saw him crying, he’d get the fiercest chastising; his father would demand more answers, to questions Chad had no answers for.

 The satin tie on the mask must’ve come undone. Chad raised his head at the wood carved guise, when it plopped beside his hip. He frowned, and untangled from his hold. He raised the mask carefully, and – he hesitated to do so – ran his fingers along the masks polished edge.

 On one side of the imps cheek, ran several deep and ragged etchings. The age and treated wood was splintered, as if hacked into with a sharpened blade. What made the discovery worse was the numerous crossing lines, which hurt to the touch.

 __

 The trail was perilous, at least that is what the parents told the child, and that was what the child relayed to he. No one had come by the way of the deer trail, and no sight or scent of disturbance. His legs tangled into the roots of the river, as he was told they would. But the icy water didn’t bother him; it soaked through his coat and bones, and wisps of oily mud clouded the water about his collar. The tip of his nasal bone stuck above the surface, along with the rim of his cap.

 In a dream like trance, Spate revisited those dark channels and murky depths. The scent and false memories deluded him, the panicked search had yet to abandon his bones. Perhaps soaking in the river would cleanse him of the sensation of claws burrowing into his spine.

 Through the lush leaves, the wind picked up. Leaves simmered in the dying sun and a few spiraling explorers alit on the quick current of the waters surface, above Spate’s premaxilla. It rekindled his focus and dragged him from the meditative dose; he stood upright, his collar flapping in the strong current coursing about him.

 From the depths of the forest surrounding him, a voice hummed a tune. Not a song, though the cadence is melodic, it carries a heavy mantra….

 “They asked that I give them my hands, so I gave them my service. And when still they asked of more, I surrendered my will and nothing mourned. More and more was the cry, every dusk to the dawn and next day – week by week, year by year. So much of who I was, lost by the wind of the clock, the call of the crow. Then when there was nothing left, I splint my side and bled for them. The earth was stained, the ice was warmed – and still, can you guess? They asked for more.’

 Through the interwoven trees thin and fat, the shadows leeching into the haze of the presence there, a shape seeped in and out of focus. And from it, this visitor crooned….

 “When all was concluded and they saw what had been wrought, can you guess? They begged and cried ‘Not this. We could not have foresaw.’ And gifts they lay, a tribute and one more they sowed – into the ground, into their soul – but what has been wrought is set in stone. To the testament of time there can be no comeuppance, than that of regret and longing for what could have been.”

 The weary vapor detached from the murk of the trees, became a coat and hat, and on the collar of the coat a skull sat. The coat was a material of corduroy texture with large buttons suturing up the neck, and the hat was narrow in circumference, with the rim squat about the snout. The long snout tilted down, and gathered in the river bank upon which he stood, and the brook gurgling below. And its first word out of tune, was a strained raspy:

 “Spate.”

Next - For Whom a Toll is Paid

[readbookywooks]

As he crossed the quadrangle again he saw a herd of mice swarm over a balcony and scamper towards the river. The ground they were running over seemed to be moving, too. When Rincewind looked closer he could see that it was because it was covered with ants.

These weren’t ordinary ants. Centuries of magical leakage into the walls of the University had done strange things to them. Some of them were pulling very small carts, some of them were riding beetles, but all of them were leaving the University as quickly as possible. The grass on the lawn rippled as they passed.

He looked up as an elderly striped mattress was extruded from an upper window and flopped down on to the flagstones below. After a pause, apparently to catch its breath, it rose a little from the ground. Then it started to float purposefully across the lawn and bore down on Rincewind, who managed to jump out of its way just in time. He heard a high-pitched chittering and caught a glimpse of thousands of determined little legs under the bulging fabric before it hurtled onward. Even the bedbugs were on the move, and in case they didn’t find such comfortable quarters elsewhere they were leaving nothing to chance. One of them waved at him and squeaked a greeting.

Rincewind backed away until something touched the back of his legs and froze his spine. It turned out to be a stone seat. He watched it for some time. It didn’t seem in any hurry to run away. He sat down gratefully.

There’s probably a natural explanation, he thought. Or a perfectly normal unnatural one, anyway.

A gritty noise made him look across the lawn.

