#wringing it out like a rag over the sink

[sixosix]

ONE LOOK (MEANT JUST FOR YOU) | WRIOTHESLEY

700 words of wriothesley visiting your home and pure fluff ensuing

Moving swiftly around the kitchen, the clinking of glass plates and glasses left you no room to detect Wriothesley's stealthy entrance. You only noticed him when you moved to wipe the table, only to see a broad figure standing by your doorway, a fond smile on his face.

The moment your gazes lock, Wriothesley takes it as his cue to gently shut the door behind him and make his way inside. He moves with some difficulty—limping, almost, and if you had been anyone else, you might not have noticed.

Your eyes track each movement. “Feeling unwell, Your Grace?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” he grunts out.

Despite that, his tone has this playful chipper to it that brings a smile to your face. You swipe over the table with a wet rag, leaving suds. “Anything that needs immediate medical attention? …Anything that you’ve kept from Sigewinne?”

“Don’t worry,” Wriothesley huffs a laugh, sinking against your couch. He groans out in relief as he melts. You wince upon hearing a crack here and there.

Wriothesley pays visits to your home whenever his schedule permits. While there are days when work keeps him occupied in his office, there are more than enough occasions where you can see that nothing has changed. This is still the same Wriothesley who shared affectionate moments with you in the comfort of your home and who flirted shamelessly and endlessly in his office at the Fortress of Meropide. He was never reticent about expressing his intentions and words. Good times.

You wring the cloth and let clean water run over your hands to wash the remaining suds off. You feel Wriothesley’s piercing gaze follow you around. “Want some tea?” You cast him a glance over your shoulder.

He flashes a wicked grin, able to look all regal even when he has his cheek pressed against your sofa’s headrest. “You know the way to my heart.” He shifts, extending one free arm outward as if preparing for a hug. “Though, I need you more than I need tea at the moment.”

A snort escapes you, diverting his attention from your stunned surprise at his shamelessness. “I’ll make you your favorite.”

Wriothesley says something about you’re his favorite but you tune him out in favor of not slipping and splashing hot water all over the floors you’ve just cleaned. He calls for your name again, dragging it out and wilting in defeat when you shoot him a stern and disapproving glare.

“Don’t distract me, idiot,” you say, watching the water steam and boil. As it does, you rummage through the cabinets for the cubes of sugar you’ve been buying more often because of that guy. “It’s not every day I was bored enough to take it upon myself to clean. I was taken by the burst of motivation.”

Wriothesley chuckles and thankfully lets himself enjoy the silence. The only sounds are the gentle padding of your feet around the kitchen and the clinking of tea cups against the table, all enveloped in a comforting atmosphere. Wriothesley's mere presence has the power to make anyone feel secure and at ease. It might be the broad shoulders or his feared name and title, or it might be the fact that he swore he would protect you as much as you protect him in sweet moments like this.

You place the two cups on the coffee table before him. Wriothesley then pulls you into his chest, causing you to yelp and tumble right into his waiting arms.

“Your tea is getting cold,” you say.

“Your lips look colder,” he says, his breath hot on the shell of your ear.

You narrow your eyes. “Wriothesley…”

He snorts, placing a kiss on your temple. “None of whatever you’re thinking, sweetheart. I just need you close.”

And keep you close he did. He has you trapped in his arms, but you feel far from trapped. You shuffle until your head is resting on his bicep, and you can meet his eyes. He’s silent.

“...Wriothesley.”

He fixes his heavy stare on your face, his own unreadable. “Hm?”

You press your hand against his jaw. “Is there something wrong?”

“God,” he murmurs, cupping your cheeks, “you’re so cute.”

Your heart flutters and threatens to flee from your chest. “I—I know. You should feel fortunate that you’re the only one who gets to hold me like this.” You try to sound haughty. It fails miserably at the warmth quickly spreading all over your face and your heartbeat, making you trip all over your words.

“I’m the only one, huh?” A gleam sparks in his eye, turning somewhat dangerous—fierce. “What I like to hear.”

for @naosaki with the chibi wrio pfp

[merakiui]

monops's reflection.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader x floyd leech cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, unrequited love, obsession, drugging, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, dark/possessive/violent thoughts, biting, blood, characters written as 18+ note - happy birthday, tweels!!! :D may you continue to be crazy.

Mostro Lounge is tranquil tonight, save for the occasional clinking of glass against glass and the soft melodies tumbling from your lips. You busy yourself with song while you wipe the surface of a table, bending forwards to reach the very back with the dampened rag. Jade finds himself eyeing your figure as you flit about, observing the way you wring the cloth free of excess water, your fingers curling into the sodden fabric as if attempting to strangle it. And then it’s promptly dunked into the bucket and wrung out again in repetition. He stands behind the counter and continues to dry the same glass he started on two minutes ago, its shiny surface reflecting his distracted countenance.

There’s something curious about you.

He can’t quite put his finger on what that something is. The more he analyzes you, the further he strays from a proper interpretation of your character. For a human who can’t use magic, you’re surprisingly selfless. You cheer your friends on in their academic endeavors, offering them your help whenever it feels like they might need it, and you carry your own weight at the lounge, boldly standing up to patrons who get too big for their britches. Jade wanted to pity you in the beginning, when customers had been rough and rude with you, but you’d dealt with every difficulty with a bright grin and a few choice words.

You’re strong; you never back down.

Jade sets the glass in its rightful place and reaches for another, all while keeping his mismatched stare on you. He wonders how much pressure it would take for you to finally snap. Would you still be able to smile then? Could you even manage to stay afloat in pessimistic waters with that blithe façade of yours? If he were to cut into you with knife and fork—with dreadfully sharp words and even sharper actions—would you allow yourself to bleed out? Or would you accept your fate and smile up at him from your porcelain plate, promising him you’ll patch yourself up because it isn’t a big deal?

When you act so cheerful, so blissfully ignorant to the beast who lurks behind, it sets a potent yearning aflame. A yearning to break you well beyond repair. A yearning to take that smile, chew it up, and spit it out until it’s the most devastated frown he’s ever seen.

“Good work today, Jade!” With a breathless huff—he wants to bottle that breath and each one that will follow—you set the bucket down and roll your shoulders. Exhaustion shadows your face, adding deceptive age to your youthful appearance. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m quite all right. Thank you, though.” He returns your smile with one of his own, the usual placid, tight-lipped thing that both eases and unsettles depending on the situation. His default expression, forever the same unless circumstances call for the other faces he’s stowed in his vast repertoire. “You’re more than welcome to head back if you’ve finished for the evening. I can handle the rest.”

“You sure?” The bucket is in your hands again, and you carry it over to the sink to empty the murky water into the basin. He notes the way your arms shake ever so slightly as you struggle to balance the heavy thing against the counter. “I don’t mind waiting here until you’re done.”

“Very well. In that case, I won’t take too long.”

He finishes drying the remaining lineup, arranging each on its respective shelf before wiping the counter for extra measure. He doesn’t have to do it, but he does. It never hurts to be clinically clean.

Floyd should be done with the stock count by now, he thinks, gazing at the door leading to the kitchen. I should check it just in case.

After folding his rag into a neat square and tucking it away, he strides over to the door, opens it a crack, and pokes his head inside. The kitchen space is devoid of life. With furrowed brows, Jade opens the door wider just as Floyd jumps out from his spot behind the racks. He’s holding the clipboard in one hand and flailing with the other. His attempt at a fright does nothing to startle Jade, but it does cause you to flinch back. You do that a lot. Jade’s noticed that you scare easily, often falling victim to Floyd’s pranks during your shifts. It’s all harmless fun, but sometimes Jade catches himself wishing for Floyd to push you just a little harder. A little rougher. Maybe one day he will and Jade will finally witness tears lining your lashes.

“F-Floyd!” you snap, humiliated. 

“Gotcha, Shrimpy. You always fall for it, y’know? Like a silly, stupid Shrimpy.” He passes the clipboard to Jade on his way out and adds, “Pretty sure everything’s correct.”

“Is it?” Jade peers at his brother’s handwriting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll review it once more.”

“Be my guest. Wasn’t really havin’ a ball fillin’ it out anyway.” He shrugs and then beelines for you, lifting you into the air with ease. He spins you despite your protests. Nasally laughter soon overtakes silence. Floyd has always been fond of your reactions; he eats them up as if it’s a special treat. “I wonder if you’ll get sick. You get motion sickness, Shrimpy? Tell me! Tell me!”

A covert smile stretches onto Jade’s mouth as he disappears into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. While he goes over the numbers and corrects the errors Floyd’s made, he listens to you pleading with his brother to release you. Most of the numbers align with the remaining supplies and ingredients, and he adds his own notes in the margins so that Azul will know which are especially low and in need of replenishment. Checking his brother’s work isn’t a favorite pastime of Jade’s, but when it comes to the lounge and its success he’d rather look over a few numbers than watch sales plummet and listen to Azul’s endless slew of woeful complaints.

Once he’s made the necessary changes, he slips the sheet from the clipboard and heads back out. You’re in the process of chasing after Floyd, who’s holding your timecard above his head and dangling it like it’s a piece of bait. Part of Jade wants to enjoy the spectacle, but the other part is ready for the sweetness of sleep. For once he sides with the latter and clears his throat to get Floyd’s attention. 

“Ah, you’re already done?” Having lost interest in the game, he drops your card at once. It flutters to the floor, and he watches with wide, gleeful eyes as you swoop down to catch it. “That all we gotta do?”

“I believe so. Azul’s staying late, so he will lock up.”

Jade sets the inventory sheet on the nearest table for Azul to find before retrieving and filling out his timecard. Floyd hasn’t even marked his hours yet, and Jade exhales an empty sigh and takes the initiative to write it in for him. It’s always been like this. Jade looks out for Floyd, not only because they’re family and have always done so, but because there are some instances where he’s much too careless.

It has been noted that the two of them are a package deal. A duo. A pair. Inseparable twins who balance each other with varying levels of insanity. Their bond is unbreakable, having been built from blood and the will to survive ever since they were vulnerable elvers. Floyd is a reflection of Jade, and Jade is a reflection of Floyd; that’s how they have lived. Like day and night, sugar and salt, and light and dark, they operate like clockwork, expertly in time with one another.

The center of their relationship has always remained the same, and Jade suspects it will never change, even after they’ve acclimated to human society. They are predators with finely honed instincts, masquerading above the water as humans. With razored rows of teeth and an insatiable hunger for unpredictability, the two of them function in a domesticated world. In order to survive in such a foreign environment, Jade has learned that they need each other, which is why it’s so salient that they get along most days.

And much like night and day, like a person with a shadow, one cannot exist without the other.

“See ya tomorrow, Shrimpy!” Floyd flashes you a jovial grin as you take your leave, but there’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I’ll be waiting…”

“Um, yeah… H-Have a good night.”

With your timecard now in Jade’s capable hands, he’s free to observe your handwriting. There’s nothing special about the way you write, but it still manages to mesmerize him. Every loop of each letter, messily intertwining like frayed strings of fate, adds charm to the script. It’s obvious you tried and failed to sign your name in cursive, but the fact that you even bothered to do so is cute.

It’s truly not that important, he reminds himself as he places the cards back where they belong.

“Shall we head back now?”

Floyd nods, stifling a yawn. As they walk through peaceful halls, he adds in a conversational tone, “Awfully boring when Shrimpy’s not around.”

Jade weighs that declaration and finds himself nodding in agreement. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

i. on a moonlit night, under an eave of twinkling stars, monops waltzes gracefully with the ghost of his other half. the shards of a shattered mirror reflect two sides of the same coin, of human and monster. when the clouds part and an ethereal beam encases the solitary monops, the illusion melts away into a fleeting dream.

Floyd is everything Jade is not: energetic, extroverted, and brash. Such adjectives can’t possibly describe Jade’s outward demeanor—the one he carefully orchestrates for public consumption. He’s polite and kind, soft-spoken and always wearing a smile despite the situation. He cloaks himself in a many-layered mask—a perfect predator with multiple disguises at his disposal. If he must shed a dozen skins to uphold his gentlemanly disposition, then he will gladly peel them away one at a time until he’s found one that fits flawlessly over bone. Jade could never hope to become what Floyd is, but what Floyd is not Jade is. And he is composed of qualities that reflect Floyd’s own behaviors. 

He’s not ashamed to admit what he lacks. This is just a facet of life. You can never truly have everything you want. If the world was fair, everyone would achieve their goals without adversity. Any aspiration, no matter how small and insignificant, requires an adequate fight to be worthy of achievement. Survival is not much of a dream, but it’s the only thing Jade’s ever known as he floats through the world alongside his brother. His dreams are Floyd’s, or so that’s what he’s always told those who enquire. He shares these things with him because he does not have any to call his own.

Not yet, at least.

And sharing—it’s a word he knows well. Everything that Jade owns, Floyd owns as well. They share the same face, the same room, the same clothes. They might even come to share the same lover one day, should they both find their hearts pierced by Cupid’s miserable arrows. Jade has never been against the concept of sharing. It’s an acceptable way of life for him. He grew up practicing the concept, and it has taught him how to coexist with others. Sharing is an extension of the bonds he’s formed.

Still, he’s avaricious in some aspects. Hopelessly so.

There’s no denying the difficulty that arises when one wishes to share in the turbulent waters of the Coral Sea, where the natural order caters to the strong and crushes the weak, but splitting the essentials is what guarantees survival. And if it’s worked so well in the past, why should he stop now? Therefore, sharing will always be a priority, even if their desires are fraught with selfish envy.

Jade is watching you again.

You’re sitting in the courtyard with Azul, gesturing wildly as you recount a story he can’t hear from where he stands behind a stone pillar. Azul’s expression is soft with amusement; his lips quirk up in laughter, and his eyes never leave yours. Your cursive may be a mess and you might be feeble in the face of danger, but you certainly know how to enthrall others. If Jade didn’t know any better, he’d suspect you to be a siren. Night Raven College would be the perfect hunting ground for a predator of that nature. Perhaps once you’ve charmed Azul you’ll devour his heart and leave a streak of gore in your wake.

That’s impossible. 

Jade is certain of this fact because he knows you’re not a predator. You are very much the harmless prey who has wandered into a den of ravenous beasts. He wonders if the thought that Azul may be dangerous ever crosses that empty, pea-sized brain of yours. He’s as much of a hunter as the rest of the students here, and with those eight tentacles of his he could easily send you to a watery grave. You wouldn’t have much of a chance to struggle, not unless Azul’s own benevolence grants you that futile hope. Thinking about it—about the thrill of a one-sided scuffle—has his heart racing, his palms wetting with sweat.

Oh, but you’re not meant to be Azul’s prey.

So get out of his eyes. Step off of the stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles.

You are Jade’s.

From the moment the two of you crossed paths—from the moment you took up a job at the lounge and relied on him during your training—you belonged to him. 

And he’s not quite sure he wants to share you with anyone.

Perhaps that dumb smile of yours hides something far darker. Perhaps your blood wouldn’t taste as delectable as he once hoped if it’s already been tainted by Azul’s silver tongue. In his own paradise, an ideal world constructed within the confines of his mind, you wouldn’t look at another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t speak to another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t know the tastes of sweet poison or bitter love unless Jade chooses to bestow these flavors unto you. You would only see him, only taste him, only adore him with those wondrous eyes—eyes that are so impossibly strong even when the harshest of insults are thrown your way.

So get the fuck out of Azul’s eyes. Step off of the damned stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles before Jade slices all of them off at the root.

These feelings ignite a perilous, potent spark deep within his chest. Seeing you smile at Azul in such a casual setting—it’s not right. This terrarium display is wrong. So wrong. 

The internal fuse has been lit and it’s nearing its inevitable implosion. Stop looking at him with those eyes. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

If Jade could, he would slice your smile off and keep it for himself. Pin it to the wall like it’s a rare species of butterfly, your wings having been severed from the sky.

You’re unbearable.

He fears you wouldn’t belong anywhere in his ideal world, for if you found yourself in the depths of the Coral Sea he wouldn’t allow you to surface.

The most confounding specimen I’ve ever encountered.

Azul is an only child. His mother and step-father would miss him terribly.

— — — 

Jade spies the delightful pep in your step as you skip past the bar later that same day. You’re balancing drinks and desserts on a tray as you make your way to a nearby table, and he’s immediately reminded of why he’s so drawn to you. You’re a puzzle he has yet to solve—an experiment he has yet to collect enough data from. If he could, he’d shrink you down to the size of his index finger and place you in one of his terrariums so that you could live out your tiny life amongst an array of plants. And Jade would be content to observe from above like a godly sovereign with the power to change your fate in a single snap.

Perhaps it’s not right to view you as a specimen or prey. Perhaps it would be better to regard you as a slab of meat, raw and uncooked, just waiting to be snatched up in his maw.

“Please enjoy!”

Your voice pulls him from his reveries. It’s a melody he’s come to savor in solitude. Naturally lilting, it’s the type of voice even the most jealous of souls would covet. He wants to reach deep inside your throat, grasp it for himself, and cradle it to his ear as if it’s a secret-spilling conch.

But claiming ownership of your sound isn’t enough. He wants to—needs to—devour your everything. Your body and soul, marking you as his, ensuring you’re kept under his thumb forever, seared into his own existence like a brand. Then your every breath will be his, and the blood that courses through your veins shall also become his. The darkest of reds might just suit you more than the aquatic hues of Mostro Lounge’s uniform.

Oh, what he’d give to paint you in vinous vermillion.

“Jade, could you cover for me? I’m going to take my break now if that’s okay with you.” Jade must have scanned your hopeful expression for longer than normal because you begin to fidget in front of him, toying with the hem of your apron. “Uh, that’s fine, right?”

“Yes, of course. Go right ahead.” He sends you off with his trademark smile, dusting his destructive thoughts away.

After you’ve retreated to the kitchen, he turns his gaze on the patrons, listening to the noisy din of laughter and chatter. He overhears a group discussing peculiar textbook titles and how most of them are unnecessarily convoluted and complicated. One of the students brings up a title that didn’t make any sense to him and he describes his surprise when he learned it was a book full of love spells and potion recipes. His friends, as all close friends often do, crack jokes at his expense, prodding for more information on who he intends to enchant. The conversation is bland and juvenile, but it does manage to strike a chord of curiosity in Jade.

Love.

Jade has never known the true meaning of romance. Such a thing does not exist in his perfect world. In some lonesome corners of the ocean, merfolk reproduce because they must. Because it’s the only way to survive. It will be like that for him and Floyd in the future, lest they find themselves ensnared in true love’s deadly trap and choose to reproduce for the sole purpose of fickle feelings. To mate out of love rather than obligation—it’s not unheard of and he isn’t opposed to it. Many humans adopt this way of life.

Jade would like to try it for himself, but he doesn’t know how. He’s never known the answer to this question—the one equation he could never work out. Is his heart too small, or is he incapable of comprehending the complexities of romance? Perhaps neither is true. When he considers the requirements that must be met to qualify love as love, he realizes the adoration he feels for you is not fluffy or innocent. Can such a grand obsession be classified as love if it’s dark and spiraling, condemning him to horrific visions? 

Jade does not gaze upon you with fondness. He looks at you as if you’re to be his next meal.

Even when he feels like breaking you would quell some monstrous urge within him, there’s another side that wishes to simply lock you away and protect you from the world and its inhabitants. Because it’s the world that will save you from him, but if you were imprisoned in his world, where it would be just you and him, no one could ever hope to reach you.

Jade isn’t entirely cruel. He would like to share his hobbies with you. He would like to live alongside you in the Coral Sea, tying his life to yours. It’s not an impossible desire, but he knows you wouldn’t be content with this arrangement. Not because it would be unwilling. Not because it would be Jade who has fallen for you and dragged you beneath the waves. It’s precisely because it’s the sea that you might object. You would have to adapt to life in a new, underwater environment. You would have to relinquish certain pleasures unique to the surface, abandoning your bipedal friends and family to live in isolation with him.

But isolation is better than the other terrariums that wait for you. He’ll smash all of them so that you’ll only know this one—the one with him.

Jade has been moving on autopilot for so long now that it finally occurs to him that you’re nowhere to be found. The longer he spends counting the lounge’s staff, the more his observations are proven true. You haven’t returned from your break, which is very unusual considering you’ve always been so diligent about time management. Responsible, that’s what you are. It’s one of the qualities that’s won Azul over. 

He surmises it has also shocked his heart with bolts of not-so-lovely lightning.

Despite the bustling, crowded lounge, he slips inside the kitchen to search for you. Usually Floyd’s crowding around you whenever you have a moment to spare, but he isn’t anywhere in sight either. Jade knows his brother and his mood swings well. When he isn’t feeling the lounge, he’ll escape elsewhere until his mood has been restored. He can understand and overlook Floyd’s absence, but yours is inexcusable.

The chefs are hard at work cooking up delicious meals, and all kinds of savory scents blanket the air. Jade glances at the knife block tucked away in a corner, filled with blades of varying sizes, as he passes. After watching you for so long, he’s learned that you often spend your breaks in the storage room, away from the eyes of customers and Azul. Perhaps the space has become something of a comfort for you, or maybe you just like taking shelter in the kitchen.

A sharp gasp joins the chefs’ clattering.

Jade’s stare snaps towards the storage room door. He frowns when he notices it’s been left ajar.

As he approaches, he can make out the sounds of rustling fabric and salacious gasps. He peers through the sliver into the dimly lit space, a single yellow eye spying a terrible scene. It takes a lot to stun Jade Leech, but the view before him is stunning in a very crooked way. It sends a shockwave rumbling through his body, temporarily freezing him to his spot. Unable to look away, to preserve his eyes and mind, he watches. Every inch of him itches.

Bile claws up his throat with acidic fingers.

You’re pressed against the shelves, skirt hiked high and panties pushed haphazardly to the side. Towering over you, anatomy pinned to yours in a sinful connection, is Floyd. His hands are gripping your wrists as he rocks forward to slot himself deeper inside. You search for a solid hold to steady yourself, burying your head in your arm to muffle your keening cries. 

“Please… It’s… S’too much. Hold on,” you babble, clinging like a koala.

Floyd leans in to nip at the shell of your ear, eliciting a shudder and a squeal from you. “Not happening, Shrimpy…” His lips travel along the length of your neck, pressing playful kisses into your skin. “You’re really so cute, you know that? So cute and soft… I can’t keep my hands off of ya.”

“We really—oh—really shouldn’t do—hah—this!”

Floyd hums, nonchalant, and slowly slides out of your tight, gummy walls. The tip of his cock prods at your pussy once more, glistening with the dew of your essence.

“Why not?”

“Seriously… What if someone sees us? What if—”

Your retort is cut short when he snaps his hips against yours, filling you in a single thrust. You crumple in his arms, tears gathering in your eyes.

Tears. Because of Floyd. Tears.

“So what if they do? I’ll get ’em good if they peep on my Shrimpy.” He licks a stripe up your neck and then sinks his pointed teeth into the area, hard enough to draw blood. You flinch against him, your pretty face contorting with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort while he laps up your blood. Floyd hums merrily, the sound coming deep from within his chest. “Shrimpy always tastes so yummy. I wanna do this aaall the time!”

“Wait, don’t leave any marks!”

“Oops. Too late.” Grinning boyishly, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up to meet his greedy lips. “Lemme kiss it better for ya.”

Jade watches you melt into the kiss, watches you become putty in his twin brother’s hands. Your eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment, only to flash open when Floyd begins to thrust into you. He sets a hasty, sporadic pace as he pursues an orgasmic high. Your sobs are swallowed in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that leave you breathless and reaching. You claw at anything stable enough to support you, your fingers curling into Floyd.

A perfect fit.

While he stands there and takes in the sight of his brother claiming the angel he had hoped to someday make his, it dawns on him that the entire storage room is stained with the memory of you. Your smell, your existence, your everything—it lingers even when you aren’t here. It is imprinted on the walls and shelves; it is on Floyd. Your entire soul has been his long before Jade even laid eyes on you.

Now he knows why you frequent the storage room. Now he knows your secret.

He’ll open your torso and pry it out of you, crush it underfoot, and insert a new secret. A better secret. His secret.

Floyd finishes inside of you with a husky, satisfied groan, his arms wrapped possessively around your trembling frame while you bite back bawdy moans. Jade is overcome with a loathsome chill. You have never belonged to him. Not ever. Certainly not now.

“We should get back out there.” Your mumbling reaches his ears, subdued in the cramped storage room. “Before someone comes looking.”

“Don’t wanna. S’warm and cozy inside.”

“Floyd…” Greedy hands are roaming beneath your shirt. You squirm, attempting to pull yourself off of his softening cock, but he yanks you against his chest and holds firm. “We can do this again later. But right now I need to clean up and you have to work. If we take too long, someone will definitely come looking.”

Floyd rolls his eyes, unwilling to acquiesce until yellow crosses yellow. For a strained moment Jade holds his brother’s inquisitive stare, investigating his blank expression for an iota of emotion. The air stales between the both of them, unspoken accusations festering. And then Floyd’s dull hues brighten and a wide smirk blossoms on his lips.

“Fine, fine. We’ll get back to work now.”

An apocalypse rages within Jade’s terrarium heart.

ii. when he turns to the shards for a solution, the image that is offered is weak and hazy. if he is to live without his other half, he must find ways to fill in the blanks. and so it is said that the lonesome monops clutched the largest shard in a resolute fist and cut away the impression of his other half.

In some cases, Jade is Floyd’s shadow, a reasonable body double who is admired for his patience and persistence. Sometimes he’s the collar and the leash; other times he is meticulously unrestrained. Everything is an act, carefully curated for unsuspecting audiences. Floyd is all physical destruction. He is swift like a clean cut, devastating like a tsunami.

For the first time in a while, Jade cannot bear the face he sees in the mirror. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, for it is a reflection of Floyd. It’s a permanent reminder that the two of them are linked whether or not he fancies that. But Jade does not want to be the collar and the lash, nor does he wish to recall the day Floyd took yet another precious thing from him. This face is proof that even he cannot have anything for himself. It is evidence that he is bound to share and share and share until death. He will remain as the shadow, the dark, the salt, and the night for all of eternity, a two-faced creature lacking a true identity.

Neither of them addresses the elephant in the room. If Floyd shows any indication that he wants to bring it up, Jade sweeps the topic away before it can poison his mood. He knows as well as Jade does that it’s not worth bickering over, even if their hackles raise whenever they look at each other.

So Floyd’s been fucking you in the storage room. What’s so traumatic about that? Really, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the image still persists in his head like a ruthless phantom. He’s left lying awake at night, sifting through that memory and the ones that came before it for any inkling of what went wrong. Was it his own patience that cost him? Was it the fact that Floyd could charm you in ways Jade just couldn’t?

They have the same face. So why did you choose to love his other half?

Without Floyd, Jade feels incomplete. That’s his family—his only brother. He shouldn’t hate his kin, but he can’t just sit with envy and frustration and pretend as if it’s okay.

The mirror reflects his grim countenance, sneering at him with troubling familiarity. Cracks spiderweb along the length of the glass, extending outwards from where his fist landed. Pain sparks beneath bruising knuckles, masterfully hidden under the pristine fabric of a pure-white glove.

The terrarium is filling with foul things, and Jade doesn’t have enough control to stop the invasion.

— — —

“It’s been really slow today, hasn’t it?” you ask, looking to Jade for his input.

“I’ll admit it’s unusually quiet.” He glances at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He’s tired, but it hardly shows. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all! I welcome the break. Still… It’s weird. Mostro Lounge almost always has lots of customers.”

“I suppose it’s less work for us.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Heaving a relieved sigh, you rest your elbows on the counter, content to watch the few patrons lingering in the lounge. Jade’s eyes travel along the length of your back, over the the dip and swoop of your spine when you bend forward, and he’s immediately brought back to the day he discovered you and Floyd in the storage room.

“I’ve got it!” you announce moments later, lighting up like a bulb. “The reason it’s so quiet.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, feigning ignorance.

“It’s because Floyd’s not here. Everything’s super lively when he’s around.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. It’s a shame he’s not scheduled today. Oh, but it’s not so bad when it’s just the two of us. We’re a good team!”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m happy we can talk like this. It feels like we never have the chance to speak during work and I’m always worried I’ll bother you if I try to start a conversation.”

“You couldn’t possibly bother me.” Jade pauses to ruminate on his thoughts before adding, “Well, you were awfully troublesome in the beginning. Ah, don’t look so upset. I’m only admitting my feelings.”

“Am I still troublesome?” You cross your arms over your chest, pouting.

You are. Very much so, I’m afraid.

“I tolerate you now.”

“That doesn’t sound any better!”

Jade chuckles. “It’s merely constructive criticism. Take it in stride.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst.” Despite that, a smile creeps onto your face.

It’s the same smile you show Floyd, so therefore it has no meaning. It’s not special.

Jade abhors it. He should be the one in that storage room with you. It should be Jade who touches and lavishes you with filthy praise before inevitable destruction. Consolation before bruises and bite marks. Sugar before salt. Love before lust.

You can’t possibly fit in his make-believe terrarium now—not when your heart lies with Floyd. Just what is his brother to you? What do you possibly see in him that you fail to see in Jade? They are the same. They are mirror images of one another. There is no difference.

So why won’t you look at him with admiration in your eyes? Eyes he’ll gouge out for beholding another man. Why won’t you kiss him in secret? Lips he’ll sew shut for touching a mouth that isn’t his. Why won’t you beckon him into that cursed storage room and pull him flush against you, joining together in bodily matrimony? A body he’ll cage to prevent it from fleeing. Why can’t you love him until the very feeling is leaking from your pores? Leaking like the blood that will run far and red when he transplants his love into your chest. Why must you associate yourself with the other half—the better half? 

The half that’s won.

It doesn’t matter if Floyd’s willing to share. Jade isn’t feeling charitable. He doesn’t want to cut you up into tiny shreds and share. You’re for his enjoyment. This is a non-negotiable fact.

Perhaps he’s the worst just as you claimed. Because if he was the best he’d have you. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to mourn a gutting loss. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to fall back on a nasty trump card. But when fair play fails, one must resort to sordid schemes in order to secure victory. You can’t expect to climb the corporate ladder without stepping on a few rotted rungs in the ascent, courtesy of those who came before.

It’s fine if he plays dirty. After all, his feelings have never been defined by purity.

“You seem tired. Would you like me to fetch you something to drink?”

“Mm, yeah. Could you? I’d hate to trouble you.”

“It’s not a problem. Will tea be suitable?”

“Sure. I could go for chamomile. I heard you’re great at making tea, so I know it’ll be good.”

“I still have much to learn, but I’m flattered you hold me in such pleasant regard.”

“I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. I’m actually kinda jealous. How are you so good at—oh! Someone needs me at table three. Be right back.”

Jade nods, replaying your words in a loop. I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. But he has failed. He’s failed and it’s eating him alive because you’re so close and yet out of his reach.

You spread your wings like a good social butterfly and abandon your place at the counter. Jade’s left to prepare your tea in peace. He chooses from the vast selection lining the wall—chamomile just as you suggested—and goes through the motions of filling the kettle with fresh water. He’s working on a time limit here, so he withdraws his magic pen, mutters the proper incantation, and waits for the telltale hiss. Even though he would like to prepare it with the utmost care, he must be hasty and stealthy if he wants to slip the special ingredient in without garnering unwanted attention.

Luckily, you’re trapped in a conversation with a friend and won’t be returning to his side anytime soon. That’s another trait he’s learned about you. Just like Floyd, you adore chatting. It’s not difficult to hold a conversation with you, especially when you’re the one leading it. You shine when you speak. He needs to snuff you before anyone else comes to seek your light.

Perhaps it’s this intoxicating quality of yours that caught Floyd’s heart. Jade can’t quite ascertain when he started looking at you from less-than-friendly angles or what the exact catalyst for your relationship with his twin was. It must have begun as a wicked fascination. An innate curiosity with the surface and its humans. How else could Floyd have fallen for you if he rarely spoke with you? Was it your strengths that earned his approval? Was it your humanity that left him impressed?

It’s not fair, but Jade won’t whine about it. He’s not a child. Whining won’t solve anything.

He must love you until you shatter.

The kettle whistles, thus yanking him from his innermost contemplations. He lifts it, minding the burning surface, and pours the water into a porcelain cup. Steam rises and furls like wispy, ghostly fingers. He could keep the vial hidden in his pocket and serve you a normal cup of chamomile. But the situation isn’t normal and he can’t just charm you as he normally would.

That didn’t work, so he must cross that method off his list and resort to what’s next. It’s only natural to fight for the thing you cherish most, so he shall do just that.

If Floyd hasn’t broken you yet, he certainly will.

You’re back at the counter just as he finishes stirring it in with the now darkening, tea-tainted water. Jade hands it to you, reminding you that it’s still hot. It’s an empty warning. He couldn’t care less if the liquid scorches your tongue. Let it burn, he thinks, his eyes narrowed as he watches you blow on it so it’ll cool faster. Perhaps then you’ll stop tangling your tongue with him.

Sometimes love is as unforgiving as the deep sea, turbulent and harrowing. Sometimes you must kill the one you love to truly understand the feeling—to dissect it down to the biological, scientific level.

Like always, he observes you while you drink the tea throughout the remainder of your shift. You look so sleepy, your eyelids fluttering and snapping open. You’re slipping; he can see it. Jade wonders what face you might show him later—what emotion will reflect in fragile eyes.

He knows it won’t be love, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping.

iii. separated from his other half, monops is unrecognizable—a hollow monster who has lost fractions of his humanity in a selfish effort to dispose of unnatural characteristics. he cannot hope to find his own personality amidst the mess in his tower, so he sits before the broken, bloodied shards once again. his other half meets him there, shattered and in pieces as he stares.

You shift in your sleep, just barely breaching the surface of consciousness. Jade placed you on his bed after carrying you from the lounge to his and Floyd’s room, where he proceeded to bind your arms and gag you. You look mostly peaceful tangled in his sheets, an oblivious thing who knows nothing of the mountains he’s had to scale in order to arrive at this point—at the glorious top.

Floyd’s not here, but Jade suspects he might have already known what was coming. They’ve always known how to read the other. Maybe it’s telepathy.

Or maybe not. They’re just aware of the other’s monstrosities. That’s all there is to it.

It’s then when your eyes snap open. Jade doesn’t bother to hide the smile crawling onto his face as he watches you come to, slowly assessing your surroundings. It doesn’t take long for you to start struggling once you’ve registered the tie binding your wrists together and the gag shoved into your mouth. Your voice comes out muffled, but your nostrils are flaring. Your eyes are widening. He can smell your fear—taste it on the tip of his tongue.

It prickles his skin, sets it on fire.

Jade sits primly at the edge of Floyd’s bed, content to study you from a distance. You’re writhing desperately in an attempt to loosen the restraints. He’s tied them well. It’s a technique mastered and put into practice. You’re not getting out of this.

“You fainted.”

You startle, turning your head to look at him. The fear seems to diminish for a moment before it returns in full force. Your glassy eyes are pleading: Why?

“It’s not wise to overwork yourself. You should prioritize your health more.”

Oh, is this it? Are those tears? Already? When he hasn’t even done anything to you yet? Have you really been this weak all along?

You try to talk despite the gag, and the attempt is so pitiful that Jade crosses over to tug it down from your mouth. Saliva strings from the gag. Messy.

“Jade! What the hell?! Why am I tied up? Why am I in your room?”

He frowns. “I’ll admit I’m rather…displeased.” He could unleash the torrent right now, but he won’t. Not yet. “Perhaps you might know why my mood has soured?”

“I… What? Is this because I fainted? Look, I’m sorry. I’ll take better care of myself. Please don’t make this a big deal.”

He tilts his head, confused. “I don’t quite care that you fainted.” He seizes your chin and forces you to meet his mismatched hues. “I care about the company you keep.”

“The company I keep? I don’t understand. What are you—”

“Give it some thought.” His fingers dig into your cheeks. Hard.

You yelp, attempting to pull away. He doesn’t release you. “I don’t know what you mean! Seriously, what’s all of this about? Did I do something wrong? Please… Please let me go.”

“You’re getting there.” He lessens the pressure on your jaw. “Come now. You’re so close.”

“Jade, please—”

“This is regarding your involvement with my brother,” he begins, and horror settles on your face. “Ah, so you are following. Wonderful.”

“Did you… Did you see us?”

“More than I ever wanted to see, yes.” He smiles thinly and releases you. “I thought it was such a dreadful, ugly thing to behold. My own kin lusting after the only thing I’ve ever loved to such a degree.” He swipes a faux tear from his eye. His voice drops to a threateningly low decibel next, and darkness passes over his features. He looks scarily grotesque. “It made me so ill. Seeing you in that closet with Floyd… Watching you talk to Azul—to everyone else—makes me so ill. I fondly contemplated the most troubling things.”

“W-What?”

“It truly is a conundrum.” He sighs as if unloading a heavy burden. “To feel so strongly for something that even love and hate become one and the same… I want nothing more than to strangle you whenever I see you with Floyd, with Azul, with anyone who isn’t me. I want to cut into your torso and make you suffer tenfold for what I’ve had to endure.” His fingers curl around your ankles, sliding down to reach your shoes. He unties the laces, sliding both from your feet. And then he’s grasping them, rubbing circles into your soles. “I want you to look at me no matter what, even when you’re a shredded, bloodied mess.”

“You… You’re joking, r-right?”

“Am I?” He smiles again, but it’s wider this time. Exhilarated. Excited. “Should we see who’s laughing when I sever your feet at the ankles? He peels your socks off next, tossing them over his shoulder. “Do you think that’s a fitting punishment?”

“Fuck no! You’re insane!”

He hums his acknowledgement and reaches for your skirt. Your heart drops into your stomach, every muscle tightening with raw terror. Instinctively, you kick out at him. Your foot slams into his chest. If it hurts, he doesn’t let it show.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you creep! Stay the fuck away!” By the third kick, he catches your foot. And he stares at it. Quietly. Expressionlessly. There is nothing in his face. That horrifies you. “Jade… Jade, I’m sorry. Can we please… Can you please stop this?”

“Am I truly that undesirable? You would rather have Floyd than me?”

“Yes, of course! Floyd’s not a fucking pervert like you!”

Jade’s laughter is sudden and short. It trembles through him like an earthquake. “Forgive me. It was so funny I just had to chuckle.” A smug smile takes up residence on his face. “Do you really think Floyd is so pure? That he’s the perfect partner all humans dream of?”

“He didn’t outright admit to wanting to murder me so, uh, yeah, he’s much better than your crazy ass!”

Jade squeezes your foot once before setting it down on the bed. He crawls over you, his hands snaking up your thighs. “That’s a shame. You’ll think differently soon enough. He just hasn’t given you reason to fear him yet.”

“I highly doubt—hey! Don’t touch there!” You struggle again, your breath coming in short, helpless huffs. “Let go of me. Please. Jade, let go…” Your voice trails off, spotted with distress.

His hand settles over your clothed pussy next. Two fingers press up against that sacred spot, tracing the area experimentally. “This is that warm and cozy place, yes?” You shake your head at him, lips trembling. He smirks, vicious and mean, and strokes slow, soothing lines up and down the outline. “Is it your safe day? Ah, but perhaps love is stronger than medicine. Stronger than all of the filth Floyd’s emptied in you. What do you think?”

“No… No, stop!”

“It really did sicken me—the thought of you and Floyd. Together. Forever. If you were to fall pregnant, I’d have to take a textbook to your stomach. The alchemy textbook. That one would inflict the most damage, you see,” he admits with a pleasant hum. He watches the spreading wet patch with predatory glee before gazing back at you. “But you’re not pregnant, right?”

“I’m not! I’m not!” You gasp when his fingers dip into the waistband of your panties, harshly tugging them from your skin. And then his fingers are inching towards your pussy. “What are you—stop! No, no, no! Floyd! Floyd, help!” You squirm beneath him, kicking and screaming. “Floyd! Floyd, help me! Please! Anyone—someone—please help!”

A shadow passes over your face for a second before his hand comes down upon your mouth to silence your incessant shrieks. Your sobs are softer now, each plea spoken into his palm. Jade exhales slowly, composing himself.

“You’ve said his name more than enough. Say it any more and I’m afraid I’ll have to remedy this bad habit. Just how much do you value your tongue, I wonder?”

Before you can even think of struggling further, he’s switching the positions. Sitting back against the headboard, he tugs you onto his lap. You try to get away from him, but he holds you steady. The gag is fastened around your mouth once more, tighter this time.

“Now, now. You’re not going to escape, so there’s no point in exhausting your energy. Pointless pursuits are never rewarded,” he chides, tutting. He pulls his magic pen from his pocket and flicks it in the air once. A mirror materializes, displaying your disturbed expression in the glass.

Your mind blanks out then, logic overridden with the intrinsic desperation to survive. Is that really you looking back? It can’t be. The (Name) you know has never looked this fearful. Her face has never been this warped with panic.

But then you feel something stiff prodding you from behind, and the horror triples. You squirm again, much more forceful, sobbing into the gag and shaking your head as if that will earn you a sliver of sympathy from him. He continues to hold you against him with one arm while the other reaches to pull himself free from the confines of his pants and boxers.

“We have the same face, so there’s no need to cry. If it really helps, just think of me as Floyd,” he teases, and it sickens you. Makes you feel so gross and filthy. You want to step out of your skin, travel to a place that isn’t here, disappear into the tile and never return. Tears trace down your cheeks in salty rivulets. You can only produce blubbery whimpers now. His erect cock curves up towards your stomach. Jade lifts your skirt to get a better view. The mirror reflects it all in crisp detail. “What do you think? Is it bigger than his?”

His knuckles trace your cheek, uncharacteristically tender.

“It will seem that way when it’s inside, won’t it?”

In response you shift in his lap, tugging at the tie tightly secured around your wrists, and he merely chuckles. It’s delightful, really, the way you move like captured prey. Your chest heaves when the fleshy head of his cock presses shallowly inside your pussy, sampling wet warmth. You pray it’ll end fast. You pray he’ll be gentle. You pray he’ll skin you alive so you’ll never have to spend another second in this body. Anything but this.

Jade doesn’t grant either of those prayers, for he lifts you up slightly, aims for home, and slams you down in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. You choke on your tongue, biting down so hard that your teeth split the skin on the inside of your cheek. Blood pools into your mouth. It stings, but nothing hurts more than the unwanted intrusion. Shamelessly, much to your horror, your walls affix to him in an attempt to accommodate his girth. Without intending to, you catch yourself in the mirror. The stretch is sinful, your pussy wrapped snugly around him, and he’s slotted all the way to the hilt.

It’s torture for you.

It’s a twisted relief for Jade. A triumphant euphoria.

He exhales a shaky breath, his lips peeling apart to reveal a row of sharp teeth. In the mirror he looks every bit the predator he’s meant to be: cruel and cutthroat, staking claim on a stolen prize. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips as he rocks you up and down, occasionally bucking his hips to meet your soft, plush ass.

“It’s strange,” he manages through his grunts and groans, his breath hot on your nape, “I imagined this would feel more gratifying than any other gruesome thrill. Mm, but it’s not—” he slams you down again, reveling in your muffled wailing, “not nearly enough.”

Your eyes, wet with tears, question his reflection. You watch with bated breath as he slides your collar away, leaning in to press his lips to your neck. Your pulse stutters in his mouth, a jittery, fearful thing.

He inhales the pungent scent of sweat and sex, the scent of your fear, the scent of himself on you. From head to toe, externally and internally, you are covered in him, wrapped around him, molded to his very shape. You’ve gone stiff in his arms, too frightened to move a single muscle, but it only serves to excite him more. He needs to bear witness to all of it—to every inch of you, stripped bare and wired with anxiety.

Needle-thin teeth prick your skin. You wince and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Does it hurt?”

Despairing and hopeless, you deflate against him. Your body shakes with every sob.

It hurts. It hurts so much. More than anything has ever hurt before. And Jade knows this because he isn’t gentle. He has no interest in being sweet. He bites to harm. To kill. To destroy.

Jade sinks in deep: his teeth in your throat and his cock in your guts. And it hurts.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, his lips slick and spattered with crimson when he pulls away, breathing heavily. “I’m so pleased…”

The blood just won’t stop. It’s flowing in rivers, cascading down the juncture between neck and shoulder and staining your clothes. Did he bite something major? Oh God—are you going to bleed out? Are you going to die? Did he get that one artery—the throat artery—the whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called artery? Is that even possible? Why won’t the blood stop? Why do you feel so fuzzy—so faint? It really won’t stop. It’s an ocean.

It’s everywhere.

Jade pinches you to bring you back to yourself; his nails prick your thigh, imprinting crescent moons in skin, and it works. You surface, taking in big gulps of oxygen while your heart skips over itself. You can’t drift off even if you wanted to; your reflection is much too haunting, destroyed and debased in every possible way. It grounds you in reality, digs deeply.

“Pain is the most thrilling form of love. You’ve taught me something new. Thank you.”

From behind, peering over your shoulder, his reflection grins at you. Wildly untamed and blood-stained, he’s manic. Unhinged. Uncaged. His pupils are so large they nearly eclipse his heterochromatic irises, rendering both eyes beady and black. Two pits of a molten void—a starless outer space.

He looks just like Floyd.

[radioactiveparker]

The Boy Next Door - Mechanic!Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader (Smut) *Sneak Peek*

"Yeah, could you keep it down, please? I'm trying to sleep."

His eyes softened ever so slightly. "Sorry, sweetheart, I've got a deadline to meet, and I work through the day. It's the only chance I get to work on it." And he went back to work as if that was a good enough answer.

You scoffed, irritation slowly rising again. You told yourself it didn't matter how hot his grease streaked muscles were. "Listen, I've got a job interview tomorrow morning that I'd rather not miss because I overslept."

"Congratulations, I hope it works out for you." There was a strain in his voice as he tightened another bolt, oblivious to the point you were trying to make. You clearly weren't getting anywhere with this guy.

"How about a compromise then? You can keep working but just promise to keep it down?"

He looked up at you over the hood of his car with those big brown eyes that were hard to resist melting for. He raised his eyebrows challengingly before stalking towards you, wringing his hands on an old rag. Your heart quickened, and you refrained from squeezing your thighs together when he licked his pink lips and threw the rag over his wide shoulder. He towered over you, close enough for you to smell his manly musk and see the drops of sweat trickle down the delicious skin of his neck that you so desperately wanted to sink your teeth into.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sweetheart. It's not exactly an easy task to do quietly." He spoke to you, but his eyes not-so-subtly gawked down your shirt (his vantage point giving him a direct view down it), only locking eyes with you when he had finished talking.

You resisted rolling your eyes - men were so easy to read. So you played into it. You arched your back slightly to push out your breasts, the cool breeze perking your nipples through your top, and rested a flirty hand on his bicep.

"Surely you deserve a break?" You stroked a finger down his arm teasingly and batted your lashes at him. "I mean, you said it yourself. You work all through the day, and now you're working all through the night? Even a strong, hard-working man like you needs to have a break sometimes."