There was no natural explanation of this. With incredible slowness, easing themselves down parapets and drainpipes in total silence except for the occasional scrape of stone on stone, the gargoyles were leaving the roof.

It’s a shame that Rincewind had never seen poor quality stop-motion photography, because then he would have known exactly how to describe what he was seeing. The creatures didn’t exactly move, but they managed to progress in a series of high speed tableaux, and lurched past him in a spindly procession of beaks, manes, wings, claws and pigeon droppings.

What’s happening?’ he squeaked.

A thing with a goblin’s face, harpy’s body and hen’s legs turned its head in a series of little jerks and spoke in a voice like the peristalsis of mountains (although the deep resonant effect was rather spoiled because, of course, it couldn’t close its mouth).

It said: ‘A Ourcerer is umming! Eee orr ife!’

Rincewind said ‘Pardon?’ But the thing had gone past and was lurching awkwardly across the ancient lawn.[3]

So Rincewind sat and stared blankly at nothing much for fully ten seconds before giving a little scream and running as fast as he could.

He didn’t stop until he’d reached his own room in the Library building. It wasn’t much of a room, being mainly used to store old furniture, but it was home.

Against one shadowy wall was a wardrobe. It wasn’t one of your modern wardrobes, fit only for nervous adulterers to jump into when the husband returned home early, but an ancient oak affair, dark as night, in whose dusty depths coat-hangers lurked and bred; herds of flaking shoes roamed its floor. It was quite possible that it was a secret doorway to fabulous worlds, but no-one had ever tried to find out because of the distressing smell of mothballs.

And on top of the wardrobe, wrapped in scraps of yellowing paper and old dust sheets, was a large brassbound chest. It went by the name of the Luggage. Why it consented to be owned by Rincewind was something only the Luggage knew, and it wasn’t telling, but probably no other item in the entire chronicle of travel accessories had quite such a history of mystery and grievous bodily harm. It had been described as half suitcase, half homicidal maniac. It had many unusual qualities which may or may not become apparent soon, but currently there was only one that set it apart from any other brassbound chest. It was snoring, with a sound like someone very slowly sawing a log.

The Luggage might be magical. It might be terrible. But in its enigmatic soul it was kin to every other piece of luggage throughout the multiverse, and preferred to spend its winters hibernating on top of a wardrobe.

Rincewind hit it with a broom until the sawing stopped, filled his pockets with odds and ends from the banana crate he used as a dressing table, and made for the door. He couldn’t help noticing that his mattress had gone but that didn’t matter because he was pretty clear that he was never going to sleep on a mattress again, ever.

The Luggage landed on the floor with a solid thump. After a few seconds, and with extreme care, it rose up on hundreds of little pink legs. It tilted backwards and forwards a bit, stretching every leg, and then it opened its lid and yawned.

‘Are you coming or not?’

The lid shut with a snap. The Luggage manoeuvred its feet into a complicated shuffle until it was facing the doorway, and headed after its master.

The Library was still in a state of tension, with the occasional clinking[4] of a chain or muffled crackle of a page. Rincewind reached under the desk and grabbed the Librarian who was still hunched under his blanket.

‘Come on, I said!’

‘Oook.’

‘I’ll buy you a drink,’ said Rincewind desperately.

The Librarian unfolded like a four-legged spider. ‘Oook?’

Rincewind half-dragged the ape from his nest and out through the door. He didn’t head for the main gates but for an otherwise undistinguished area of wall where a few loose stones had, for two thousand years, offered students an unobtrusive way in after lights-out. Then he stopped so suddenly that the Librarian cannoned into him and the Luggage ran into both of them.

‘Oook!’

‘Oh, gods,’ he said. ‘Look at that!’

‘Oook?’

There was a shiny black tide flowing out of a grating near the kitchens. Early evening starlight glinted off millions of little black backs.

But it wasn’t the sight of the cockroaches that was so upsetting. It was the fact that they were marching in step, a hundred abreast. Of course, like all the informal inhabitants of the University the roaches were a little unusual, but there was something particularly unpleasant about the sound of billions of very small feet hitting the stones in perfect time.

Rincewind stepped gingerly over the marching column. The Librarian jumped it.

The Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of crisps.

And so, forcing the Luggage to go all the way around to the gates anyway, because otherwise it’d only batter a hole in the wall, Rincewind quit the University with all the other insects and small frightened rodents and decided that if a few quiet beers wouldn’t allow him to see things in a different light, then a few more probably would. It was certainly worth a try.

That was why he wasn’t present in the Great Hall for dinner. It would turn out to be the most important missed meal of his life.

Further along the University wall there was a faint clink as a grapnel caught the spikes that lined its top. A moment later a slim, black-clad figure dropped lightly into the University grounds and ran soundlessly towards the Great Hall, where it was soon lost in the shadows.

No-one would have noticed it anyway. On the other side of the campus the Sourcerer was walking towards the gates of the University. Where his feet touched the cobbles blue sparks crackled and evaporated the early evening dew.

It was very hot. The big fireplace at the turnwise end of the Great Hall was practically incandescent. Wizards feel the cold easily, so the sheer blast of heat from the roaring logs was melting candles twenty feet away and bubbling the varnish on the long tables. The air over the feast was blue with tobacco smoke, which writhed into curious shapes as it was bent by random drifts of magic. On the centre table the complete carcass of a whole roast pig looked extremely annoyed at the fact that someone had killed it without waiting for it to finish its apple, and the model University made of butter was sinking gently into a pool of grease.

There was a lot of beer about. Here and there red-faced wizards were happily singing ancient drinking songs which involved a lot of knee-slapping and cries of ‘Ho!’ The only possible excuse for this sort of thing is that wizards are celibate, and have to find their amusement where they can.

Another reason for the general conviviality was the fact that no-one was trying to kill anyone else. This is an unusual state of affairs in magical circles.

The higher levels of wizardry are a perilous place. Every wizard is trying to dislodge the wizards above him while stamping on the fingers of those below; to say that wizards are healthily competitive by nature is like saying that piranhas are naturally a little peckish. However, ever since the great Mage Wars left whole areas of the Disc uninhabitable[5], wizards have been forbidden to settle their differences by magical means, because it caused a lot of trouble for the population at large and in any case it was often difficult to tell which of the resultant patches of smoking fat had been the winner. So they traditionally resort to knives, subtle poisons, scorpions in shoes and hilarious booby traps involving razor-sharp pendulums.

On Small Gods’ Eve, however, it was considered extremely bad form to kill a brother wizard, and wizards felt able to let their hair down without fear of being strangled with it.

The Archchancellor’s chair was empty. Wayzygoose was dining alone in his study, as befits a man chosen by the gods after their serious discussion with sensible senior wizards earlier in the day. Despite his eighty years, he was feeling a little bit nervous and hardly touched his second chicken.

In a few minutes he would have to make a speech. Wayzygoose had, in his younger days, sought power in strange places; he’d wrestled with demons in blazing octagrams, stared into dimensions that men were not meant to wot of, and even outfaced the Unseen University grants committee, but nothing in the eight circles of nothingness was quite so bad as a couple of hundred expectant faces staring up at him through the cigar smoke.

The heralds would soon be coming by to collect him. He sighed and pushed his pudding away untasted, crossed the room, stood in front of the big mirror, and fumbled in the pocket of the robe for his notes.

After a while he managed to get them in some sort of order and cleared his throat.

‘My brothers in art,’ he began, ‘I cannot tell you how much I -er, how much … fine traditions of this ancient university … er … as I look around me and see the pictures of Archchancellors gone before …’ He paused, sorted through his notes again, and plunged on rather more certainly. ‘Standing here tonight I am reminded of the story about the three-legged pedlar and the, er, merchant’s daughters. It seems that this merchant …’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Enter,’ Wayzygoose barked, and peered at the notes carefully.

‘This merchant,’ he muttered, ‘this merchant, yes, this merchant had three daughters. I think it was. Yes. It was three. It would appear…’

He looked into the mirror, and turned round.

He started to say, ‘Who are y-’

And found that there are things worse than making speeches, after all.

The small dark figure creeping along the deserted corridors heard the noise, and didn’t take too much notice. Unpleasant noises were not uncommon in areas where magic was commonly practised. The figure was looking for something. It wasn’t sure what it was, only that it would know it when it found, it.