His eyes lingered on your pouted lips, just long enough for you to catch him. His eyes darted around with every thought as he considered your proposition before staring at you intently. "If I do this for you, what do I get out of it? I'm gonna need some sort of compensation for the delay I'm gonna have."

You played with the hem of his tank top, tugging it playfully and revealing the defined muscles of his pecks. You were having far too much fun toying with this handsome stranger, and his devilishly good looks only made it that much easier to play your part. Besides, you thought he deserved it after causing you so many sleepless nights.

"I'm sure you can think of a way for me to thank you." You whispered seductively.

"You mean like a..." He looked around cautiously to make sure there was no one to overhear. "A you-know-what?" He whispered.

"A 'you-know-what'?" You laughed at his phrasing. "That all depends."

You spun in the direction of your trailer whipping your hair so he could smell the addictive scent of your shampoo. You swayed your hips as you walked back to your trailer. You were pretty sure that your ass cheeks were showing under your shorts, but that just made you all the more enticing.

"Depends on what?" He called, standing there like a lost puppy.

You skipped up the steps and peeked your head out the door. "On how good a night's sleep I get." You winked and shut the door.

~~~

Read it here

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Congratulations in 5K, wow that's amazing and I'm so happy for you!

Could you please write a Graves drabble (he doesn't get enough love) where he's just so absolutely in love with his SO? Like standing back, leaning against a door frame, and watching his partner do something as mundane as the dishes or drawing? Him softly smiling as his SO hums or does something subconsciously??

I love your writing. Thank you for being my comfort writer.

—Love Echoes In Silence

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You can feel him watching you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a small smile. Humming to yourself, you listen to the birds outside the window.] ❞

You dip your soapy hands back into the water, grabbing another plate before moving it over to the side to rinse its white porcelain face—finally setting it down in the plastic dish rack. Shifting back over, you hum under your breath and grab another, snatching up the washing rag as well to get rid of any residual germs. 

You’d only been at this for about ten minutes; the dishes from last night were left for this morning on account of Phillip coming home early. You’d both had a soft supper with a few glasses of red wine before retiring to bed, where the man was still asleep in the ruffled sheets as his bare skin lay in the rising sunlight; his stomach to the mattress and his hair sticking this way and that. It had been a chore to sneak out from under his arm, but you’d done it nonetheless even if it had taken a few minutes. One delicate kiss to Phillip’s forehead later, you’d slipped into his large t-shirt and padded to the kitchen. 

So, here you are, cleaning up with a smile on your lips and sleepy heat under Phillip’s shirt. A slow hum echoing through the air. 

Another dish is added to the clean pile, and as you grasp one of the dirty wine glasses, you miss the small creak of the floor leading to the kitchen as you listen to the birds outside. 

Phillip rubs at his face with the palm of his hand, yawning slowly before he pushes back his hair and watches. He’s only in his sweatpants—the gray color bunched as the un-tied waistband hangs at his hips. Blinking at you, a slow twitch goes across the man’s lips as he leans to the side, his shoulder to the door frame. 

He doesn’t speak—doesn’t utter anything as his arms cross over his chest and you continue your shapeless tune. Phillip isn’t a good man; he isn’t worthy of care or compassion. He’s done things that will follow him to his grave, the one he’d been digging himself since long before he met you. But there were moments like these where the light hit your body just right; where the house was silent and the floors were soft underfoot. 

Tiny moments that echoed like a call to home. 

You place the wine glass upside down to let the water drip out, wringing out the wash rag and unplugging the sink. You’d only begun washing your hands when your ears twitch to movement. A smile peels your lips.

“Mornin’,” Phillip mutters into your hair, hands sneaking around you until you’re held back to a bare chest. 

“Good morning,” you whisper, flicking off the water on your fingers. Your heart is light. “Sleep well?” 

He hums, squeezing you gently. 

“Come back t’bed.” Your chuckle makes him smile, eyes crinkling. 

“Phillip, I just got up.”

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” he pleads but doesn’t give you time to respond, arms bending to capture your legs and the span of your shoulders. You laugh as he hikes you into his hold—carrying you before your arms snap around his neck; curling into him. “Up ya get.”

“Really?” Your amused voice makes him look at you, raising one of his pale blows as he smirks softly. He brings you back to bed, tendrils of hair bouncing along the way. 

“Up and disappeared. You always leave the men with cold sheets and a yearnin’ in their hearts?” You roll your eyes, giggling into his neck. “You’ll be stickin’ right beside me today, Doll. That’s an order.”

All you do is kiss the corner of his mouth before he drops you both back onto the mattress.

[heretical-cogitations]

Calgar’s week off (gone wrong) (gone sexual) Part 2

Dom!Calgar x afab!reader

Part 1 Part 3

Word count ~1660

AN: Continuing straight from part 1, it is also a bit shorter than part 1 but part 3 will be out sooner. This is feels a bit rushed sorry.

I’ve had a shit week at work, alright. So, I need this…

WARNINGS: MDNI 18+, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, reader is a brat, spanking, throat fucking, blowjob, fingering, slapping, spitting, manhandling, choking kind of, praise kink , edging / orgasm denial.

Please let me know if I missed anything!!

Also lemme know if you’d like to be tagged for part 3 or just in general :^)

“Good, but we’re not done yet, little one.”

Despite saying that he unlocks the door and walks out, leaving you there on the floor wrecked.

It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with itself before hastily scrambling to the door to lock it before someone sees the mess you made.

Your legs feel weak, your body still trembling. Propping yourself up on the sink you take in your reflection, skin blotchy and wet, lashes clumped together from the tears. Most obvious though was the way you were covered in Calgar’s cum. You praise the emperor that your hair was spared.

 Turning the tap on you splash the water onto your face, using the corner of your stained dress to wipe away the remaining mess before patting your face dry.

Looking back into the mirror you look marginally more put together. You run your fingers through your hair attempting to make it look less ragged.

Placing the dress down on the sink you lean over grabbing the paper hand towels dropping a couple on the floor before using your foot to wipe up any remaining mess. Once happy there is no evidence of what you both did, you then try to actually clean the dress.

A swift knock and bark of your name grabs your attention.

“Unlock the door.” It’s Calgar, you hobble over turning the lock before moving back as the door cracks open.

Calgar lets himself in closing the door swiftly behind him upon seeing your state of undress.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” He questions.

“I was cleaning the… mess we made.” You suddenly feel shy, uncomfortable under his scrutinising gaze, shrinking into yourself to hide.

You feel the utter mortification settle into every atom of your being, face flushing once again.

He walks straight past you to the sink, eyes following him, you see him wringing out the dress.

“Arms up.”

You follow the instruction, it’s a strange feeling having him dress you like this, a strange mix of humiliation and … hmm you’re not quite sure what else is mixed in there now you think about it.

Lost in thought you barely register being lifted by him, settling into his arms, face burying into his neck before being walked out of the small room.

A short conversation plays out, between Calgar and one of the staff as he is passed a basket presumably containing wine and hopefully some food.

The only thing catching your ears is him apologising for the disturbance and occupying the restroom for so long, something about you wailing and being inconsolable about the dress being ruined.

As he moves again you shuffle in his grasp knee ‘accidentally’ hitting him in his ribs with quite the force. If it affected the mighty astartes you would have no clue, no reaction, but you know the message had been delivered.

The walk back to the room was swift, the chapter master making the most of the enhanced length of his legs to cover the distance in a third of the time the journey had taken you.

Once back at your shared chambers you are almost instantly tossed onto the bed, the soft mattress lessening the impact of your fall embracing you, as the soft bed linens swaddle you. You wriggle around manoeuvring yourself to sit on your knees. Calgar standing at the edge of the bed, blocking the light of the room.

“You just don’t know when to stop do you? Thought my lovely gift back in the bathroom would’ve placated that nasty bratty streak you have, but no. Seems you need a more thorough lesson.” He looks menacing like this, you wonder if this is what is enemies see before they are felled, might as well put up a fight then to really goad him.

You snarl at him, before crossing your arms and letting out a snort and jutting out your bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “Actually, it’s your fault all of this happened, you decided to finger me under the table, and so you stained my dress.” You’re glaring at him, trying your best to look serious.

“You ungrateful bitch.” He grits out, his face cast in shadow, it’s hard to see any emotions that cross his feat- your head is snapped to the side as a loud slap echoes through the room, did he just slap you?

The sharp prickling pain in your cheek is answer enough, you’ve been thrown into a jarring shock. He pulls you into a deep kiss, lips moving in tandem against each other.

His thumb rubbing softly against your still stinging cheek, you gasp into the kiss when his thumb presses in, tongue invading your mouth, tongues curling and pressing together.

You try to fight back against his oppressive, domineering kiss but there is no chance for you. You sound pathetic little whimpers and mewls squeaking out of you as you feel that same tingling heat in your core.

Small hands coming up to pull at the hair dusting his chest, when did he take his robe off?

You pull away, breathing ragged as you try to ease the burning in your lungs. He removes the dress once again then rearranges you.

Your chest pressed into his lap, tits cradling his cock, knees sinking into the plush mattress, ass up in the air.

The cool evening air making you shiver as it ghosts over you wet cunt. His hand returns to your jaw, “Open, slut.” Thumb brushing your bottom lip.

Your lips wrap around his thumb, teeth scraping and biting down on the intruding digit.

The grasp on your jaw tightens, thumb pressing down on your tongue, fighting the urge to gag as he forces your mouth open before spitting into it. “You know what to do.”

Your hips twitch, head lifting as you run your tongue up the prominent vein decorating the underside of his length, suckling the tip, a hand moving down to fondle his balls.

 His groans were making you shiver, encouraging you to take more and more of him, before feeling his fat tip press firmly against the back of your throat, eye tearing up as you fought the urge to gag. Instead moaning pathetically around him as you sucked and licked at his cock.

One of Calgar’s large hands found your arse, palm running over the plush flesh squeezing and groping as he enjoyed your loving apology.

He decided to treat you to a swift spank, indulging himself in another, then another. His hips bucking in response to your garbled moans around him, gagged by his cock.

The vibrations and the sting of your teeth scraping against him making his eyes roll back husky moans escaping him.

His fingers run the length of your cunt dancing over the wet mess you’ve created before plunging 3 fingers knuckle deep into your abused hole.

The vibration from the moan you let out is rapturous, you pull off him whimpering as he thrusts his fingers in and out in earnest, fingers bending to rub and press the spots that rip your senses from you.

Drooling over his cock you lean down taking one of his balls into your mouth sucking and nibling at the skin, moving over to the other one whimpers tumbling out of you as you go.

His own moans growing louder at your ministrations has you clenching around his fingers.

You lick back up his length suckling on the more sensitive parts as you go.

His spare hand finds purchase in your hair as your hands grab at the sides of his hips.

You feel so close moaning over the tip of his twitching cock.

Doe eyes looking up at him silently begging him to let you cum, as expected he denies your silent plea fingers pulling out before giving your cunt a nice slap, your hips buck in the air.

“You can cum if you do a good job, okay? Now lie on your back, head off the bed.” He commands as he stands, waiting patiently for you to reposition yourself for him. Once there he gives you no time to adjust before thrusting his cock into your awaiting maw.

You gag and splutter around him instinctively body trying to jerk away from the intrusion. His hand coming to lay across your neck, as he pushes himself further in until he hilts himself. Short white hairs tickling your chin as you were pressed against his pelvis, hips rutting into your mouth as you swallowed around his cock, nose nestled against his balls.

He waits for you to adjust hand running over the bulge in your throat. “Such a tight throat, see how useful your mouth can be when it isn’t bitching?”  letting out a growl, grinding his hips against your face.

 You whimper around him, only given a short reprieve when he pulls all the way out minus tip. He thrusts back in again and sets a firm pace groaning at each gag. Your hands digging and clawing at his arse, encouraging him to continue to fuck your mouth like some worthless hole.

 His thrusts begin to grow more and more erratic and uneven “F-Fuck, going to cum down your pretty little throat, mm, since you ruined dinner, you can have my seed instead.” He sounds almost animalistic now thrusts wild until he stills, a strangled moan of your name as his cum scalds your throat. “Oohhhh, that’s it darling, swallow it all down, mmm, good girl, knew you could behave. I’ll give you a nice reward yeah?”  You moan around him

He slowly pulls out, a mix of cum and saliva connecting your lips to him before falling onto your face, for the second time this evening. You can’t help but rub your thighs together excited for your reward.

[zomb5]

"𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤" 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝐜𝐰; 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐨𝐜??

_______________ ★ ______________

body jolting upward; you practically fling yourself ahead on the plush surface you sat on. your breathing is ragged, and your palms are sweating so much they feel sticky when you flex your fingers to make sure you're actually still there.

your eyes watered in what you can only assume to be fear and distress.

you were so incredibly hot, sweating almost violently despite the living room you woke up in being almost frigid. when you wring your hands together to get rid of the dreadful feeling, you take notice of the big black jacket draped over your legs.

lip quirking up a bit in relief, your eyes finally adjust to the darkness and the recollection of where you are quickly sinks in.

you'd fallen asleep at the skeleton household, which was more normal for you these days than not.

given your home in waterfall was a bit of a walk and boat trip away; red and edge let you crash on their couch when you didn't feel like making your way home.

edge would always half-heartedly complain, but ultimately neither of them seemed to mind your presence; relishing it more than anything.

especially red.

turning your legs to hang them off of the couch, you try to steady your breathing. the jacket that covered your legs almost skids off, but you grab it before it touches the floor; hugging it to yourself in an act of comfort.

it was obviously reds jacket, and you found solace in the fact that he thought about you enough to let you use it.

it smelt of cologne, cigarette smoke, and (clearly enough) mustard. the odd combination of scents clashed together in a way that was almost uncanny, and, in a weirdly nice way, it made you feel at home.

you swing the jacket around your person and put it on your shoulders before standing up. your legs slightly wobbled and your head got fuzzy at the quick action, so you stood still for a moment to catch your barrings.

given how late it was the house was almost pitch black, aside from the moonlight that gently cascaded through the open window and onto the green carpet. if you hadn't had the muscle memory you'd probably run into the coffee table on your way to the kitchen to get a drink.

the nightmare you experienced had shaken you considerably. you couldn't remember exactly what happened, but you felt extremely paranoid staying in one spot. it felt like something was watching you, and you couldn't shake the feeling that --no matter how much you tried to reassure yourself you were safe in the brothers' home-- something was after you.

and what better way to stay on the move than to get an unnecessary drink from the kitchen?

passing the coffee table you look towards the open doorway to the kitchen. the rectangular shadow was slightly darker than the rest of the surrounding area which made making your way to it easier than it would've been.

you shuffle into the dark kitchen and grope at the wall to find the light switch. it turns on abruptly when your hand accidentally hits it and you feel your eyes sting at the sudden artificial light.

squinting your eyes and mumbling a few curses, you walk to the (already open?) cabinet to grab a cup. you push your arms through the sleeves of the jacket to better grab it. they were placed annoyingly high up (meaning edge had done the dishes last), so you stand on your toes to knock the cup down which you thankfully caught.

much like the cup, you go through the process of quietly getting milk out of the fridge, pouring it into your cup, and placing it into the microwave to spin.

"..n' what're you doin' up?"

and clearly it wasn't quiet enough.

you jump, startled by the intruding voice. turning around from the microwave to face him, you faux coughing in embarrassment, "m' sorry, i was just gettin a drink. i didn't mean to wake you up.." you offer him a half-hearted smile, slurring your own words as you lean your back against the counter. you reflexively cross your arms, nervous for a reason you couldn't quite discern; like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't have.

red stood in the doorway rubbing at his eye sockets. brow boned creased in confusion as to what the hell you were doing. his voice was much more gravely and baritone than normal as he too, slurred his words. he wore a pair of black boxers with his iconic red sweater, and to top it all off big, fluffy bunny slippers.

he hums in response, and looks almost too pleased to see you wearing his jacket. he doesn't comment on it though.

"mhm," he trails off for a moment, eying the loudly humming and illuminated microwave. "..are you warmin' up milk?" he grins a bit and the humorous edge to his voice wasn't at all missed by you.

rolling your eyes you mumble something along the lines of him being stupid for judging you about your midnight drinking habits, which only makes his grin impossibly wider.

silence stills between you two as quickly as it was interrupted "you never answered my question," he said, now shuffling over to the fridge to get his own drink. you shrug, following him with your eyes, "it's stupid." you mutter. and to you it really was stupid. you'd let silly nightmare spook you into needing warm milk; that was an insult in and of itself. the last thing you wanted was to sound like a child whining about a bad dream.

what you weren't expecting was to be met with the intensity of reds' stare when he pulled his head from the fridge, "try me." he sounded dead serious, closing the fridge with a bottle of mustard in hand.

you stare at him skeptically, and microwave begins to beep. turning around to retrieve your cup, you lean against the counter. the warm porcelain calms you.

"i just had a really bad dream --nightmare-- it put me on edge." red nods in understanding, he was all to familiar with nightmares. "and i know it's stupid. i let a nightmare shake me into getting warm milk but i couldn't go back to sleep-" he cuts you off before you can continue...

[scribeofmorpheus]

Bellanaris [Part 2]

N.B: The "Your hands are cold" moment is a call back to chapter 3 in Harellan. Though the plot about the Ring of Obliteration can be skipped over, it's the main plot behind "Not Some Fanciful Story", so read that first if you don't want spoilers (though I haven't posted the final chapter yet)! Summary: Lavellan is given a clue by Varric that Solas might have been in Rivain, searching for an artefact (takes place before "The Missing" comic). While there, she's betrayed by her Rivaini informant who is revealed to be a cult leader seeking revenge against "the Dread Wolf's Whore"--who he discovered was the Inquisitor because of old sketches Solas had left behind in the deep roads. The ring is destroyed in an effort to break the blood-magic-fueled block against the Fade. [Part 1] [AO3]

They had returned to the Fade, slipping past its membrane with ease.

It seemed impossible, and yet there they were, finally in that other world he had once wished for their spirits to be joined.

A torrent of emotions washed through her, wringing her spirit at the final crescendo.

Revas emerged disoriented.

Grateful for the sense of touch, her arm was still anchored to Solas’ shoulder when she stumbled backwards. He’d been quick to pull her towards him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face under her chin.

Solas was bent so awkwardly, his weight growing heavier with each shuddering breath, his form sinking deeper into her embrace.

She had almost forgotten how tall he was. Perhaps he had grown taller in the years they’d been apart. Perhaps she’d shrunk.

From over his shoulder, she could see how different the Fade was from how she remembered it, how strange it was.

Not blinding as it had been the first time she’d been drawn in. And not tainted by the crippling fear and confusion of the Fear demon's powers the last time they’d both journeyed into it, side by side. But a different thing altogether.

This iteration of the Fade still affected her to her very core, but it was stripped of all the dangers she'd anticipated. No giant spiders or wailing spirits. Somehow new, faded beyond compare, but imbued with something ephemeral, just as powerful as any fear, maybe more so. It wasn’t frightening but familiar. Like coming home without the memory of ever having one. A warped understanding of belonging. One that was trying to reach out through the clamour of confusion and the ringing madness of concern. A snuffed flame trying hard to burn as it used to once before, a long, long time ago.

These were his sensations that were passing through her. The repressed emotions left behind from the one-man war still waging under his armour. Obstacles of atonement.

The entire expanse was exactly as he’d phrased it. Empty. Greyed. There wasn’t the weight of mist in the air, the dryness of summer, the crisp coolness of a breeze. It was simply still. An expanse of colourless light and shifting space.

They stood on what looked to be the solid ground of a floating ruin with incredible similarity to that of Skyhold.

As the Veil closed behind them—the last one they’d ever close together, side by side—she heard Solas sigh in deliverance before he sunk to his knees, slowly pulling her down with him.

Once they were grounded, Revas turned to him, panicked. She opened her mouth to speak, to utter his name, call to her heart, but she was unsure if her voice would carry. Then, as he wrapped his arms around his frame, his breathing turning ragged, eyes shining with what should have been the glassy violet of a lavender field, she found her focal point. Doubts be damned.

She placed her hand upon his cheek, meaning to wipe the tears that had begun to flow as ardently as a waterfall, but the image had conjured that same feeling she had in Crestwood; when she’d been left alone with her reflection, bare-faced, hurt. That had been one of the few times in her life when the only solace for her pain had been to sit in the misery.

Suddenly, a large halla statue rose from a sea of empty void, bringing with it the faintest of colour. The kind of crystal blue that had built the waters of Crestwood.

Without knowing how, she managed to make her will manifest in the Fade.

Solas, too weak and bloodied to notice this, let out another heart-wrenching sob. He could not keep up the guise any longer, he could not feign being the ageless beacon of determination she had always seen him as.

With little effort, he collapsed onto her, his head resting against her folded thighs.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into his ear before placing a kiss to his temple, and then to his cheek. “You fought long enough. We both did. Rest now.”

“Vhen’an… I am so sorry,” he whimpered, hand gripping her sides with such strength, such care. “All those years you spent… All the things I never got a chance to tell you. So much pain! And I am the cause.”

“And despite it all, we endured.”

“But I turned away!” he shrunk further into himself, knees rising up to press closer to his chest. He had shut his eyes too tight, like a child afraid.

When she was younger, she had often imagined grabbing him by the cuff, bitter and enraged, demanding answers to all the questions that refused to leave her in the dead of night. Why was it so easy for him to leave? Was she not enough? Did he dream of her? But now, now there was just the old pain, the subtle sting.

“Did you? Truly?” she tucked her fingers under her jaw and pulled his face towards her. “Open your eyes, my love.”

He did. They became transfixed on the scars across her face, the ones she had gotten after he’d removed the vallaslin, after she’d adorned the Ring of Obliteration from Dorian, after Varric’s first letter that led her to Rivain, when the Fade had been closed to her.

Revas fought the urge to turn away and hide the discomfort which resided behind each line and curve that had been made by the necromancer’s blade. Though it had been years, the trauma lingered. On bad days, it made it difficult to face old friends or walk past polished mirrors. On the good days, it was the scar she used to remind herself that all things can heal with time given the right impulse.

Refusing to hide behind her hair as she had done out of habit throughout the years, Revas’ index finger trembled above the curling lines scarred into her forehead, “It happened a long time ago.”

“I know,” he sighed, tears rolling on either side of his face. He balled his hand into a fist in the air, biting down hard enough to form tension in his jaw. And then another sob eked out, “I should have been there to stop it…”

“Don’t say that,” she kept her voice steadfast in the face of the brewing storm inside her. Seeing pain was a daily occurrence for her, but nothing cut her as deeply as seeing it come from him. O, how foolish she’d been when she was younger and full of anger. How foolish indeed, if this was what she had once wished upon him, Yet, she had been right. For them to share these moments, the dinan’shiral had to break him. Lightly, she explained: “Without these scars, I might not have been able to share this with you. You see, I know you never truly turned away from me. You showed me that.”

Revas thought back to Rivain and the Cave of Misfortune, to the strange figure that had interrupted Regillus' ritual that attempted to tap into remnants of the Fade magic she had once possessed. The same figure who’d taken an arrow to the side as Sera unknowingly stuck Revas’ saviour with an arrow. A scar she was sure she’d find if Solas removed his armour.

“There was a time when I had been trapped,” she recounted. “A stranger in a strange land, seeking remnants of her past, trusting those I knew little of, risking the little time of peace the world felt obliged to offer me. And when I found it, what I had been unintentionally searching for—that love you undoubtedly carried, etched so beautifully on countless pieces of paper—I knew I had found what I was looking for. Proof. Proof that you still cared. And when I awoke on that ritual table, alive, able to dream again… I knew it had been you who saved me. I do not know how you sensed me with the ring, but I am grateful you did. You gave me more time to be with those I loved. You made me realise my mistakes. And I could only hope to do the same for you… before it was too late.”

“A spirit such as yours could not remain shrouded from me forever,” he reached up to touch a stray curl that had slipped from behind her ear. “I hear your song, even when there is nothing but the quiet. Rare and marvellous… the life we could have shared had I not been so blinded by my duty—”

“There is nothing but time for us now,” she reassured him. “This is the end of the dinan’shiral, for us both. This journey, these first steps that have never been shared between two of our kind before, we make our own. La ghilana ma var lath. We choose this. Together. And together we will form a bright and lasting new world. Even here.”

“How can you be so certain?” he sighed softly.

“Look,” she gestured to the world slowly forming around them.

A pantheon of shining new pathways and hopeful young colours bled into the grey. Muted, ever-so-slightly fading, but still filled with the promise of blooming deeper, perhaps into shades of things other than regret, that was the first sign. Perhaps the green of envy or joy would creep as the vines did in Skyhold. Then maybe the yellow of warmth, like Josephine’s silk dresses, would sway with the passing of time. And then red of passion and blood—desire and rage—that colour she was certain would bleed through. Beyond that, the possibilities were endless.

Where he saw nothing, Lavellan saw a canvas still forming.  

“Try as I might,” he shuddered, enraptured at the golden shimmer that formed far off in the horizon, “I could never manifest colour.”

Softly, she pressed her lips to his, imbuing their kiss with every emotion she carried, good and bad, and the sky above them turned a shade brighter.

“This is the power of our love.”

Hearing those words, seeing the introductions of colour, Solas relented whatever reservations he may have had and simply wept under the shelter of his lover’s gaze.

[pray4saint]

HI

idk if i have even requested anything from you before, but i <3 your work, so do with this what you will (and if you will) : james taking care of fem!reader when she's throwing up or even just has a cold :)

james taking care of his sick!gf!reader

masterlist & descrip. pg. 13+. fem!reader. established relationship. sick!reader. depictions of illness.

a/n. ugh yes i've been waiting for a request like this also HII / this isn't the best but i wanted to get something out for you dearie :]]

the first time you'd sneezed, james ignored it, figured it was just allergies. when you'd complained about being freezing despite the warm weather, he gave you his jacket and brushed it off. when you'd told him you were feeling a little sniffly, he gave you a wad of tissues and rubbed your arm, again brushing it off.

it wasn't until you were knocking on his door, covered in sweat, barely clothed, after lights out, just before he was going to turn his own lights out and go to bed that he knew something was really wrong. ”jamie..” you whined, hitting the door with your palm flat yet again. he sat up, placing his book on the table and strolling over to the door. he opened the entry point and looked you up and down. he looked tired, and he was, but he looked it much more than he was. ”doll, are you okay?” you shook your head at him and he motioned you inside, moving out of your way.

he walked you back to his bed, watching carefully as you sat down and tried to catch your breath. as he took in how you looked before him, he realised that you were sick, and the previous little comments you'd made throughout the day were starting to make a lot more sense.

your eyes were trained on him as he got down on his knees between your legs and he placed his hands on your upper thighs. ”can i get you anything princess? water? other clothes maybe?”

his alert concern and care was so quickly changed from his previous tired state and even with how much you felt like shit, it still made your heart flutter a little bit and your lips twitch up into a small, weak smile. then another wave of pangs hits across your body and you're groaning, falling over into your boyfriend's pillows. he's quick to follow you with his eyes and hands.

he looks around the darkened room before you finally speaks. ”jamie, i think m'gonna throw up..” your voice is low, barely above a whisper but james hears it all. ”alright.” he rubs up and down your arm. ”d'you want to go to the restroom?” you shake your head no. ”are you sure you're gonna throw up?” again you shake your head no. ”jus' have the icky feeling of it..” he nods slowly, ”ah, okay.” james' hand moves up to your face, palm on your cheek for a second. ”princess you're burning up.” he looks at your face scrunched up while his hand moves up, back of it against your forehead. ”i'll be right back okay? don't go anywhere.” you wanted to laugh, to say, as if i could, but you coughed instead, the dryness in your throat burning along your spine and up into your head.

james left your side and in the moment he was gone, you felt as if you were freezing, teeth chattering quietly, shivers and goosebumps ran up your arms, your legs trying to curl up into the rest of your body.

in the restroom attaches to the dorm, james was staring at himself in the mirror, waiting for the water in the sink to get cold, dry rag in hand. he moved the cloth into the flow of water, making sure it was fully soaked before turning off the faucet and wringing the rag out.

”here we go princess.” your boyfriend returned and as soon as he was sat on the floor again the heat returned to your body as well. he folded the rag into a rectangle and laid it on your forehead.

after a few moments of the cooling, you had started to doze off, and james watched with a smile. he shook your arm so he could tell you one last thing. ”i'm gonna grab a few things but when i come back, i'll be right here all night. okay?” with your eyes closed, you slowly nodded yes, trying to keep the cloth on your forehead. ”jamie?” you mumble out, and james' head snaps up from looking at the floor, humming. ”thank you for taking care of me. i don't know what i'd do without you.” he smiled, and although you couldn't see it, you could feel it radiating off of him.

”anytime princess, i'm sorry you're feelin' so crummy.” you smiled when he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, letting the sleep finally get to you.

pray4saint© do not copy, translate or repost my work without my express permission.

[mamamittens]

Oh, Sweet Child of Mine (Thatch AU End)

Platonic Yandere Thatch & G/N Reader

Main

Warnings: illness and drugging.

Word Count: 1,676

There were a great many things that you’d never be.

The tallest.

The strongest.

Free from this Yonko crew.

Sick.

This was simply reality as you’ve long since come to accept it—or… perhaps… in one particular case, refuse to accept otherwise. There would be none of that--! That--! Sniffling and sneezing nonsense from you! Nor wheezing and coughing!

Never happened and would never happen again.

Which is why, when you woke up to a coughing fit against Kotatsu’s suddenly very bristled fur, you knew it was nothing. Neither was the slight heat to your cheeks—you just felt embarrassed for startling the poor baby is all. Nothing a bit of cold water to your face couldn’t fix after consolation scritches to a cute pair of twitchy ears. Kotatsu’s rumbling purr rattling your lungs as the sweet kitty nearly flattened you beneath his hefty weight.

You grimaced as mucus rattled in your lungs with a particularly deep breath.

Absolutely nothing to worry about at all.

The cold water soothed the ache behind your eyes and you resolved to see how soon you could learn to breath underwater just to maintain the pleasant sensation when there was a knock on the door.

Ah. Shit.

“Ye—hng—! Yeah!?” You started to cough and quickly cleared your throat.

The door opened and you looked to find Thatch scowling as Kotatsu brushed past him.

“How did you… never mind. Hey, there!” Thatch grinned, “Ready to help make breakfast?”

You scowled, instantly knowing that was a very bad idea.

If you were sick—not that you were but if—then helping make food would just spread it to the whole damn ship.

It was rather unfortunate that ‘forced bonding’ time was part of your ongoing grounding that seemed to be an excuse at this point.

“I—henghk!” You started but quickly broke off into a cough, tucking your face into your elbow as the jerky motion took over your whole body. Your lungs screaming with every jar and face growing hot with exertion.

“Oh shit, are you sick?” Thatch asked in concern, walking up to help steady you as you rode out the harsh motions.

“C-Co—heurgh—urse not! D-Don’t say stupid things like th-at!” You sputtered, still wheezing a little.

Thatch snorted, lips quirking as he grabbed a rag from the sink and poured cold water over it. After wringing it out he pressed it over your hot face.

“Welp, there goes my plan for the day. C’mon. Back to bed. I’ll bring oatmeal in a bit.” Thatch cooed, laughing a little as you whined and huffed.

“Not sick!” You denied.

“Oh really? Does that mean you’re going to spend time cooking breakfast with your big brother?” Thatch teased, easily forcing your trembling body to sit on the bed. You gave him a nasty look.

“I should sneeze on you.” You hissed. Not deterred in the slightest, Thatch grinned cheekily.

“What good would that do if you’re not sick, huh?” Thatch pushed you down and settled the blanket back over you. “I’ll pick up some cold medicine to take with your oatmeal.”

Huffing, you tried to sit up only for Thatch’s hands to press firmly over your shoulders.

“Noooooooo! Not! Sick!” You denied petulantly. Thatch snorted and quickly retreated.

“Sure thing, kiddo.” You groaned as he closed the door and locked it.

Great. Now you couldn’t run off and hide somewhere even if you wanted to. All you could do was lay there, definitely not sick, and wallow in misery. Wet coughs plaguing you when you started muttering bitterly to yourself. Somewhere in between feverishly hoping Marco doesn’t learn of your condition to mother hen you to death and that Thatch gets the silly idea that you’re sick out of his head, you must have passed out.

Time moved in a thick, hazy mass. Fitful sleep muffled under static and heat. You woke feeling somehow worse than before if you even fell asleep to begin with. The ship heaving underneath you in harsh motions that clashed chaotically with the pulsing headache behind your eyes.  

The sound of locks sliding muffled under a thick layer of cotton as the door opened broke your confused thoughts.

“Heeeey~ Got your food.” Thatch’s voice drifted in from the light softly.

“…noooooo.” You whined, burying your face into the pillow as the door closed and there was a soft shuffling.

You hated being sick. It made your head fuzzy and anxiety to crawl up your spine. You felt Thatch’s hand curl under your head and shoulders as he lifted you up with a pitying huff.

“Geez, sweetie, I wasn’t gone for that long and you’re already feverish.” Thatch murmured, carefully propping you up when all you wanted to do was bury your head in your pillow. You shuddered, leaning against him with a low whine. “Aw, c’mon now. You gotta eat and then you can go back to sleep, deal?”

You sniffled, throat tickling as you rubbed your eyes. Thatch felt more like a rock against your side as he gently passed a bowl over to you. It was definitely oatmeal, flakes of fruit on the top, it’s weight warm between your trembling hands.

You…You could remember the last time you got sick. It was while you were in your early days of the marines, your devil fruit very new and you slept in the barracks. A bug went around and you managed to dodge it until after everyone else had already gotten through it. So you were quarantined to prevent another go around the entire base. It was a miserable week where your fever raged and you sweated clean through your pajamas several times over. The medicine they gave you not enough to knock you out, so you were… sort of awake the entire time. Not that you had a coherent thought for a majority of it. Food mostly consisted of clear soup from a can and crackers.

You woke up clinging to your pillow so damp you thought you’d overslept and someone dumped a bucket of water over you.

You ended up in the medical bay for another three days from dehydration.

Maybe it was the fever, the cold chills that rocked your body, or the soft and sweet scent of a very light oatmeal. But something dripped down your nose—not snot, thankfully. But thick tears that splashed onto your oatmeal.

You looked up at Thatch, barely able to see him clearly without your glasses and through your tears, and sniffled.

“You’re such a good big brother.” You whispered thickly before he could say anything about your state. He looked shocked and conflicted. Expression twisting between delight and something bordering on upset rage.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s just oatmeal…” Thatch reassured you, brushing away your tears. You kept crying anyway despite his efforts, quickly eating the oatmeal that had a suspiciously familiar taste that had nothing to do with breakfast.

You could not believe you were saying this but…

“Thank fuck you drugged this. I don’t wanna be conscious right now.” You whined, eating a bit faster as he choked while still crying. It tasted a little different this time. Likely the cold medicine he mentioned before. Good. You never liked the bitter taste of medicine and Thatch knew what he was doing when it came to food. When you finished, you looked at him with the saddest expression you could muster. “…could you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep, Thatch?” You asked softly.

He sighed, smiling with a nod as he slid into the bed beside you, pulling you up against his chest. His arms firm and reassuring around your aching body.

“Alright, I was planning on hiding from Marco for not telling him you were sick anyway.” Thatch chuckled.

You closed your eyes, curling closer as you laughed.

“…I meant it…” He squeezed your shoulder and whispered into your ear.

“I know, sweetie. Go to sleep now.”

--*--

You shuffled into the kitchen, your illness having long since passed with Thatch managing to escape with only a short bug.

There were several others at work with Thatch looking over the list of supplies, planning the day’s meal with mutterings under his breath. With a quick wink to the surprised chefs, you slipped in close and hugged him.

“—need to use those beans before—shit!” Thatch blinked in shock, head whipping around to see you smiling up at him.

“Morning, brother. Where did you want me for ‘family bonding activities’?” You asked with a playful huff. His expression fell as he clearly froze in shock. A tad nervous you broke him, you glanced around to the others that were clearly laughing at him.

Before you could say anything further, you were snapped up into a tight hug as Thatch laughed.

“You called me brother!” Thatch crowed gleefully. You wheezed in his embrace, arms locked to your sides as he bounced around in victory.

“Ack! T-This isn’t the first time!? Why are you losing your shit?!” You screeched indignantly, kicking your legs as you tried not to laugh. He’d think he could do this sort of thing all the time if you did.

“But you were sick! It doesn’t count then!” Thatch denied. You huffed, glaring down at him.

“Do you think I’d call just anyone ‘brother’, ever?” You hissed, face hot. “Who do you think I am?! I should demote you back down to Twin-Blade for this.”

Thatch’s expression twisted into horror as he quickly put you down and held you to his chest.

“No! Please don’t go back to those cold, distant days!” Thatch bemoaned, resting his cheek on your head.

Despite huffing and squirming, you hugged him back with a soft, hidden smile.

“…fine. I’ll forgive you, brother.” You said quietly against his chest. He squeezed you gently with a pleased sigh.

“Thanks, sweet pea… ready to help make breakfast?” He asked, finally pulling away with a bright, beaming smile.

“Yeah, I am.” You smiled back, pushing up your glasses again.

[blindmagdalena]

Our Blood's Gone Bad

summary: 18+ 1.2k homelander x queen maeve. biting. marking. hate sex. pure angst.

These days, they only fuck after they fight.

an older fic that I realized belatedly I had never actually posted to tumblr! enjoy. 🖤

Somehow, no matter what choices she makes—or thinks she makes—they always end up here.

Maeve is riding Homelander on her knees, fucking herself on his cock so hard that even the reinforced steel beams of his bed are groaning. She can't remember what had sparked the argument that got them to this point, not with every snap of his hips knocking the thoughts from her mind.

She prefers it that way.

He’s sitting up, face buried in the crook of her neck. She’s the only one he can fuck like this. He can finally let go of restraint and chase as much pleasure as he wants. He can’t break her, though god knows she wants him to.

His lips brush along her skin in series of kisses, featherlight despite the brutal way they grind into one another. With a hand in his hair, Maeve gives a sharp yank. “Use your fucking teeth,” she hisses. It wrings a groan from the back of his throat.

They weren't always like this. There were times she could make love to him without needing it to hurt. Nowadays, she treats his tenderness like an insult to be immediately remedied by violence.

Viciously, he complies. He sinks his teeth into her skin, holding her firmly in place with his arms at her back, hands hooked over her shoulders. He bites until he feels her titanium skin nearly give way. He eases back just shy of cutting through it, drags his tongue across the mark it leaves. Like those that came before it, it won’t last long, but he likes to admire them while they linger. Mine.

Maeve will always be his, if only because they both know they will never find this in another person. No one else will ever be strong enough, durable enough, or damaged enough. He owns this part of her. The unbreakable woman who wants nothing more than to be shattered to pieces. Maeve isn’t satisfied. She shoves him down hard, surprising him enough to break his hold. He lays sprawled back against the bed, eyes wide and blown black with arousal. She isn’t the only one who enjoys the fight. She covers his mouth with her hand, practically shoving the side of it between his teeth. “Harder.” Breathing harshly through his nose, Homelander bites down hard, catching the meat of the side of her hand just below her pinky. He watches the way she grunts, still bouncing herself on his cock, desperately chasing her release.

He moves his hands to her thighs, taking hold of her and digging his fingers into the muscle, dull nails biting crescent-shaped wounds into her skin. That makes her moan. The sound goes straight to his cock.

“Fuck, I said harder,” she grits out, her other hand braced on his chest. Their bodies colliding sounds more like combat than sex, impact after impact.

It electrifies every cell in his body, makes him feel like he’s going to erupt with the force of an atomic bomb. He squeezes her tighter and obeys her, biting down until he feels a coppery wet gush spill into his mouth, down his chin.

Maeve gasps with it, an angelic sound compared to the usual rough grit of her voice, and her orgasm suddenly peaks. His eyes roll back, a whimper leaving him. She’s so fucking tight, seizing around him like a vice. Homelander comes hard, back arching beneath her. His ragged moan is muffled into the palm of her bleeding hand. She takes him for all he’s worth, still rolling her hips, riding out the aftershocks of her own orgasm. She takes her hand suddenly from his mouth and grips the headboard instead, her head tipping back, eyes closed. Even when he makes her come, she can’t offer the courtesy of looking him in the eye. “Maeve,” he rasps, exhaling roughly. She hasn’t so much as slowed. She’s still grinding down against him with the same fervency they began with, and his pleasure is beginning to walk the razor's edge towards pain. “Jesus fuck, Maeve– ” “Shut up,” she growls, finally looking down at him. She plants both hands on his chest, leaving a bloody handprint on his bare skin. “Would you just shut the fuck up for once.” Homelander opens his mouth to protest, to snap something equally snide, but he doesn’t get the chance. Maeve drops down and presses her lips to his.

Whatever he had thought to say dies completely, his eyes falling shut. He moves his hands from her thighs to her face, cupping it briefly before pushing them back into her long hair, holding her with all his fucking might. He can’t remember the last time she kissed him. He’s going to savor it, despite the way his spent cock aches. She’s moving too fast, too hard, eating up the way he keens into her mouth. His expression twists. It fucking hurts, but he doesn’t want it to stop. He pulls her closer to him, tangling his hands in her hair, pretending for just a moment that they still love each other. Pleasure and pain spiral up in equal measure. Homelander feels like he’s coming undone with it, muttering incoherently between needy, hungry kisses. Eventually the onslaught of sensation merges into blinding white heat that feels like the aftershock of an orgasm, a second one wrenched from him alongside a sound that comes suspiciously close to a sob.

Maeve comes again, gasping her pleasure into the wet heat between them. The spasms of her cunt pull another pained noise from him. With a heavy breath, she lifts herself off of him, rolling onto her back. She scrubs a hand over her face before letting it fall to the bed. The two of them lay like that for a long moment, Homelander collecting himself while Maeve busies herself with lighting a cigarette. He fucking hates those things, and normally he’d have something to say about it, but right now he finds himself speechless. After a few more minutes of that, she rolls off the edge of the bed, cigarette dangling between her lips, and starts getting dressed. He frowns, rolling onto his side to watch her. “Hey,” he calls, but she doesn’t look at him. “Maeve, c’mon. Stay. For a bit. For more than four fuckin’ minutes,” “I have shit to do,” she responds curtly, avoiding his gaze. He scoffs. “Getting shitfaced, you mean?” She doesn’t respond. She’s already almost fully dressed. “Oh, would you cut the crap, Maeve? You think your life is so fucking hard. You’re a god. That shit’s beneath you,” he says, giving a vague, dismissive gesture. “Stay with me. We’re good together, you know. You just don’t want to admit it.”

At that, she looks sharply at him. He can’t discern her expression. She looks tired, irritated, but there’s also something uncomfortably empty in her eyes. This time, he's is the one to look away, discomforted by the hollowness of her stare. “It wasn’t always like this," he says, a quiet petulance in his voice. “Yes it was,” she responds, the venom in her voice replaced with an aching exhaustion. She makes her way to the door. “You just don’t want to admit it.” She doesn’t slam the door, but she might as well. The sound of it echoes too loud in his ears. Homelander is left cold, alone, and bitter.

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting:

"You almost died!"

"I think we should really focus on that 'almost' part."

tags: @eclecticwildflowers, @illiana-mystery

warnings: mention of death, swearing, blood, injury

I slammed the door to the apartment we were using, Eliot flinching at the noise. Hardisons head popped up from the couch and Parker paused in front of me. I stood staring at Eliot, ignoring Nate and Sophie opening the door.

“Eliot.” I growled. He flushed and went wide eyed. Everyone was still as the tension grew in the air. “You dumbass.” I marched over to him and drew my hand back. Eliot flinched and I paused. “How could you?”

“(Y/N).” He whispered, eyes roaming behind me at everyone else. “Can we not…”

“what? Afraid your friends will hear?” I snapped. “Afraid they’ll find out that you actually care about someone enough that you’re scared when you piss them off?” Eliot swallowed thickly and brought his gaze back to me. When he shifted his weight, I sighed and turned to everyone else in the room. “Can we have the room?” Nate nodded and started to usher everyone out. Hardison took a little bribing but he eventually left.

“look (Y/N)…” I hit Eliot’s arm and he immediately grabbed it. “Ow. Hey ok. What’s wrong?” He turned back towards the sink and continued wringing out the rag he’d been holding to his eyebrow.

“you almost died!” I screamed at Eliot as I hit him again. “You almost died and I had to sit there and hear it over the comms!” Eliot caught my hands easily and started to rub his thumb over my knuckles.

“I think we should really focus on the ‘almost’ part.” He whispered. I tried to tug my hands out of his grip but Eliot held fast. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me.” Eliot ducked his head to hold my gaze as I looked down. “Sure I almost died. But I’m a hitter. The best in the business. They can’t kill me.” I shook my head at him.

“el…” I whispered as I finally looked back up at him. Eliot dropped my hands and cupped my cheeks, wiping at the tears that had spilled. “You’re more than a hitter. You know that.” Eliot smiled at me before kissing my forehead. “But I worry anyway. Best in the business or not.” Eliot nodded and he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me tightly as I cried into his shoulder.

“I know.” He whispered. “I know.” Leaning his head against mine, Eliot held me as I cried. “I’m sorry.” I pulled away, wiping my cheeks as I gazed at Eliot.

“no you’re not.” I said softly. “You’re not because if you hadn’t put yourself on the line, Sophie and Parker would have been caught. Nate would have had to abort and hardison would only have half a drive.” Eliot watched me carefully as I reached up to play with his hair. “And I would have had to go back in there to plant the transmitter that would allow Hardison to access it remotely. All running a higher risk than the one we took.” Letting my head fall against his shoulder, I hugged Eliot tightly. “I’m sorry for going off on you.”

“don’t be.” Eliot chuckled. “You have every reason to worry about me just like I have every reason to worry about you.” I pulled back to look at him.

“you worry about me?” I asked. Eliot nodded, kissing my nose.

“all the time.” He responded. “It goes both ways you know.” I chuckled and Eliot smiled. “Besides it’s fun to see the looks on their faces when you do that.” Leaning into him again, I sighed as he rubbed my arm.

“so you want me to keep doing that?” I asked, closing my eyes and savoring the moment.

“yes please.” Eliot laughed.

“will do.” I agreed as he pulled me tight.

[canelablutegel-cave]

Whumpril 3: Shame

This one was very rushed and features a Whumpee who was passed from one Whumper to the next. I might edit it later.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” they sobbed, backing into a wall, their hands wrapped around their head to protect it from any blows that might come their way.

The Whumper stood and looked disapprovingly at the scene before them. A broken vase on a freshly mopped floor, the flowers crooked and bent from the fall, “What are you waiting for? Clean it up.” they snapped, stepping over the vase and trembling Whumpee.

The Whumpee nodded heavily and began to pick up the flowers.

“No!” the Whumper stomped their foot, and the Whumpee dropped the stems. “You don't deserve to touch the beautiful flowers, use gloves and put them in your quarters.”

The Whumpee nodded and pulled out a pair of thick rubber gloves, they were hard to work with, but those were the only ones they had. They mopped the floor with a rag and collected the pieces of the vase.

“Bring the broken parts of the vase too.” The Whumper commanded.

Whumpee nodded and scooped the fragments and flowers into their arms, they stood, bowed to the Whumper, and scuttled out of the room.

They reached their quarters, a small, dark, jail-like cell, with only the light from the hallway to guide their way. They delicately placed the broken stoneware on a rickety table and propped up the flowers in it. The petals and stems drooped, held down by the Whumpee’s mistakes. The Whumpee did their best to lift the flowers, but it didn’t work, nothing worked. They went back into the house to clean some more.

When they returned, the Whumper stood outside of their room, calmly reading a book. They tried to turn their gaze down, but the Whumper forced them to look into their eyes. “Take off your shoes.”

The Whumpee let out a breath, one that almost formed into a “Why?” but they knew better. Stupid Whumpee, they knew better. They leaned against the wall for support and pulled off their shoes.

“And socks.”

The Whumpee took off their socks, folding them neatly in the shoes and stepping onto the cold cement floor. They looked at the Whumper, expectantly.

The Whumper quirked a brow, “What?”

The Whumpee looked down, nervously wringing their hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you need.”

The Whumper rolled their eyes, “Just go to bed.”

The Whumpee shortly bowed, “Thank you,” and went into the room. They stopped a few inches from the door. A small, confused hum escaping their lips.

“Don’t clean up anything.” The Whumper sneered as they closed the door.

The Whumpee flinched when the door slammed shut, their shoulders tensing, they expected the touch of their previous Whumper to trace their shoulders, but thankfully, they only felt their currant Whumpers eyes on their back. The Whumpee took a step forward, then another, then… A sharp pain shot up their leg, they knew this pain, it was glass. Their breathing became heavier, their eyes widened. They looked back at the Whumper.

“Keep going.”

The Whumpee gulped and set their foot down, the glass sinking deeper into their flesh with each second. They winced as they shifted their weight to take yet another step, and another, and another. The small room seemed to become longer with each painful step after agonizing step. The Whumpee put their hand against the wall and felt for their bed. Well, it was less of a bed and more of a pile of rags they collected during their stay here. They collapsed on it, moving into a criss-cross position. They couldn’t see much in the room besides the little bit of light from the door, but from the glimmers on the ground, they found that the glass was shaped to be like a flower, the same flower from the vase. This Whumper was certainly more creative than the last. They looked up and met the Whumper's eyes.

The Whumper sneered, “Don’t break anything again.” and turned off the light, leaving the Whumpee in the dark in a room of hazards.

[weshallc]

Old Skool Turnadette FanFic Alert!

When is the Wedding?

Happy birthday my best china! @fourteen-teacups 🥰🎁💝🎂

You are the Doc to my Grumpy, the Amelia to my Juliet, the Cathy to my Kelly, the Caroline to my Gillian, the Audrey to my Helen, the Sister Julienne to my Trixie.

I'm having a moment, so let's roll the fic!

This fic obeys no rules. So you snooty lot who couldn't possibly read something without a specific POV and perfect grammar that so many of us find so difficult and all the rest of it. This fic is not for you. It's for my mucker!

CHAPTER ONE

Half past ten on January 25th 1959.

“Hello, it’s just us.”

Sat at the kitchen table, Peter Noakes looked up from bouncing his baby son on his knee and shared a smile and a wink with Freddie’s mother.

“Why does she always say that? Does she think we’ve given a key to every waif and stray in Poplar.” Whispering as the front door slammed shut.

Camilla scowled at him from the kitchen sink and flicked the tea towel resting on her shoulder towards him in warning. “I think she is still getting her tongue around the ‘us’ part. Sort of trying it out on her friends until she feels comfortable saying it in company.” 

Camilla smoothed down her apron and pushed her chestnut hair behind her on alert ears. “And Shelagh is not a waif and stray. She is our house guest.”

Peter grinned at his wife’s indignation and couldn’t help himself.

��I think it’s because she knows how flustered you get when Dr Turner visits, and is giving you the old heads up. So you can plump the cushions or wipe down the kitchen surfaces.”

“I have never heard such outrageous nonsense in all my days, Peter Noakes!” Camilla ranted, wringing out the freshly soaked dish cloth. “I do not get flustered over any man, whether he be a respected GP or an annoying police constable.” She quietly fumed, taking her wrath out on the countertops with the wet rag.

“As much as I’m happy to accommodate such undemanding and pleasant company. We waited so long for a home of our own, so we could move out of Nonnatus, and now it seems like Nonnatus has come to us.”

Camilla turned and looked at him properly. “You really are the most patient of men. But, I couldn’t see her go back to that frightful boarding house and all those dreadful gossips, after what occurred at Christmas. I don’t think, young sir, minded too much giving up his room for a few weeks.” She nodded at her son, who was looking alternatively between his parents intently, like he understood every word.

“And I agreed there was no other suitable arrangement, with Nonnatus awaiting the wrecking ball and, as you say, every snoop worth their while, observing the comings and goings at the flat over the surgery. I just wonder when we could revert back from Noakes’ Home for Wayward Nuns back to Noakes’ Love Nest.”

“That’s enough. They will hear you." Camilla was beside herself. "Hopefully, we will find out in a matter of moments. They had an appointment with the vicar at All Saints this morning.”

The lull in their own conversation made the voices behind the kitchen door echoing from the passageway audible, if not discernible,

Peter broke the silence, much to Camilla’s delight, as she didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping. When she hadn’t been able to make out a single syllable.

“If this goes on much longer, I’m going to have to arrest the pair of them for loitering with intent.”

“It’s not a boarding house. She doesn’t have to clock in and out with us. We didn’t issue a curfew. Well, at least I didn’t.” She looked at Peter accusingly and then got back to wiping down the kitchen table and picking up her husband's half-drunk cup of tea, throwing the remaining liquid down the sink.

“I hadn’t finished that!” Camilla didn’t hear him as she rearranged the fruit in the crystal bowl. Someone she couldn’t quite place had bought them it for a wedding present.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to your mummy, but she definitely does suffer from occasional bouts of flustration. Doesn’t she Freddie?” Peter diagnosed, addressing his son, who responded with a gurgle of approval. "Maybe we could ask the good doctor for a second opinion ?”

Peter’s grin widened. He looked like a naughty schoolboy scrumping apples, rather than a doting husband, but in that moment, he was both.

The wet cloth landed on PC Noakes’ head just seconds after the kitchen door opened and an apologetic voice chimed, “It’s just us.”

After a lot of silent but meaningful looks between all parties and the missile safely deposited in the sink, Peter had a fresh cup of tea set before him, as did everyone else. Freddie, who had been watching the morning’s events like he was reporting for the Poplar Gazette, was now sitting on the new addition to his family's knee, observing events from a different angle.

Freddie didn’t really know if he preferred a pink wafer to a bourbon. But he was mildly affronted no-one had asked if he had a preference. He kept trying to grab the pretty pink one out of the hand of the person they called Auntie Shelagh, but she was quick, and said “No” in such a sing-song voice he forgave her.

They were talking again about the weather, crocuses (whatever they were), something called whooping cough, which sounded much more fun than the frowny faces suggested. One of those awkward silences occurred again. That was always his cue. Gurgle, make spit bubbles, form fists, shake arms and giggle. It works every time. Like a charm. Eventually, Mummy found the courage to speak.

“Would it be so very out of turn? If one enquired how your appointment went this morning.”

Shleagh and Dr Turner glanced at each other in that ‘we know a secret sort of way’. It looked like he was about to take hold of her hand, but there were too many obstacles in the way like pink wafers, teacups, a baby and proprietary.

The look Shelagh gave Dr Turner reminded Chummy of an old retainer of her father's who began every sentence with “Permission to speak, Sir?” She caught Peter’s eye. The telepathic consensus was; how long will that last? It was received and understood between them.

Chummy’s attention was distracted when she noticed how tight Shelagh was now holding her son. He seemed very content and his eyes were closing, so all was well.

Shelagh began, “Dr Turner and I have set a date to be married at All Saints' church on the second Saturday in February.”

“So soon?” Exclaimed Peter, ignoring an imaginary dishcloth hurtling towards him.

“Well, yes,” Shelagh replied in the tone of a pregnant schoolgirl with a father brandishing a shotgun rather than an ex-nun with a penchant for purity. “We were hoping for March, to give young Timothy time to grow a wee bit stronger, but of course Palm Sunday and our Lord’s resurrection must always take precedence.”

Peter noticed Shelagh gave Dr Turner that look Camilla gave him when it was his turn to talk. He thought to himself he was only mastering that level of communication, but the Doc picked it up straight away. What a pro!

“That left us with the option of an April wedding, which seemed like an eternity away.”

This time, he took her hand as it warmed itself on the teacup.

Peter smiled to himself. He knew that eternity. He was actually experiencing that eternity right now. Most new fathers understood the consequences of a new baby entering their lives. But no-one had prepared him for a baby at the bottom of the bed and an ex-nun in the next room and the effects on his wife's libido.

“Here here.” Peter cried, “Carpe diem, Doctor, carpe diem!”

Peter’s joy was short-lived when he realized everyone, including a sleepy Freddie, were now staring at him.

“So when’s the wedding?” He meekly asked.

[kxllerblond]

cont. x / @t-errifier

Like some restless animal in a cage, Clark needed stimulation. He needed constant enrichment lest he start biting at the bars and anything that dare to come close-—so to speak and non-literally, of course. A daunting task to most was just what Clark Thompson sought on the daily. Did he do so gleefully? Of course not. A neat and clean monster he was, a monster capable of not complaining about every facet of his waking existence...he was not.

Take him back a decade or so and maybe this would have been out of the ordinary. A bloodied and murderous clown-—had those come back? God, how out of the loop was he with the current trends?-— come to him docile and receptive enough to accept some pestering and fretting over from the clean freak of a demon spawn. Yeah, sure. At this point in his life...why not?

❝-—Darling, your hobbies and pursuits are your own business but I really must tell you that runnin' about in this costume with this amount of gore caked on is something you can really only skate by with in October. Beyond that, I hope you either have a very nice life insurance policy or you're supernaturally inclined. Because you're going to get swiss cheesed at some point by a SWAT squad in the middle of a bridge or something. ❞

Bloodied gloves were set in a neat pile, the rag taken again to the sink to wring out and dampen once more. ❝-—Which would be fine, it's a very dramatic way to go out and I'm sure that would fit your...aesthetic. The only issue being I fear they did it that one time...or several? with The Joker. Like, the comic character. And god, how tacky to go out the same way a fictional clown did. Why, I'd be in pieces over that from beyond the grave if it were me. ❞

He turned the hands over to inspect his work, wrinkled his nose slightly at the nails. Were he to have more time and not be entirely unsure if said murder clown would strike out at HIM...he'd have grabbed his manicure set and cleaned those as well.

❝ All that to say, I understand your appearance is very loud by default...but some subtly in other areas would not hurt. ❞

Hands finished, the cambion watched as they were dropped back to sides. And then there was the face...

Clark took a step back, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand at his chin as though he was some painter reflecting on an unfinished painting.

❝ I'm not going to be able to salvage the face paint. I can fade a good bit of the blood, maybe buff it out some. At best, I think the lightest foundation I have is a pale porcelain to fill any gaps. And I'm assuming you don't carry a greasepaint touch-up kit on your person...❞

[themartianwitch-fic]

Yours In Fractions - Ch. 5 - Sinking Feeling

Fic summary: After the invasion, Conner and M'gann re-connect with each other and themselves. (Set primarily between Seasons 2 and 3, with flashbacks. See pinned post for full fic's content warnings.)

[March 17th, Team Year Seven]

Wolf raises his head and grumbles, spreads his front paws out and taps impatiently at the floor.

Conner blinks, and the black, red, and blue shapes in his vision become real objects again. He raises his chin from his hand and pops the tension out from the side of his neck. “I know,” he says to Wolf. He lifts the red and blue bag up by the handles, tissue paper crackling, and sets it on the opposite side of his desk, as if it’s a chess or puzzle piece to move towards a solution. “I’m almost done, then I’ll turn off the light.”

Wolf responds with a quick, soft warning woo, then lays his chin back down to the floor. He twitches an ear, eyes staying open and on Conner.

“Right,” Conner mutters to himself, and he returns his attention to the desk.

He doesn’t have to do this.

What he has for them is enough on its own. They wouldn’t know he thought of this, wouldn’t know he thought of it and decided no.

No one would know but him. And now that he’s thought of it, whatever response he has to the thought is still a choice he’s making, even if it’s nothing.

Conner starts again at the top of the pile. If he remembers correctly, it’s the hole in the collar. He runs his thumb over the seam until he finds the spot that yields, that shows the skin of his fingertip peeking through when he turns the collar over.  No.  He restarts his reject pile. The next should have the hard part in the stitching at its bottom hem. Sure enough, it’s there: Ma’s thread reinforcing where the factory threads had loosened.

Reject pile. He’s not giving them something that’s already had to be fixed.

The S-Shield flakes on the next shirt. Subtle cracks, but they’re immediate the moment he looks at it, no microscopic vision required. Little paper-thin slips of red. He doesn’t try to fold that shirt back, just bunches it in his fist and smacks it down over the pile. Next shirt. More stitches, this time at the shoulder–not in the seam, just out in the body of the cloth. Little scabs of thread. Conner tucks that shirt into a tight square like he’s wrapping a wound, then adds it to the pile. The next one bares longer scars in nearly the same place, only on both shoulders–the drag of long claws.

Conner looks back over at Wolf on the floor. You did this one, buddy, he thinks at him. Wolf’s eyes hover half-open, lids heavy but his ears still flicking. Conner folds the shirt. The reject pile grows.

Another shirt, another flaw: this time, grease stains. Fresh ones, too–he rubs a darker-than-black spot on the faded bottom front and feels his skin both stick to and slip off of it. All it took was one lazy wipe on the cloth that he had closest at hand. It didn’t matter then. He didn’t think it ever would.

“What did you think?” M’gann rasps at him, her laughter still ringing in the air.

“Think I could clean my grease rags with this,” he says, giving the pink drink in his sweating glass a swirl. M’gann snorts, more laughter bubbling up behind her hand. He takes another sip.

The next shirt has the opposite problem: light spots against a larger splotch of darkness on the back. He still remembers M’gann’s green fingers wringing into the cloth, and her mouth curling inward into a crooked, anxious frown. She’d tried to fix it before telling him, but the dye didn’t take right. The bleach she’d spilled left permanent damage–and didn’t even fix the grass stains on her Bumblebee blouse. Hel-lo, Megan, she had said, a Martian doing laundry–

He’d let shirts rip and burn back then. Some little stains meant nothing.

“You look like a constellation,” she’d said later once the guilt had gone away. He did that. All it had taken was his words.  Not even backwards, just magic–he forgave her, and it mattered. She giggled and walked her fingers across the stars on his back. He turned and poked her freckled cheek.

“Like this?”

She’d laughed, whole face, whole chest. Whole heart.

He’d buried it at the bottom of his drawer at the farm. He couldn’t look at it again. If he’d kept it at the Cave, it’d be gone now.

Thank God for small favors, Conner imagines Ma saying. He folds the shirt back neatly. Reject, he labels it mentally, for more reasons than one. It joins the stack of shirts he knows he’ll keep.

What’s left is the shirt slashed straight through the S.

Or at least, the one that was. Ma matched the threads exactly to the colors. He’d thought that it was magic the first time that he saw it, but he’d just had to look, to find the faultline. Find the proof that what held it together made it wrong.

[Superboy, you’re cut?! But a Kryptonian can’t be cut!]

A line of little blistered eyes all opening at once, and there it was. His blood. His inside. The liquid warmth–the liquid cold at the edges. The air on it, still cutting into him like the blade. The blood starting to seep over the clean line of the wound, gravity and his pumping heart pulling it down. Part of him, falling out. If it could, so could all of it. All of him. All the nothing that he ever was–

“No!”

Robin shouting. Clattering blades. M’gann gasping out the breath she’d been holding. Robin’s teeth clicking against the force of Rako’s fist. Wally’s soles skidding to his side.

“C’mon, Supey! Get it together!”

He didn’t have to keep it, but the lack of any other souvenir from the mission gave him an excuse, even if he didn’t let it go to the trophy shelf. Artemis helped him wash out the blood once the mission was over–”girl secret,” she’d said. “Nuh-uh,” Wally had said back. M’gann had just watched–him. Kept staring like she could see the scratch through his new shirt, some psychic trace embedded in his healed-over skin.

“It… is my mind," M’gann says, head low, hair framing her face and cutting through the bright and blurry sunlight streaming in around her, putting the smell of lavender in his head. “It’s like a… scar that's... on my psyche.”

Conner sighs, rubbing at his forehead. His ears want to tune in to her. He’s fought the urge most nights, and he can fight it now. Focus.

Focusing still leaves him with the same problem he started with: none of the shirts are good enough. He topples the reject pile down with a swipe of his hand, letting the shirts fall back into a mess on his desk. He lifts the bag again, feeling the few light weights inside it tug against the bottom, and he moves it back to the other side of the pile.

On the floor, Wolf smacks his lips loudly enough for Conner to hear–which doesn’t take much, and he knows that Wolf knows that. The intent is clear. “Alright,” Conner says, standing. He slides off his jeans, clicks off his lamp, then heads to the control panel at his door to get the overhead lights.

M’gann’s heart beats gently on the other side. Past the turn of the corner and four doors down, but out there. She’s asleep. He dims the lights, closes his eyes, and lets the sound of her sleeping fade out. His hand goes to the door, palm soaking in a few seconds’ worth of cold from the metal, then lets it go. All of it. He’s done all that he can.

After seven years of missions, he’s used to little sleep, but weighing last night against tomorrow, he knows he needs it now.

Ten hours, the clock on his nightstand says. He could count that on his hands. He does, just to check, like he hasn’t known basic math since before he could open his eyes. He looks down at all ten fingers up, at the open, empty hands he's left with. He curls his hands back into fists.

Wolf flicks a tall white ear in the low light as Conner heads to the bed. The moment Conner’s weight crackles down onto the sheet, Wolf rolls onto his side, stretches out his white legs, and lets out a deep sigh tinged with a groan of satisfaction. His heart keeps time in a way that digital doesn’t, ticks softly under layers of muscle and fur, but as Conner’s head drops down into the pillow, the clock on the nightstand blinks a new red number. Conner’s eyes trail up to the ceiling. Shadows overtake the corners, same as every night. The walls stretch up into a void. He closes his eyes and thinks of the moon.

"Your home is a test tube," says the intruder–the smallest one, in the mask that hides his eyes. "We can show you the sun!

"Uh, pretty sure it's after midnight, but we can show you the moon!" one of the other ones chimes in–the one in the mask that doesn't.

The zeta tube light fades at Conner’s back. The rubber of his heels thuds against the cement floor. Bare rafters and support beams line the warehouse’s interior like a skeleton, caging in the dim walls and the fuzzy ceiling. Static buzzes on the TV screen, a thousand black and white dots seething with life but still trapped behind the glass. Mal’s arm and leg dangle off the edge of the couch. Gar’s bed is empty; his heart beats instead in the corner behind the curtains, just like it has every night since–

Since they lost her.

Conner lays a hand over his hip pocket. The four corners of the box press back into his palm.

“You’re not going to need those.”

Nightwing–Dick–appears like he always does: out of nowhere. He’s quiet now. It’s been years since the laugh. He gives Conner his best Batman impression now, standing with arms crossed and mask eyelets narrowed.

Conner blinks at him for a moment, then scoffs. “What, not part of your plan?”

Dick drops his arms but keeps the glare. “None of this was part of the plan,” he says slowly.

"Doesn’t matter,” Conner snaps back, keeping his hand over the box. “It’s part of it now.” His eyes dart back across the warehouse–Warehome, it’s supposed to be. No one stirs, but without even trying, Conner lowers his voice–the clenching of his teeth does it for him. “You still don’t have a plan to get them back, do you?” he seethes under his breath.

Dick sighs, deflating all the air from his puffed-up chest. For a moment, he’s thirteen again, spindly-armed and narrow shouldered and barely up past the S-Shield on Conner’s chest. But his hands go to his hips, and he’s Nightwing again, not quite Batman or Robin. “Trying to extract the three of them now would mean more risks and more unknowns than just staying put,” he says. “Look, I don’t like it either. But Tigress wouldn’t have involved Miss M unless it was her only option, hers and Kaldur’s, and even if we wanted to send a squad, there's a whole lot of ocean between us and them.” Dick steps closer to Conner, leans his several inches of height down over him. “Trust her.” His shoulders give a light shrug. “Trust Miss M.”

M’gann, Conner thinks back at Dick from behind a glare. Artemis. Say their names like you said Kaldur’s. They’re part of this, too.

Those words don’t come out. What comes out instead is a growl. “We don’t even know if…”

Those words won’t come out either.

If they’re still alive.

“…They’re not.”

Conner feels his eyes bulge.

“Dead, I mean.” Dick steps back and puts a hand up, swallowing audibly. “They’re not.”

Conner shoves his hands into his pockets and turns away, head airy with the fumes burning off from his face. The box in his pocket is cold and solid. Feeling sweat in his gloves, he grips it.

“You don’t think so either,” Dick then says, all too proudly. “Unless what you got's your revenge plan, not your rescue.”

Breath hitching, Conner clenches the box and lunges at Dick, huffing in his face. Dick smirks back at him. “And SB,” Dick continues, “I know what’s more your style.”

The box crunches. Finger-shaped grooves melt into the steel like butter. Conner doesn’t let go. “It’s mine.” The steel turns liquid-smooth between his fingers, heat pooling at the center of his palm. He squeezes tighter. “And it’s none of your business.”

“You’re on this team, you are my business.” Dick holds out a hand. “Gimme.” He flicks his fingers.

“No!” Conner shouts, wet heat in his eyes. A pulse through his body knocks him back on his heels; he stumbles, but each step back pulls him up, makes him lighter. He stomps to ground himself. “You don’t get to decide–” What I feel, but his lips twist and turn then pull themselves back inward. A knot in his throat holds his voice back. You and Kaldur, he still tries, grunting, snarling–Dick smiles, hand outstretched. The heat from the box seeps into Conner's skin.

No!

Conner’s hands leave his pockets. His fists come up empty.

How could you–

“Agh!” Conner's fist hits the concrete floor, cracks splitting out from the impact. The crater pulls his fist in–Conner slips to his knees. Pain pulses up from his knuckles, runs through the veins in his wrist, and throbs at the center of his forearm. Clutching his arm, he fights the magnet pull of his fist to the floor, groaning until his fingers uncurl in the grit and then go limp. The pain washes out of him in a cold sweat, leaves his body full of lightness, but the world still warps itself around his eardrums, booming, crashing. The beat pushes his feet from the floor. He shuts his eyes to hold it in, feel it–control it. Raising his fists, he thrusts out his chest, lifts his knee. Higher. Higher. More.

He opens his eyes. Light streams in from the rafters. Nothing matters but its warmth. Every cell in his body opens to it, teems with it, burns in it.

There's no one waiting for him on the ground anymore. Dick is gone–Gar, Mal–the warehouse itself. No walls, no ceiling, just the light, and the dark beyond it, a vague shadow at vaguer edges. Some semblance of something more than this. Tinges of red. Hard, cold, deep. He almost doesn't need to touch it, doesn't want to, but the beating at his core says to reach. He puts out a hand.

His torn white sleeve slips down from his wrist to his elbow. A blood-red blur marrs his skin, but he needs it, he knows. Without it, his hand couldn't even move.

His fingertips press flat against glass. He pushes forward. The glass takes the same force and pushes him right back against the slab. A tiny bump, not even a fall. He hadn’t moved far from it.

He pushes again. Nothing moves. The gaps between his fingers close as he makes a fist–it hits the glass, but leaves no cracks. The pounding inside his head and chest gets softer, distant. Silence creeps in, trickles down as the light brightens, nearly forcing his eyes shut. He squints against it, still keeping his fist. The pounding hasn’t left his arm. He throws his arm against the glass.

The glass shakes. He slides down it, head to his arm, slaps a hand to it to catch himself and push himself back up–the light sears his eyes shut, knocking his head back down. He keeps his head low as he rams his shoulder into the glass. Another shake. Growling, he tries both fists. The pod itself moans back at him as a rattle runs through its walls, but no impact makes an opening.

Sucking in through gritted teeth, Conner opens his eyes. The light burns white–he takes it in. Heat pools in the pits of where tears should well up, but he holds it all in. Red stains the light–blood, fire, he doesn’t care. His head–his skin–his body throbs with power.  Power to end this.

Somewhere out there in the white expanse, a hollow ring becomes a keening howl. Conner blinks, and the heat in his eyes becomes just a cool wetness. He puts his hands back to the glass. His palms still find solid, but his fingertips find soft. Thick, rough, dull points press back into him, running short swipes of shallow trails over the skin of his chest. A wet gust of air hits Conner square in the nose, making his lips curl shut on reflex.

Conner opens his eyes. Wolf sniffs his breath so rapidly that it tickles the back of his throat, making him cough. Wolf pulls back, but his paws don’t leave Conner’s chest. Spots of blue, purple, and green still drift bruise-like in Conner’s vision, but he finds the side of Wolf’s neck and rubs his hand into Wolf’s fur.

“Thanks, Wolf.”

A groan starts rough in the middle of Wolf’s throat, dips low into his vocal range, then shoots high into a short, sharp whine. He slides his paws off of Conner’s chest and drops them to the floor, but his yellow eyes stay on Conner, crisp and clear in the dim light of the bedroom. The view outside the window is stars and darkness–up here, it always is.  The clock says it isn't morning; the automatic timer on his room lights agrees. Conner brings his eyes back down to Wolf and brings his nails down to the top of Wolf's chest. Wolf leans his head slightly to the side, but his hind leg stays flat against the floor, no kicking or scratching motion.

“Sorry,” Conner then says, reading judgment in Wolf’s stare. “I know.” He leans back and runs a hand through his own hair, feeling sweat collect under his fingernails. “Happens. Wakes you up, too, though, I know.”

Wolf maintains his stare and pads at the ground, the shifting weight between his two front paws making him wobble. He groans again, voice deep and assertive.

Conner furrows his brow. Wolf’s eyes stay insistent, but his tail swishes apprehensively. A ghost of anger flickers at the back of Conner’s head–the dream. The weird part. He had his anger at Dick. That was months ago, almost a year now. Things were different then. Things were still wrong.

The rest of the dream–a thought will take him back there. That stays where it belongs.

“It was just a bad dream,” Conner argues into Wolf’s determined face. He pats the top of Wolf’s head. Wolf tilts his head critically and out of Conner’s touch. Conner retracts his hand, but not his argument. “It happens. It’s not like...”

“I didn’t pull you into a memory, Conner,” M’gann said. “I really did… pull you into a nightmare. Or at least… something like it. It’s… from the scar–it’s warped–it’s how the damage manifests itself when my mind is–”

Conner's eyes go to the floor. "It's not like–"

"–Nnn–agh-ahhh-uh-uh–!"

Wolf turns, body stretched out straight towards the door, and lets out a gruff, decisive bark. A crackle of M'gann's voice lasts a second longer before a sharp, high gasp cuts straight into Conner's ears. Her heart from here reads panic–adrenaline hits his own.

“Like that,” Conner says, kicking the sheet off of his legs and jumping to his feet. He breezes past Wolf and smacks the door’s controls open–hops back several steps and reaches back for Wolf’s head. An ear twitches against the side of his hand. “Good boy,” Conner adds quickly, tapping fingertips to fur. He then sprints out the door.

He’s in her range. Silver walls stay silver walls for now. But through his ears, her voice is right there in his head–another almost-no! before she groans and gasps for breath. Conner rushes past the doors of several vacant rooms then halts himself at hers, catching himself with a still-sweaty hand against its cold, smooth surface. [I'm here,] he thinks to M'gann on reflex. The dread sets in even before the thought fades out. He already knows it won't reach her.

I'm here, Conner then mentally repeats to himself.

Now what.

The door doesn’t yield to the pressure of his hand. Locked. Her passcode at the Cave was–was the date that Cadmus started him in the pod, what everyone has always called a birthday. Last year, it passed without a word from her. If it became just numbers to her, it would have been easy to change.

Back then, too much to her would have been easy to change.

A hard thud, a soft thump–M’gann grunts with the sound of both like she feels it. Conner hits the door with his fist. No dent–he wasn't expecting one. He knows how hard he hit it. But the sheet of metal quivers in its frame, sending a high, sharp ring up the wall towards the ceiling. Conner waits. The ringing fades. Then M’gann gasps a stray gasp at nothing–nothing he can see, nothing he can reach–

Nothing he can stop.

“Nnghh-agh!”

“M’gann!” Conner shouts, hitting the door again and sending out a fresh chime. Still no dent–yet. He puts his palm to the door to end its rattle, then his head to the door to listen closer–the pounding of his own heart drowns hers out. He peers through the metal to her heat signature–she's on the bed or floating. Dim heat seeps past her edges–the bed. She drags a hand through sheets–Conner hears the rustle–and her hand leaves smears of yellow-green trailing behind it. She draws up a knee, shakes her head. Her fire-red chest throbs.

Enough, Conner thinks, blinking his eyes back right. His hand goes to the control pad. Its screen lights up with keys. Her old passcode, or emergency override. Wasted seconds, or guaranteed alarms.

"No!"

Having already tapped 0, Conner drops his hand from where it hovers over 3. M’gann's breath comes ragged on the other side of the door, but he can hear the purpose in each inhale, and some small relief in each exhale. Conner takes his own deep breath and steps back from the door. The control panel resets to a blank screen, leaving 2 and 1 and all the rest untouched.

She's awake. He could leave it here. She's woken herself up before–even did it in his arms. It wasn't him. Nothing he did–

He doesn't need to be here. She's dealt with this before. A few times, she'd told him–Conner scoffs at the thought. He doesn't know that, just because she said it–only, he heard this time. It hasn't happened on the Watchtower. Two and a half months. Then why last night–

–A hard, flat thwap hits Conner’s ears–her hand against a pillow or the mattress is his best guess. The next sound is a sob. M’gann’s voice breaks in pieces, in place, sobs muffling as they deepen–Conner looks back through the door. Yellow-green and orange, only spots of red–her form hunches over, curls in on itself–

His eyes come away hot as he blinks his vision out of infrared. That's it, he thinks, biting back a growl.

Conner knocks on her door: no fist, no shake, no dent. One knuckle. “M’gann.”

M’gann gasps, chokes–holds back a half-sob, breath shaking. “C-Conner?” she calls back.

Conner drops his hand back to his side and nods, forgetting she can’t see him. “Yeah, it’s me–”

“–Are you alright?”

Conner blinks at the door, processing the mild whiplash of her asking him that–again. He frowns, holding back another growl.

"Conner?"

The growl escapes him anyway. His fist swings at the seam of the door–he stops it, softens it, lets the side of it slide down the cold sheet of metal. His fingers flick toward the control panel, close enough to trigger its screen. He presses them flat against the door instead.

"Here," Conner calls back over the sound of M'gann's rising pulse and the feel in his chest of his own. "Now you. Out here. Now."

Another gasp, another sob–a cut-off, muffling the next. A hand to her mouth–he can tell. Conner's fingers curl against the door. He blinks her back into his vision–she’s upright, looking back at him. Face red-hot, she wipes her eyes. Conner’s eyes pull back to cold, gray metal, then drop down to his two bare feet.

“...I didn’t mean to sound like I'm–”

“I–I’m coming.”

Mad at you fades out in Conner's head–all his focus goes to sounds outside of it. The swipe of sheets, the padding of footfalls. A sniffle; a stray sob, quickly snuffed out by a hand. The rattle of something empty yet contained–a click. Uneasy breaths, a determined mmh!–hesitance laced into a moment of silence, save for the anxious undercurrent of her pulse. Then more footfalls, staying soft but growing louder. Another stop. Another shaky wisp of a breath, close enough now on the other side of the door to itch at Conner’s ears.

The door starts to give underneath Conner’s palm. Conner lifts his hand away. The door slides open. M’gann’s hand slips down from the controls on her side and crosses over her chest to clutch at her elbow.

Her skin is white.

Martian white.

A’ashenn white.

Her light gray gown sits dark on her skin, hanging up from one shoulder and down past the other. Her messy-strewn hair draws scratchy red lines along the sides of her white neck. Her freckles are gone, but bruise-like splotches stain her cheeks gray; she raises her head high enough for liquid light to peek out from under her bangs, and her eyes are red. Human red. They meet his then flick away, stare down the other end of the empty hall then come back to him. She holds his stare and breathes in deep through gray lips, a shiver of a sob lingering in her breath.

“...I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flicker at him, pitch-dark lashes batting at her white skin. Conner feels his jaw fall dumbfoundedly slack and pulls his mouth back shut.

“I tried to…” M’gann hugs both her arms to her chest. “...Exert influence, it… it didn’t work. But I… I really tried.” A white hand comes up to brush hair behind her ear. “Could–” Her voice cracks. “Could you tell?”

Conner blinks at her, feeling the knot in his brow tighten.

“You… didn’t link me,” he responds.

What? M’gann mouths. “B-but how–” She shakes her head. “Then–why are you… here?”

Conner points at his ear. “Heard you,” he says bluntly. He gestures with his thumb back toward his end of the hall. “Me and Wolf.”

“O-oh!” Eyes staying on him, M’gann reaches for the doorframe. She stops herself seconds before touching fingers down to it and wraps her arms around herself again. “T-that’s…”

“Are you… cold?” Conner asks, eyes still running over her white skin. M’gann blinks in confusion, brow furrowing, then cracks a smile over a half-gasp. A soft groan keeps the smile from turning into a laugh, however, and her hand goes to the space between her eyes, slides up to her forehead.

Her other hand smacks into the doorframe. Her fingers curl around its edge. She pants softly, heart beating with adrenaline, but as she brings her hand down from her face, her eyes drop to the floor, still swollen red and already heavy again. Conner’s hands twitch up on reflex, shaping themselves to cusp her by the waist. He stops them, stops himself–another reflex, Conner realizes, when he can’t think of why. He keeps them ready at his sides. “M’gann, what happened to–”

“–Do I scream?”

“What?”

“When I–” M’gann lays her head against her hand in the doorway. “When I’m having the… when I’m... in it. Could you have heard me without superhearing?” She winces. “I… ask because I… I need to know if–unngh!" Baring her teeth, brow quivering, M'gann rolls her forehead against the bones of her knuckles.

Conner’s hand meets the doorframe inches above hers with a soft thoom. Sweat rolls down the side of M'gann's face in his shadow. “M’gann, look at me.” He slides his hand down over hers, separating her head from it. Eyes still shut, M’gann gasps and stumbles back, reaching her other hand towards the other side of the frame. “Snap out of this,” Conner commands, catching her hand. “Look at me–”

–M’gann rips both her hands out of Conner’s touch. She locks her arms tight around her ribs, hiding her hands from him–drops close to the floor, but doesn’t fall. “Conner, please, I–” Stomping her heel, she forces herself back upright. Folds of her gown pull tight behind her arms–her hand slips down her stomach and reveals clenching white fingers. “–Can’t–just–could Gar have heard me screaming when I–”

–Conner’s hand flies back to the control panel. “I’m alerting the med bay.”

“No!”

M’gann falls to her knees. Her hands catch on the floor, white fingers splaying out. Panting hard, she squints up at Conner. “I’m just–hghh–tired, I–hghh–”

Conner drops down beside her. His knees thud against the floor; he hears it, barely feels it. M’gann’s whole body throbs like her heart, panting turned to shivering, eyes wrenched shut. Conner reaches for her face. His fingers touch down on a hot, damp cheek. “Ngh–” M’gann jerks her head away from him. Conner’s hand drops to her shoulder. M’gann gasps and dips her shoulder out of his touch. Conner’s hand curls around itself.

“Are you–” Conner’s throat goes tight. Her sleeve covers where he’d dug his fingers into her arm trying to wake her at the motel. He blinks away the thought of fingerprint bruises–gray on white, green on white, red hot on yellow-green–any color. “Why,” he makes himself ask aloud instead. “Why can’t I touch you?”

M’gann’s hand flies to her mouth, muffling the crack and shudder of a sob. “You–”

–Conner swallows. “Me?”

“N-no! No!” M’gann shakes her head. “Me! It’s not–safe. Not right now–”

“–M’gann, what does that even mea–”

“–The window. I-I–” Eyes still shut and hair falling in her face, M’gann gropes blindly at the doorframe. Her other hand pushes off from the floor. “I think–I think I know.” Slowly, M’gann starts to rise–her hand misses the doorframe, swipes then flails at air. Conner jumps up to catch her from below, but M’gann falls into the frame, finding it with her shoulder, and claws at the smooth outer wall for support. “What happened, I–can’t let it happen again, I–”

“–I’m alerting the med bay,” Conner growls, eyes darting from her to the control panel and then back to her.

“Please just let me go back to sleep.” M’gann lays her head against the frame. “Please. It can be over.” A crackle of a groan, and she pushes herself up an inch from the frame. “I can just… make, make it back to my bed, just… wake up… tomorrow… and… unhh…”

M’gann’s head falls back, white throat flashing under cascading hair. Conner catches her while she’s still on her feet, loops an arm around her waist and brings her head to his shoulder. “M’gann?” He notes his mouth barely an inch from her ear: no response. “M’gann!” Gripping the back of her head and keeping her propped up against himself, Conner shakes her. Her dangling arms slide over his arm at her waist, bumping it gently as they sway side to side.

She’s out.

Conner pushes her head up to the crook of his neck and holds it there as he scoops the rest of her up into his arms. The med bay remains a screen-press away. Conner fixes his eyes to the control panel and tries to imagine her bleeding. Burnt. Fractured. Poisoned. Whatever thought is strong enough to make him move his hands. Her psyche split in two, tearing itself apart–that should be enough, but his feet stay anchored to the floor, and his arms go stone-stiff.

“You're not… supposed to do anything,” M'gann had said softly, determinedly bringing her hand up to his shoulder from the space between their chests. “I mean there’s… nothing to do, it’s… already over.”

It’s not, Conner echoes back to the memory. His hand clenches around a fistful of her sleeve.

“Can you… trust me?” she'd said, her forehead warm and solid against his own. Sunlight filtered in through her curtain of hair; her presence flooded his mind even without a psychic touch. “I know that I’m needed, Conner. I know that I have a responsibility to not give up. I know what it does, losing someone–I’ve seen it enough now." She breathed out into their space, and he felt it in his chest. Her warmth. Her life. "I owe it to all of you to be stronger than this. I won’t… ever let myself stop fighting.”

M’gann lets out a deep sigh in his arms, hot air puffing onto the skin of his throat. A contented hum thrums from her lips into his collarbone. Her heart pulses against his chest in a soft and steady rhythm.

Conner lets his chin fall to the top of her head. Fine, he thinks, sighing back at her. This time.

He crosses the line of the door track between the hall and her room. Keeping her head pinned under his chin, he raises his knee to catch her legs as he slips his arm out from under them and turns on the lights. He slides his arm back under her legs, dropping his foot back to the floor. Her body stays ragdoll limp. Conner clutches it–her–tighter.

Her room is like a time capsule, gutted. Nothing in it could have possibly been salvaged from the Cave, but she’s filled it with replacements, familiar pieces in familiar places. Posters hang on smooth, flat metal, the shadows of craggy rock walls gone from around them. He tries not to look, tries not to think too much about it. Her bed sits nestled between twin nightstands–that’s his target. He steps down into star-spotted carpet, its fibers still factory-fresh under his feet.

Her bedsheets are the same as his, the Watchtower’s standard issue. The green-gray top sheet lies crumpled on the edge of the bed in a body-shaped knot. The white bottom sheet is wrought with twists and creases, signs of struggle. Conner lets M’gann back down to it legs first, then the rest of her, feeling her lips unstick from his skin. Hand to the mattress, letting her sink with it, he reaches over her to grab her pillow off the floor. His weight leaves the mattress, raising her back up. Pillow in his hand, he reaches for her head.

The pillow leaves his hand, bounces gently off her chest, and falls back to the floor.

The red of her hair seeps out around her head, but her a’ashenn skin makes her look translucent against the sheet, half-camouflaged or half-ready to slip right through the mattress.

It shouldn’t look so wrong.

From the moment he first saw it in his head, he never saw the wrongness–he saw truth. Saw her. Felt her shame, felt her fear–felt the echo of his own in what he was, what he was supposed to be, and understood. Waited. Kept waiting, some part of him, even after she’d shared it. Always held her when she used to sleepshift, helped her will herself back human or g’arrunn, whatever she needed to be–but kept waiting. Hoped, even, but only if it would be good–that if choosing it someday would be the right choice for her, she would make it.

This wasn’t a choice. He knows that. If he didn’t, he could see it like he wants to.

He could call her beautiful.

And she would be awake to hear it.

She’s too still now, face stonelike in its serenity. Conner runs a hand down her cheek. She breathes, heart beating. His hand goes down the length of her arm, stopping at her wrist. He keeps expecting cold, keeps thinking marble veins instead of bedsheet wrinkles, keeps hearing an electric hum at his feet instead of overhead. Poseidonis’s hall of heroes. The Grotto, one light brighter. Tula’s pale, hard face in her wreaths, seconds before the shroud hid it away. The ice blue halos her hologram cast around everyone–Wally and Artemis, hardened faces, knowing looks, hands locked tight–Garth, shadow behind him, the empty space where Kaldur should have been–M’gann, kneeling to hold Gar, her cloak draping over his shoulders–

It took days to get her alone again. Conner needed her to cry. He needed something to get it out of him, get the light out of his eyes. She wasn’t a hologram. Yet–yet, yet, yet. All he could think–who next. Not a question–an accusation. He spent those days silent, eyeing everyone, like all of them knew but him. Who next.

He finally found her again in their–her–bed. He reached out in the dark–she clung on, curled into him–became muscle and bone and skin and tears again, soaking his collar, wringing fingers at his back. [We're never going to lose each other like that.] All the trembling her in his arms, and yet her mental voice was steady. Her grip was resolute. [Never,] she’d said. [I promise.]

Conner shakes the years-old thoughts from his head. His hand goes back to M’gann’s face. The only cold is drying tears. He wipes away what’s left of them. It doesn’t help. She doesn’t feel it.

Her voice cuts fresh into his head, but only as a memory. "I don’t–”

No. Conner looks away, hand leaving her face, knuckles dragging through her hair until his fist slots into place at his side.

"I don't want to want to–"

–The space behind his eyes burns red. He clamps a hand around his head and holds back the thought, the memory, her voice whisper-quiet, her head drooping low, her eyes too soft, so tired–

"I don't want to want to–"

–No. No, no, no, no!

“...I don’t want to want to die anymore, Conner."

A sound sputters out of him he barely recognizes as his voice. The feel of a hand around his whole chest squeezes the breath out of him, crunches his ribs, leaves him wheezing, shaking. He bites down. His voice comes out again, this time halfway to a growl, but catching, quivering like a plucked string. He gulps out a breath, a hard, rubbery cough that bounces back into his throat. He hisses air back in through wet teeth. His lips curl in tight. His clenching knees drop him to the edge of the bed.

He knows what this is. He’s done it before. She’s done it a hundred times. Humans are born doing it, humans and–it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t born anything. It hurts. A wave knocks him forward. A fist curls in his gut. A tremor wrenches both his shoulders–he swallows it down. His voice kicks against the backs of his clenched teeth–it doesn’t matter if she hears it. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to feel it. His body doesn’t care–it trembles with power. He locks his arms around his ribs and bends, toes curling against the carpet, head nearly at his knees.

Liquid heat hangs at the edges of his eyelids; a single tear breaks loose. Even he can’t hear it land. The carpet soaks and swallows it up in an instant. His eyes sting with more, ready to fall–they can’t. He can’t let them. if he lets them, they won’t stop.

M’gann groans behind him. Conner hears her hand bounce against the mattress with a soft, dull thud. At his right, her heels slide in the sheets. Conner raises his head, holding his eyes shut as everything behind them shifts and settles back into place. He blinks away the tear-blurs and turns to look back at M’gann. M’gann’s brow furrows at something, and though only by the slightest nudges, her head shakes side to side. Her pulse starts to quicken.

The knots in Conner’s throat and chest all snap loose at once. “M’gann, wake up!”

M’gann jumps up, white limbs scrambling, eyes and mouth popping open in a gasp. She catches herself against the mattress and does a quick visual sweep of her surroundings. Her eyes land on him. “Conner?” Her heart slams in her chest. “Conner, are you alright?”

Conner steps back from the bed.

Thumpthumpthumpthump–

–M’gann reaches for his wrist then pulls her hand back. Her eyes dart across his face, widen in horror–

–Thumpthumpthump– 

“–Conner, what happened?”

No.

He can’t. Not another second. He shuts off the sound of her heart in his head. Fire burns in its place, running down his throat into his chest. His eyes go blisteringly dry–what’s in him won’t leak out again, just explode. He starts towards her desk–anywhere else. His feet leave the carpet, returning to the cold floor.

“Conner?”

No. He’ll leave. It’s better than the alternative. It won’t matter–none of it does. There’s nothing he can do.

“Conner, please, w-what–” She slides against the sheet. His eyes look at nothing but the wall, at empty, at solid, at contained. He stares at the metal and presses the thought of it against the feeling swelling inside him. Empty. Solid. Contained. Cold.

“Conner!”

Her breath trembles, teeters on a sob–slips right back into his ears. He pushes it out. No. Nothing else inside him. The swelling in his chest won’t stop. His eyes sweat and sting with tears. No.

“Conner, please just answer me," M’gann lets out on a whisper.

Something opens in his chest. The heat behind his eyes evaporates his would-be tears. Growling through his teeth, anger boiling up and blowing through him, Conner whips back around.  "M'gann, you were out for five minutes!"

M’gann’s eyes widen into pinpricks in her white face. Her hand floats up to curl into the hair hanging over her shoulder. "O-oh." She shrugs faintly, her eyes still wide but falling from his face to the foot of the bed. "It… felt restful enough."

Conner huffs. The tension doesn’t leave him, but just as quickly as it flared, the anger starts to drain away. M’gann’s hands drop to her thighs and wring into the hem of her gown. Even with his hearing pulled back into his head, he can see her steady her breath, her shoulders inching up then dropping as she stares down at the mattress. Something in his chest twists–if he lets himself feel it, it will wring out more tears. He forces a sigh instead.

“You don't know what's happening," Conner states through gritted teeth. His hand goes to the top of the chair at her desk, gripping it lightly for calm. His mind still feeds him the sound of splitting wood. He lets go of the chair, dropping his hand back to his side. “You thought you did, but you don’t.”

"N-no, I… I think I do know what happened. Last night. Why I linked you in my sleep." M'gann tucks her legs neatly beneath her and folds her hands together in her lap. She opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates, eyes darting away. She clears her throat. "...We were touching."

"What?"

“In the window! The way we…" A smoke-gray flush starts in her white face. "...Crammed ourselves in there. I… think that my subconscious mind… misinterpreted that closeness as an open invitation to–” She bites her lip. “Well, at least, it… it made it much more possible… I–I didn’t consider the possibility that–” She shakes her head. “I’m... sorry. I… don’t remember if I already said that. I know I keep… coming up with more things to apologize fo–”

“–So now I can never touch you again?” Conner coughs out, voice snagging on touch as he steps forward, squeezing his hands into fists at his sides.

A flicker of pain runs across M'gann's face. “N-no, I…” Her mouth again hangs open soundlessly.  “I don’t… mean that, necessarily, I… just mean when… when I’m, um…” She bounces lightly on the mattress as her hand flaps at air. “When there’s a risk of you…"  Her eyes fall to her hand, and it goes still.

“A risk of me what?” Conner says sharply.

M’gann doesn’t answer, just blinks at her hand.

Conner waits, then takes two steps closer. “M’gann.” M’gann keeps staring, statue-still. Marble white without the veins. Conner rushes to close the gap between him and the bed. “M’gann, answer me.”

M’gann squeezes her eyes shut and buries her hand behind her hip as a fist in the mattress. “I’m–” She winces, ducks her head under an invisible weight. “–Fine, Conner, really.” Her other hand curls and claws at her white knee, gray marks trailing up her skin but disappearing in an instant. “Th-these, um… episodes… to… to call them that, just… just take a lot out of me.” The last few words tumble out of her on a ragged breath, but she opens her eyes back up to him and flashes him a small, strained smile. “But what I meant was–”

“–How much more of you is it going to take?” Conner snaps at her, barely biting back a growl.  “What happens when it takes all of you?”

M’gann’s eyes widen at him. Conner fights the urge to dart his own away. He narrows them instead. I mean it, he thinks–if only at himself.

“It's… just an… expense of psychic energy,” M’gann says slowly, carefully, the effort of concentration wrinkling her brow. “One easily recovered just by a little sleep… really. After that, it’s… just like it was just a… normal… bad dream.” She shrugs faintly.  Her eyes flutter and slip shut under their own weight. Her head bobs in place. She forces her eyes back open on the swell of a deep breath; they fall right back into blinking heavy, and her breath turns short and shallow.. “I… I know that tomorrow is the big day–can–can we maybe talk about this after–”

“No.”

M’gann brings a hand up for her head to drop into. “Oh. Okay. Then just… let’s agree. I mean, the… the first part should be easy enough, but if… you’re awake and think I might be…” She trails off, goes silent. Conner’s eyes circle the fire-red halo in her hair until it and her whole body wobbles. She drops her hand from her head momentarily to catch herself, then brings it back up. “Since… you could tell, and–and maybe that’s good, just…” Another spell of silence. “Just… let it pass,” she then says, still awake. “It’s making you responsible, but–” She sways again. “But it’s safer, un… until I can fix–”

–Conner pulls M’gann’s hand from her head. M’gann’s heart jumps. Keeping hold of her hand, Conner sits down beside her. His weight on the mattress edge sends her sloping into him. With her free hand, she catches herself against his shoulder; the hand quickly leaves him. Her other hand in his grip gives a slight tug. “C-Conner, what are you…”

Conner slides his hand down to the bone of her white wrist and presses his thumb into the center of her palm, soft and solid. The pressure yields the feel of his own pulse in his hand first, but soon enough, her pulse answers back from underneath her white skin.

He knows what too tight is. Conner loosens his grip to the point of disconnecting, just holding his hand around hers and maintaining a pocket of warmth. He watches her fingers twitch with apprehension, consideration, her thumb hovering over his–her hand slides out from around his thumb and sinks into the mattress, taking on her weight.

Conner drops his hand to his thigh.

“Conner, please don’t–”

“–Don’t give me ‘safer,’” Conner says. “You’re not a bomb. And you’re not about to ‘fix’ this.” His eyes fall to his fists in his lap. “If you could, you already would have.”

“It’s…” M’gann shakes her head. “It’s just going to take time–”

“–You can’t wait that long. Neither can I. I’m part of this now. I told you that.”

“You don’t have to be if you just leave me a–”

“–No.” Conner sets his hand beside hers on the mattress, pulls the wrinkles that her fingers have wrung into the fabric into straight, taut lines. “I heard it tonight. Even without you linking me, I’m here. And if I hear it again, I’ll know what it is.”

“Can’t you just–forget it?”

A chill hits the back of Conner’s neck.

–A thin, needlelike heat at the back of his mind. Prickling; precise. Already deeper than a link she’d use to talk, and he just said he was done talking, that there wasn’t any talking to her anymore–

M’gann’s gasp slices out of her throat like a blade.

–For the night was all he really meant. He’s not done. None of this will be done until she stops. But the thought comes, and he thinks it: there might not be any more talking to her.

Conner feels her feeling him have the thought.

She wouldn't–

“Oh, no, no, nonononono–” M’gann wrings her hand into the side of her shaking head. “No, I–I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know exactly what that sounds like, I know how wrong, I promise I–” She lets out a shaky breath, wipes her eyes, and wrings both hands around the edge of the mattress instead. “I–know I need to be better than this. You’re–trying to help, I know that. And that–it–means so much to me, th-that I… that I’m…”

Conner waits. M’gann’s gaze hangs down at her white knees. Beads of liquid light collect along her lashes over the dark circles under her eyes, and her chest rises and falls with a quiet urgency. Her lips stay curled on the verge of a word. 

“...You’re what,” Conner says.

M’gann closes her mouth. Her eyes blink away the clinging tears–they break and trickle down her gray-flushed cheeks, but she keeps her breath steady, like a closed-off loop.

“Say it,” Conner says. “...You owe me.”

M’gann swallows. “The truth,” she responds, barely a question. Conner nods–barely an answer when she still won’t look at him, but out of the corner of her eye, she must see it, because she nods back.

“I’m… starting to… maybe… get a little… scared.”

“It’s okay.” M’gann says with a smile seconds before slipping back inside herself, away from him. “I woke up.”

Conner watches her now curl her body into a tight white knot, draw her knees up to her chest and wrap her arms around her legs. Scared. The word repeats itself in his head and pulls a knot into his throat. Scared.

“...You didn’t seem like it before,” Conner rasps out, curling and uncurling his hands in his lap.

“I… wasn’t before,” M’gann replies, chin set between her knees. “Not like this. When it was just me… I felt like I had it under control.”  Her chin slips behind her knees, muffling and amplifying her voice all at once. “Now it… feels like…”

“...You’re losing control.” His voice comes out weak, fragile. He swallows against his sandpaper throat, feeling weight on his tongue and in his chest.

“...I don’t know if it just feels like it,” M’gann responds, mouth reappearing from behind her knees. “You know now. I accidentally… made it your problem, too. And that matters to me. You matter… and I… I can’t control how you see it. I can’t control how you feel about it.” M’gann’s feet slide halfway down the side of the bed, heels digging in to keep her from falling further, and she keeps herself perched there, arms crossed in her lap. “And it’s–not that I want to try, but… when all it is is what’s inside me, that’s… a kind of control I’m losing over… well, me.” She looks back up at him with softly pleading eyes. “...Does that make sense?” she asks.

A headlight flash runs through Conner’s mind of Wolf’s eyes in the dark. The skin of his chest itches with the ghosts of rough paw pads. “...Makes sense, I guess,” he mutters back at M’gann.

M’gann hums in acknowledgement, mouth quirking at the corners into a suggestion of a smile. “It’s an ugly truth.” She looks down at the floor. “I don’t like it either. But…” Her hands tighten around her biceps, white fingers digging into white flesh. “What really scares me, I think, is… that I’m scaring you.”

You’re not starts at the back of Conner’s throat–his lips stay parted silently over his clenched teeth. He can’t say it–it isn’t true. He can recognize the feeling down to the beat of his own heart–knows panic in his hands, knows too tight and cold and shaking and every comforting, steadying fist he’s formed to help swallow it all down–knows paralysis and a mouth that won’t move and knots in his throat and tears–he pushes that last thought back. Almost crying at her bedside when she was just asleep–no one else had to see it for him to feel the shame of what it looked like. It wasn’t. It wasn’t what it looked like. “I’m not scared of you,” he says defiantly, towards his own thoughts as much as towards her. "Never have been.”

M’gann winces out a half-smile, lashes fluttering as her eyes go to the floor. “You… don’t have to say that.”

“I’ve been scared of losing you,” Conner then says, making M’gann’s breath hitch. She jolts up straight and meets his stare.  “Even to you.” Conner’s hands squeeze into fists, feeling empty no matter how deep his nails sink into his palms.  "To something in your mind that I can't get through to.”

M’gann’s eyes blink soft and sharp and liquid all at once. "Conner, please be… well, I already know you will, but–”

“–I’ll be honest,” Conner says, guessing the request before she says it.

For a moment, M'gann's eyes are just soft. “Thank you.” The sharpness comes back in. “How much is… this… like… that?"

A weight drops in Conner’s chest. He lets his eyes fall to her rug, tracing the new trail of stars that he’s already walked more than one way. Her rug at the Cave was purple, this one is blue–a concrete difference, he thinks–a self-distraction, he knows. "...I know you're not doing it on purpose," he settles on as a response, loosening his fists. "Like I told you last night, you weren't sorry enough."

"Am I… sorry enough now?"

"Yeah. I can tell." Conner looks back at M’gann. "That's what's scarin' me."

M’gann mouths a silent oh back at him. A faint hiss starts in her breath as her lips form around another familiar word. He can read it as clearly as if their minds were linked.

“You don’t wanna tell J’onn, fine,” Conner says, cutting off another sorry. “Let me take you to Dubbilex.”

M’gann shuts her mouth, bites her lip. Her feet drop from the edge of the bed to the floor. Her lashes flutter down at her white knees, her brow furrowing. “...I’m not going to risk anyone else’s mind on this,” she says lowly. Then she hums a warm smile up at him, cheeks curving under the crinkles of her eyes like always, even without color. “I know I don’t have to face this alone, Conner. And… I'm not, really. But I can. It’s my mind. I have to take back control of it myself.”

Conner holds her smile in his eyes and her words in his head and tries to make them feel real, give them weight, take them as something substantial–he can still see the ground crumbling around her in one form, and still see her slip right through his arms in another. His mouth clenches around a thought–on a link, he would have already thought it to her. Out loud, he has to make the words come out:

If it were anyone else, is that what you’d say?

M’gann is on her feet before he can decide to speak. “And I can start with this,” she says, flicking her white hands in the air as if to shake them dry. "I can't believe I'm sleep-shifting again." She rolls her eyes emphatically, one hand going to her hip and the other skirting the edge of a Hel-lo, Megan–she flips hair behind her shoulder and giggles instead.

You were already sleep-shifting, Conner thinks at her, remembering her shortened hair falling back long over his arm and her green-gray face going pale in the light. He's too slow to say it–M'gann is already on her toes, and the line between a'ashenn white and Megan Morse's skin is reaching up her calves, past her knees, disappearing under the hem of her gown. She drops back onto her heels and holds out her arms. The color starts in her fingertips and runs down to her elbows.

Conner’s eyes skip ahead to her face. M’gann smiles at him from a face still white. He looks back down, and the color has reached her collarbone. Meeting M’gann’s eyes again, he nods, waiting until she’s done to speak again.

The line snags halfway up her neck. In an instant, her skin snaps back to a'ashenn white. M'gann's heart thuds in her chest. She swallows visibly, shadows flickering clearly over her white throat. "Oh, I–" Her white cheeks flush gray. "Whoops!" she cheers, clapping her hands together. "That was–silly. Anyway…"

She starts again, holding out her hands. The color blooms out from the center of her chest this time, reaching past her shoulders and up her neck. Peach tinges her chin and jawline, then stops–recedes. Her freshly white chest throbs, then flushes as gray as her cheeks.

"This is–embarrassing, I–" M'gann shivers out an imitation of a laugh and clutches her elbows. Green bursts out from the pressure of her fingers like blood vessels breaking under her skin. The color inches its way up her arms, running up under her sleeves–a sliver of it reaches her exposed shoulder, but as soon as Conner sees it, it slips back under her sleeve. He blinks, and her arms are white again.

He looks back to her face. M’gann’s wide eyes beam back at him helplessly.  A familiar beat of panic hits his ears.

A familiar rush of adrenaline hits his own heart. Conner jumps to his feet. M'gann stumbles back several steps then whips around, putting her back to him. "My–concentration is a little…" Her hands go to the sides of her head. "I-I just need to–" She tries her feet again–the line of peach halts halfway up her calves and quivers like a plucked string. Her hair hides her neck, and her arms curl inward, but Conner can see her fingers turn green then white again as they knot into the sides of her head. M’gann growls and stomps her heel, but the white just slips back down to her ankles, and her whole body starts to tremble. "I-I just–need to–"

Conner lays his hand down on her shoulder. M'gann jolts under his touch, sucking in a deep breath. Her hands unlock from her head and drift down slowly, cautiously, as she lets out the breath. Keeping the ball of her shoulder rolling under his palm, M’gann turns to face him.

The only color in her face is still her bloodshot eyes. Tears roll freely, almost unnervingly steady down her gray cheeks. She holds her gray lips shut and stares into his eyes.

He’s not sure what she sees. There’s nothing he can say. If there was, he would have already said it. Some small, nagging part of him wants her just to stop it, to keep her skin a’ashenn–wants to run his hands across her skin and wants to call her beautiful–wants it to be that easy. Wants the truth to be that easy. Wants to see the truth in it, just as he always has in his mind.

There’s more truth in her tears and in her struggle to shift back. Her truth.

And his truth, he concedes to himself, is that he’d want to run his hands across her skin and call her beautiful no matter what form she was in. The thought is a resolution, but no comfort–her tears start to sting in his own eyes. His hands stay where they are, one at his side, one on her shoulder; he cusps her shoulder in his hand, clutches it tight.

M'gann’s eyes fall shut. Conner loosens his hold. But before he can let go, M’gann’s white hand falls warm and soft over the top of his. Conner feels her shoulder rise and fall under both their hands on the wave of another deep breath, hears the air rush in sharply through her nose and whisper out slowly through her parted lips. She bows her head. In a ripple–in a thought–her skin becomes hers again–she makes the choice, and her body responds. She’s Megan again.

M’gann looks up at him again with soft, clear amber eyes.

His Megan, Conner thinks.

He blinks at the thought.

Her Megan, too.

“Thank you,” M’gann says simply, smiling up at him gently–tiredly. The dark circles under her eyes are gone, but Conner knows that was a choice, too.

You were already sleepshifting, he starts to say again. His mouth twitches but doesn’t open. M’gann curls her hand around his, gently nudging his fingers up from her shoulder.

Her body lists to the left. Both his grip and hers tighten at once, locking their hands together. M'gann keeps her footing and smiles down at the floor.  "Well, it… it's late,” she says as she carefully pries her hand off from around his, leaving his limp fist hovering over her shoulder. She takes several steps back from his hand and smoothes hair behind her ear. Her brow scrunches apologetically. “You're going to be a zombie tomorrow."

Tomorrow. A knot forms in Conner’s throat. He swallows it down. His fist drops back to his side, curling tight. Only hours left to ask, or to decide that he’s not.

"...We are," he decides to say.

"Oh?" M’gann breaks from wiping her cheeks to shrug lightly. "Mm, there’s a chance." She gives a quick giggle and shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

Conner watches her stand and blink at him. The smile on her lips sinks into a straight line.  She sways in place anxiously, rubbing at her wrist.

Say it, Conner prods himself.

"Come with me."

M’gann’s heart skips a beat, and her cheeks go bright red. Her eyes dart down his body then back up to his face. “W-what?”

Conner can’t help but quirk his eyebrow up at her–he’s no less dressed now than he’s been the whole time. But his own cheeks flush hot when he realizes his error. Say more than that, he chides himself. That could have meant anything. “Tomorrow.”

M'gann's brow furrows in confusion. The hand at her wrist slides up to her elbow.

"Wh… why?" she asks.

Conner’s eyes dart off to her window. The pocket of space framed in its four corners is empty, no stars visible from where he’s standing.  “They said I could.” It's not a lie. He looks back to M’gann. She stares at him as helplessly as when her form was stuck. It's not a lie, but it's not an answer either, he realizes. “Said that I could bring a friend,” Conner tries again. “It’d be good for him, or–something,” he mumbles.

“But… after…” M’gann shakes her head. “Y-you could bring anyone then,” she says, smiling with a shrug. “Why me?”

Because I don't want to be alone. No. Because I don't want you to be alone. Maybe. Because you owe me after last night and tonight. That’s anger, and that’s easy–he could say it, and he knows it'd work. All he'd have to hear is one more sorry, then she wouldn't say more, wouldn't challenge him on anything. She'd be too ashamed.

The thought makes him sick the moment he thinks it.

“Are you…” M’gann swallows audibly. “...Thinking it would be like a…”

“What?”

M’gann shimmies her shoulders and nods to the side. “Well…”

Conner gulps.  His eyes escape back to her window. “Are you?”

“It… wouldn’t have to be unless we wanted it to be,” M’gann assures him. “I-I mean, if we–decided to call it that, that is–a-at any point, really, and to whatever extent you would want it to count as a–”

"Call it a mission," Conner blurts out. He meets M’gann’s eyes again. "And we don't do those solo."

“...Oh,” M'gann says blankly.

A pulse quickens in Conner’s head: his own.

It keeps pounding as M’gann brings herself back closer to him. "Honestly, Conner…” Her fingertips brush against the back of his hand. She shakes her head and hums to herself in determination, then gives his whole hand a light squeeze, rubbing her thumb over the back of his wrist. “I’d be… honored.” She lets go of his hand, then beams a smile up at him. “Thank you.”

I’m supposed to say that, Conner thinks back at her, but the warmth and softness of her eyes pulls him in. For a moment, all he can think about is falling.  “You’re, uh, you’re welcome,” he fumbles out instead.

“And you’re, um…” M’gann’s eyes widen then dart away, come back to him sharp and shallow. “...Welcome to change your mind, of course, between now and tomorr–”

“No.”

“Are you… sure…”

“Are you saying yes or no?” Conner snaps at her.

M’gann’s mouth pops open silently then presses into a wincing smile. “That’s a... fair question. Yes, Conner. Of course.”

Anger worked after all. Conner feels it curl back inside him, shrinking to a flicker in the pit of his stomach. He rubs the back of his neck. “...Sorry,” he mutters.

“N-no, I’m–” M’gann clamps her mouth shut, pressing her lips into a tight, straight line. She lets her lips go, and for a moment, their edges flash paler than her skin. “...Me, too,” she says softly.

Conner feels his own mouth loosen into a smile.

M’gann’s heart thumps hard in his ears.  “So, um, should we…?” she nods once towards her bed and once towards the door.

“Uh… yeah." Conner pulls his eyes away from her. M'gann's feet brush softly against the carpet, her heartbeat inching away from him–it's easier to listen than watch. His eyes wander to her desk, then the poster above it.

Martian Manhunter.

His eyes dart to blank wall. There’s privacy, and there’s a secret–J’onn would come if he knew. Conner knows that, and he knows she knows it, too. Just like Clark–like Superman came back for–

–A feather-soft thud rips Conner’s eyes away from the wall with the force of an explosion. A tiny oh! pops out from M’gann’s lips as she catches herself against the edge of the bed–she glances back at Conner and giggles, brushing hair behind her ear. With a small whoop!, she turns on a heel towards the head of the bed.

Feeling his mouth twitch into a half-smirk at her vocalizations, Conner lets his eyes go back to the poster. It’s a perfect match for the one she had at the Cave, he thinks, as if paper in plexiglass could somehow survive a bomb. But the closer he looks, the more he sees wrong with it: matte tape over its glossy corners, thumbtack holes under and around the tape, a jagged line of white through the otherwise empty green space at its bottom edge–nothing she would have ever let happen to hers, he knows. But the pressure of the glass holds the damage in, the two sides of the tear laid together so carefully that the white line barely shows.

Conner blinks his focus out of the frame. Less staring, more walking–he started out with ten hours ‘til, and he’s down to at most eight. They both are. That thought gets his feet moving; leaving barely feels like leaving when he knows she’ll be there, too, and at the same time, the longer he lingers, the closer he gets to taking it back:

He shouldn’t need her there.

It’s not need, it’s want, he argues to himself.  His other excuses are worth buying, too–they did say he could bring someone, and they did say meeting people is something good for babies. He's said it, he's doing it–she's doing it. It's done. His feet drag him to the other side of the room; his hands twitch at his sides. M’gann’s chair sticks out inches from her desk–it’s out of his way to tuck it in, but he does, pushing it forward with a single finger. Its laminate wood feet slide like butter over the metal floor and knock it hard enough into the desk to topple her stack of books. Conner growls and holds his hand out to keep them from falling to the floor–most stop at his palm, but the top book slides over the stack. He catches it last minute with the hook of his finger into its spine.

M’gann gasps. Something hard thumps and rattles where she is at the bed–her heart, and something else. Conner meets her eyes across the room; holding her thermos to her chest with both hands, she stares at him in horror.

"Uh." Conner blinks back at her, swallowing. "Sorry. I–"

“You didn’t see it, did you?” M'gann yelps. She then slaps her hand over her mouth. "I mean… um…"

Conner frowns, furrows his brow down at the book around his finger. A dozen colored tabs stick out from its white pages: pink, bright blue, light purple, neon yellow, green. He holds it by a page marked green. “‘Complex Trauma in Teens and Young Adults’?” he reads off from the cover.

“Oh, good.” M’gann wipes her forehead. Her hand leaves her bangs sticking to the side and out of place. She pulls the thermos away from her chest, and freckles of moisture stain the front of her gown.

Whatever he wasn’t supposed to see, it wasn’t a book. “What’s that,” Conner says pointedly, eyes narrowing at her thermos.

“Hm?” M’gann holds the thermos up inquiringly. She shakes it; something sloshes, but not much. Small ice cubes click inside it. “Oh–oh, chamomile, Conner,” M'gann says, rolling her eyes at him and grinning. “I thought it would… help! After… last night.” Her grin fades to a meek smile. She sets the thermos back down to the nightstand with a hollow clunk. “I think if anything, it… might have done the opposite. After all, it’s… not like I need help falling asleep.” She bites her lip. “I should have bought a better thermos, too, it… didn’t keep it very cool,” she adds under her breath. “Maybe warm next time?”

“M’gann.”

M’gann’s eyes flicker up to him. The darkness seeps back out under them, less stark than on white skin, but he sees it. He sees the weight fall into her eyelids again, the red break into her sclera–sees marble and snow and hologram light–

“I see Dinah the day after tomorrow, Conner," M'gann says. "That will help. Trust me, it… already has, so much.”

Too many questions pile up in Conner’s mouth. Then why aren’t you better?  Then how were you before? Then why didn’t I know? Then why didn’t you tell me–

–Conner bites his tongue and swallows all the questions down, save for one. “...Does she know?”

M’gann blinks once but doesn’t speak, just tilts her head slightly to the side. It’s an expression he’s seen Wolf give a thousand times: confusion. Curiosity. Patience.

“...What happened last night,” Conner clarifies. “And that I know now, too.”

M’gann blinks off to the side and rubs her lips together. “...Yes,” she responds, nodding decisively.

“What did she say?”

M’gann’s cheeks flush, and worry lines scrawl across her forehead. “We… haven’t really had a chance to talk about it in depth…”

Conner swallows. “Right. Besides–privacy and all that, I guess,” he fumbles out. His finger doesn’t leave the book.

“Uh–” M’gann steps forward, holding up her hand then curling it inward, hooking it into the hair over her shoulder. “The, um… the touching thing was… my idea, my, um… a theory, anyway, once I had some time to think about it… if that’s what you were wondering. Dinah and I haven’t gone over… causes and solutions yet. O-or, not solutions, but…” She draws in a deep breath and sighs it out. “‘Strategies’ is… what I should say.”

Conner doesn't respond, just sets the book in his hand back atop the stack. He starts to slip his finger out from its center pages; his eyes fixate on the green tab. Slowly, carefully, using only one more finger than he’s already stuck in, he lifts the book open, letting its front half flutter then droop over the edge of the book underneath it.

“Well, um... goodnight!” M'gann cheers over the soft thump of her body dropping back down to the bed. White legs flicker at the edge of Conner’s vision–he looks up, and they’re Caucasian, not a’ashenn. He shuts the book. He then pushes the stack of books from the edge of the desk to the wall for stability, accidentally catching her empty tote bag by its stiff handles and sliding it out of place. Beneath it, something crackles.

M’gann gasps again. Her heart is back to beating too fast in Conner's head, setting his own heart speeding aimlessly. Panic, adrenaline–

“Uh-uh—" M'gann jumps up from the bed.  "Y-you can just leave it, really, it’s fine, it–”

He’s tired of anger–but it’s easy.

“What is it?” Conner growls at M’gann. The ball of his fist hits the cushion of the paperback book with a targeted, determinedly soft thud. “What am I not supposed to see now?” His voice comes out louder that time–he hears it hit the wall beside his ear and echo back at him, a puff of heat with a metallic chime. The wrongness sets in–she’s letting him do this. He’s letting himself do this. It’s just her desk–it’s her room, and he did let himself in. She made him have to let himself in by collapsing in his arms, just like she made him have to see her the damage in her mind by dragging him into it–

And he made her explain it. And he ran to her side the moment he heard her fighting it. And he’s here. And he’s still here. Guilt, blame, guilt, blame–back and forth, back and forth. All it does is dig a hole in his head. He doesn't think like this–he can't.

He’s thinking like her.

M’gann’s hands curl at her stomach, fingers rubbing and twitching in silence. Conner doesn’t let his eyes go higher.

“...Forget it,” he breathes out, stepping back from her desk and turning toward the door.

M’gann gasps, gulps–Conner shuts it off in his head. He doesn’t need to hear. He doesn’t need to know. He takes a step.

“Forget…”

M’gann’s voice still stops him. He doesn’t look back, just waits.

Either a second passes, or an hour. A year. His thinning patience crackles like whatever's on her desk. “Forget I asked,” Conner says to end the wait.

“Oh.” M’gann starts the clock on another round of silence. Conner’s hands clench at his sides. His shoulders pull back and tighten like a wall is at his back. His lips begin to curl back. He huffs out through his nose to vent the heat behind his eyes.

“Tomorrow, too?” M’gann then asks.

The heat leaves him in a flash, drains out of his cheeks and down his spine. He’s left with cold.

“Because... I would understand,” M’gann says.

Conner sighs. It doesn’t loosen the knot in his chest–a breath only pulls it tighter, makes it sharp, makes it sting. Of course you would, he almost says.

The crackle at her desk becomes a clap of thunder, a shot of lightning through his head. Paper rustles–something thicker thwups inside it between tight, closed walls. M’gann hums. Her feet pad softly against the floor, but he barely hears them–the paper announces her steps instead, shooting off firecrackers inside his ears.

He tunes out the sounds and turns to look instead. M’gann holds out a paper bag, glossy and red. “At least take it," she says, eyes glossy and red, too. "You don’t have to open it now, i-it’s four days early–er–more like three, now, but… in a way, it’s… also almost a year overdue.”

Conner holds out his hand, more on reflex than thought. M’gann slides the bag’s smooth ribbon handles over his fingers. Paper scratches at his ears as a soft, light weight drops against his wrist.

Whatever it is, he knows it.

“Well… there it is.” M’gann’s hands move to clap together, but her fingers curl like wilting flowers, and she drops them to her sides instead, then tucks them behind her back. She pins her lower lip under her teeth then lets it go to smile at him, face beaming like soft sunlight. “...Happy birthday.”

The bag nearly slides off of Conner's hand. He catches it by its handles, crumpling the ribbons into hard, thin strips. “That’s it?” he blurts out.

M'gann's cheeks go pink. “I-I–I thought it would be good not to go overboard, especially since–well, since we–um–since we're not–e-exactly–”

“I meant that’s all it was,” Conner says.  ”That you were trying to hide from me.”

M’gann’s bright eyes widen then look down at the floor. “...This time, right?” She looks back up at him and smiles meekly. “I… wanted it to be a surprise. A… good one, hopefully?”

“I don’t like surprises,” Conner says. He means it as a consolation, even an apology: you didn’t do it wrong. I did it wrong. I’m bad at this.  M’gann takes it with a twinge in her brow and the quirk of her mouth into a lopsided frown. “I mean…” I’m really bad at this.  “...Sometimes,” he tries to add.

“It made Megan happy to throw them for you,” Wendy had said, “so secretly, you loved it.”

“...Depends on who’s throwin’ them,” Conner says as softly as he can, managing a smile.

M’gann gives him another Wolf-like head tilt.

“Or–giving them.” Conner rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s late.”

M’gann giggles. “That’s okay.”

“Thanks,” Conner says simply, lifting the bag at her. The paper inside crackles, but nothing slides or rattles. He shakes it once just to test it. Whatever is in it feels fitted to the bottom, like it won’t budge until he opens it.

M’gann eyes it and him with delight. Her knuckles press eagerly against the underside of her chin. “Do you want a hint?”

“No,” Conner responds on reflex. Maybe, he thinks the moment he’s said it. Yes–no, he decides in his head, this time with certainty. Let her keep some of the surprise.

“It’s… probably pretty obvious if you really think about it,” M’gann says. She looks at him with eyebrows raised and her mouth pinned shut into a barely-stifled smile.

The dimpling in her cheeks makes his own cheeks ache. Wendy was right–about all of it.

“Hey, I said no,” he pretends to whine, smiling at his own answer.

M’gann erupts into sputtering, cackling laughter. She throws her head forward then back, arms crossing and hands clutching at her ribs, pulling at her gown. The laughter shakes her body, shakes the walls–the room shrinks.  Her voice rings off every surface–she’s there. He’s here. The gap feels like a hair’s breadth.

He wants her on his skin. His body wants her on his skin. Barefoot in his boxers, he hasn’t felt so close to naked until now. It isn’t cold–his skin blisters, stings. She looks at him with eyes still creased in laughter, and all of her shimmers like a light–and he can feel her in his arms, in his hands, just by looking at her, as real and solid as the floor under his feet. Every memory of her there before. Every want of her there again, endlessly repeating–every heartbeat in his chest is another reach for her, another thought of her–

“–I don’t… want to want to die anymore, Conner.”

Her body in his arms, limp and ghost-white.

“Tell–tell me how I’m supposed to believe that, M’gann, because I need to know.”

Her body in his arms, panting and shaking, sobbing, eyes alight and empty–

“–Can you… trust me?”

M’gann straightens her back and flips hair behind her shoulder, laughter fading to snickering and then to just breath. The curves of her cheeks slowly fall back flat, her white, toothy smile closing up into a soft pink line. Her eyes shine–laughter-tears, he thinks.

His eyes burn. His heart locks tight in his chest, too tight to feel it, hear it, let in a breath.

M’gann blinks at him, flickering–blurring. Conner squeezes at the handles of the bag in his hand, too light and thin to feel like anything. His skin feels more than bare–it feels open. Seeping, trickling–he can’t–he can’t–he can’t–

–If he lets it out now, it won’t stop.

Conner makes himself breathe. Makes his eyes clear. It’s his body. He has to take control.

M’gann’s lips part again, but not in a smile.

“Is… something wrong?” she asks.

Conner swallows. "Nothing." He shakes the bag again just to make the noise. "Thanks."

M’gann nods, ducking her head and tilting it to the side to view his face at a different angle. Her brow furrows as her eyes narrow–rather than scrutinizing, her expression looks pained. “Are you… sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be,” Conner huffs out, eyes shooting off into space–not to her window, but to the poster above her bed. Another replica of a relic: a picture of a view of Earth from just outside its atmosphere. She could see the real thing out of any window up here; the photo was there in her room at the Cave, so the new one is there here and now. Back to normal. A joke. Something he doesn’t understand.

“Well, I… don’t want to keep you here any longer.” By the pull of her voice and the shuffle of her feet, Conner hears M’gann step back from him. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Conner’s eyes dart back to her. “Me?”

M’gann’s mouth drops open silently. She curls her lips back shut and pops up onto her toes, keeping her arms tucked behind her back. “...We?”

“I didn’t take it back,” Conner says.

M’gann gasps softly.

“I mean I…” Both his hands curl into fists at his sides–one has the bag, one has nothing. Both feel empty. He looks down at the slick red, deep red–thinks of blood, and shakes his head. “I didn’t… mean to, anyway.”

“Oh, I thought… you had changed your mind,” M’gann says. “Since I… did make you upset–”

“You didn’t,” Conner interjects, shooting her a look. Oops.

“Conner, can I… ask you a question?”

Conner gulps. “Yeah?”

“Are you… nervous… about tomorrow?”

Conner’s eyes fall back on printed stars behind plexiglass.  “No.”

“Are you… mmn.” Out of the corner of his eye, Conner watches M’gann shake her head. “Never mind. I don’t mean to pry.” She’s quiet for a moment, then softly, under her breath, she lets out a quick giggle.

“What?”

“Oh, I… didn’t realize you would hear that," M'gann admits. She giggles again, louder this time, as if to catch him up on any note of it that he might have missed the first time. “I was just thinking about an old saying, ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ and then I thought about… you and what you said about idioms last night.” She snorts. “I’m sure that it meant something at some point, but it’s such a strange phrase now.”

“Am I the horse?” Conner asks, prompting another snort from M'gann.

"Should I… check your mouth?" M'gann jokes.

Conner's mouth twitches. He tries to press it down into a frown, but it pops up at the corners. He lets himself breathe a laugh through his nose instead. “You gave me a gift.”

“You've invited me! That is a gift. I just–hopefully won’t start trying to talk you out of it.”

Conner's eyes drop back down to the bag. Her gift to him. Whatever it is, it's his now. He's not giving it back. “...Why would you?” he asks.

M’gann bites her lip. “Maybe because… I’m a little nervous, too–uhhp!–to... see your family again,” she says with a shaky laugh. “It’s… been over a year, and… there’s a new member to see now.” She pulls her hands together and rubs a thumb over the bone of her wrist. “Are you sure I won’t be intruding?”

“They said I could bring a friend,” Conner reiterates. “You’re a friend.”

"Mm-hmm…"

"You gonna argue with that?"

“Mm-mm.” M’gann shakes her head. “We’re friends and teammates. And I like being both.”

“Roommates, too,” Conner says with a shrug.

“That’s three! And, uh…”

Conner's eyes fall to her reflection on the floor, a bright, hazy smear tinged with red light from his bag. “...More than that,” he says.

“...Exes.”

Conner looks up, and M’gann’s eyes lock onto his, sharp and wide–looking for answers. Approval. Evaluating his reaction by every detail, every second; he holds his breath, and she holds hers. For a moment, all Conner can hear is hearts.

“Yeah,” he responds, if only to relieve them both. It’s not not an answer, but it’s not enough–not for him. He shakes the bag and watches red flicker around her feet. More than that, he wants to repeat, but she'll take it as another prompt, he knows, and he doesn't want another word for what they are. He wants words for how he feels.

There's one, but it doesn't work. He thought it did. It got them out, brought them back to reality–it is reality. It's his. I love you, Conner thinks to her, knowing she won't hear. Even out loud, it wouldn't matter. It's not enough.

Friends, roommates, teammates, exes, he repeats back in his head. “Guess that means you mean a lot to me,” he mutters half-jokingly, feigning sarcasm. He means what he said. He means more than it, but the understatement is the joke, he thinks. She'll get it. She'll laugh. They'll move on.

M’gann’s heart skips a beat. The rest of her stays silent–no laugh, not even a gasp. Just a deep breath. Conner meets her eyes again; they soften into liquid light, tingeing with red. Oh. Conner swallows. Oh, no. He’s bad at joking, too. He opens his mouth to take it back–take back the joke and only the joke, somehow, how–

"You, too, Conner," M'gann responds, voice barely above a whisper. A small smile presses into her lips and pushes warmth into his skin, pushes through him, cell by cell. She’s sunlight. He feels her in his bones. He stares at her until his eyes sting.

So stop it, he thinks to her, forgetting the joke. Stop making yourself hurt. Stop acting like you deserve it.

M'gann's eyes slowly droop to the bag in Conner's hand. "I… hope you like it," she says, lashes fluttering. She squeezes her eyes shut then blinks them open, smiling back up at Conner apologetically. "Goodnight."

“Uh…”

M’gann takes several steps past him, stops, and turns to smile at him again. Conner’s eyes run down her form one more time, tracing the creases under her eyes, slipping down her arms and off her curling fingertips, following her legs down to the floor, watching her raise a foot and cross it behind the other at the ankle. It’s time to leave, her body tells him. Part of him agrees–he knows he has to leave, so some time would be the time. He already was leaving–already almost left more than once. Already decided to stay more than once. His feet don’t move, not forward–they tense against the floor.

He makes one foot rise, and then the other. One step, two steps–by the third step, it’s real. He’s leaving. It’s over. M’gann walks a step ahead and brings him to her door. She presses the panel beside it, and the metal sheet slides away, ripping open a hole into a world of bright white. Conner blinks and it’s gray again, silver and solid. His eyes sting from the outside now–nothing boiling up inside him, just too much air. Too much time open.

He looks to M’gann at his side. She crosses her arms–holds herself–and lays her head against the wall, inches from the doorframe. Her eyes on him are tired but awake, more thoughts flickering behind them than he could begin to track. His own thoughts go simple: reflex, instinct, what feels right in his body–the hand nearest to her moves to cusp her arm, stroke its thumb over her shoulder.

The hand already isn’t empty, he remembers just as the gift bag slides to one fingertip. He catches it before it falls, crumpling the body of it in his grasping hand. His heart jumps–hers doesn’t, not in the second he can hear it over the sound of paper walls crashing in his ears. Creases don’t leave the paper as he returns his fingers to its handle. Conner holds the bag up for both himself and M’gann to see, and light fractures across its glossy surface, pieces of red.

M’gann hums a small laugh, her cheeks dimpling. “Nothing’s broken,” she says raspily. “That’s hint number two.”

Conner lowers the bag back to his side. His eyes fall on nothing. A seam in the floor of the hallway. The very edge of M’gann’s hanging sleeve. “Okay,” he says flatly.

He steps out into the hall. Eyes keeping hold of M’gann’s sleeve, he turns, using it to pull himself back to her. M’gann pushes herself up from the wall by one hand, and by the same hand, keeps herself propped up against it. The flickering behind her eyes stops; the look she gives him now is simple, and easy to read. She’s about to fall asleep. Smiling still, she nods at him. Her eyes leave him for her door’s controls.

“Wait.”

M’gann looks back at him, blinking in mild surprise.

“...It wasn’t a joke,” Conner says to her.

M’gann puts the sun back in her eyes, in her smile, holds it within her flushing freckled cheeks. “I know.” Her lip twitches, quivers; she blinks down at the floor and then back up at him. “Thank you,” she says.

All Conner hears is another I’m sorry.

The door slides shut between them. The world in his eyes goes blank.

He blinks, and the polish and seams return. Conner lays his empty hand against the door just to feel solid, cold. Something to convince him to move. She’s in there, he’s out here. She’s okay–as much as she can be. As much as he can make her. There’s nothing else to do. He can leave.

The sound and feel of a thump against the door makes Conner’s breath catch in his throat.

M’gann hums on the other side and sniffles out a breath of a laugh. Footsteps, slow and methodical, trail away from the door, softer with each step, and then the slipping of sheets comes, like waves hitting a distant shore. M’gann lets out a muffled sigh, and then nothing.

Not nothing. A heartbeat.

She’s asleep. He lets himself wait for a moment, listening for a break. Setting the pattern in his head, checking it against what he knows: sleep, sleep, sleep. Still sleep. Still sleep. Sleep.

Sleep. His eyes drop shut. His body doesn’t sway–it straightens, stiffens, holds him upright and in place.

His eyes snap open. No.

He gets his feet moving again. The bag in his hand bounces against the side of his leg as he walks, all crinkles and thwaps. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she got him a paper bag full of tissue paper, like April Fools’ came early. It’s enough of a thought to keep him awake until he reaches his door–doorway, he finds once he’s back there. He hadn’t bothered to shut it.

Cast in the long, broad strip of light from the hall, and then in the stretched silhouette of Conner’s body, Wolf raises his head from the center of Conner’s bed. Conner puts his hands to his hips, letting the bag hang off his wrist. Wolf grumbles and lowers his head back to the bed, ears twitching and eyes staying open. Conner slips the bag back into his hand. “Fine,” he says to Wolf as he steps inside the room. “But I’m not takin’ the floor.”

Conner taps the room lights back to daylight bright. Wolf huffs out a wet snort through his nose. “S’only for a moment,” Conner tells Wolf as he walks the gift bag over to his desk–his desk, and his mess. Black blobs litter its surface. He slides the shirts aside with the swoop of one hand. At least one shirt falls to the floor–Conner hears the thwup, but doesn’t look. Tomorrow, he figures, or even later. It doesn’t matter. He sets M’gann’s gift at the center of his desk.

Behind it stands the blue and red bag, taller and wider, but with the same stiff, glossy outside, same slick ribbon handles, and based on what he's heard, the same thin, crinkled paper inside. If he’s not careful, he’ll grab the wrong one in–seven and a half hours, his clock tells him on a glance. Okay, he thinks, stepping back from the desk. Moment over.

A new countdown starts in his head: four days. Er, more like three now, M’gann said. Three days.

But in a way, it’s also almost a year overdue.

Conner’s first cheat is with his eyes. Infrared turns up nothing–nothing discernable, anyway. A blue and green mass, hints of yellow–heat from his grip lingering on its handles but almost faded from the body of the bag. He blinks his vision back to normal, unsure what he was expecting.

He dips his fingers into the bag next, feeling past the paper. Just a touch, and he can wait three days. One more hint–something obvious, something hard to break, and what. His hand reaches the bottom and presses down into something cool, soft, and firm. He lifts his hand an inch, drags two fingers across the surface of whatever he's landed on. Soft turns to slick and then soft again. His fingers follow the edges. He traces an S.

He knows exactly what it is.

Conner crumples the tissue paper in his fist and throws it out of the bag, letting it drift and bounce and tumble across the floor. Wolf groans in suspicion–Conner doesn't listen. His hand returns to the bag. He pinches the cloth between two fingertips, lifting it up with surgical precision. The empty bag tips over on the desk, a flash of red behind a small black curtain.

It's his shirt. The red S-Shield burns bright at its center. The fabric around it has never seen the sun, or anything–not grease, bleach, claws, or a blade.  The seams are stitched tight in factory-pressed rows; he stretches the shirt between his hands, and nothing gapes open.

He tucks his thumbs into the hem and rolls the shirt up in his hands. The world goes dark inside it for a moment, but then his head is through. He starts one arm and feels his body stretch the fabric to its limit, sees the puckering around its seams.

Nothing snaps, but he freezes. He didn’t think to check the size. His hand curls carefully against his chest to slip into the other sleeve. He raises his arms and rolls the shirt down past his pecs.

The black cloth splits down the center of his chest before it can even reach the end of his torso. Threads stick out from the torn edges like hairs, scratching at his skin. He pinches one on either side of the split between his thumb and forefinger and tries to pull them back together, tie them like his bootstrings–they’re long enough to itch, long enough to look wrong, but too short to tie. He growls. His chest is bare where there should be an S-Shield. He got these to fix that. He’s supposed to be Super–

“Eh, cheer up, Supey, there’s plenty more where that came from!” Wally’s hand falls to his shoulder and pats the shirt sleeve sagging off of it. Superboy cranes his neck to find crumbs clinging to the cloth. He frowns harder, brow furrowing. He stares at the crumbs, and at the ragged cloth–still no heat vision. He rips the ruined shirt off his body instead, tossing it to the floor.

“Dad’s shirt was big on you,” Wally says, mouth full, more crumbs flying out on his breath. The crunching sets Superboy’s teeth on edge–he’ll have to get used to it, he reminds himself. That’s how eating really works. There are powers he doesn't have, but he does have superhearing–he has to hear things less, hear talking without the lip smacks, hear silence without the breath. Wally swallows. The sound is a relief until Wally crumples up the chip bag and shoves it in his pocket–Superboy winces, shutting his eyes–the ceiling could be caving in for all he knows, but he knows that it isn’t–three, almost four days now outside of his pod, and he thought he could control this.

He has to control this.

“And that supersuit the bad guys had you in was made of tougher stuff,” Wally continues–Superboy tunes his hearing to the level of his voice. “And with superstrength–” Wally pokes Superboy’s chest–”you can’t just yank these on. They’re gonna be, like, skin-tight!“ Wally tosses Superboy another shirt from the pile on the bed. Superboy catches it against his chest, holds it out and opens it up–wrong side. Blank. He grumbles as he balls the shirt up in his hands and flips it around.

Stretching it back out, he finds the S-Shield staring back at him.

The shirt ends at Conner’s hips. She remembered his size; his size hasn’t changed. He smooths the fabric down over his stomach. It’s softer than he remembers a new shirt could be. On the blank wall above his desk, he’s a blurred smear of a shadow. Skin and shirt, no face, barely even the red of the Shield. It’s no mirror.

“Bet girls are gonna like it, though,” Wally assures him, smirking with hands on his hips in their shared reflection. Wally then raises one arm and rolls his long sleeve back, exposing his freckled bicep–he flexes it then looks at Superboy’s reflection. Frowning, he rolls his sleeve back down. “Anyway, let’s get movin’, Bats is finally giving us the verdict.” Wally’s hand hits his back–physically, Superboy barely feels it, but warmth sparks inside his chest. He looks at himself in the mirror and runs a hand up from his stomach to his sternum. This is his shirt. This is him.

“First day of the rest of our lives, Supey,” Wally says, already at the door. The knob turns–the latch releases. Creaking on its hinges, the door opens.

Conner brings his hand up to his chest, feeling an S-Shield with no cracks or stitches, no signs of age. His heart beats under it, inside it, just like it always has. Always will. He’s always–going to–be–this–

Conner chokes–gulps–shudders. His heart wrings itself tight in his chest–his stomach clenches, pulls back into his ribs–burning starts in his eyes. He knows what it isn’t–he knows what it is. No, he tells his body, his mind, whatever needs to hear it. Stop it. His hand goes to his ribs. A fistful of shirt finds its way into his hand. The heat in his eyes starts to prickle, leak out over his lashes. No. I don’t want to.

His fingers dig in deeper–nails against skin, fibers stretching and thinning. Easy to break: the shirt, his skin. Cut through to blood, all of it out, all of him–out of this–just a clench, a pull, a rip–

–A creak, and Wolf stands, tail swishing in a flash of white at the corner of Conner’s eye. Conner breathes out–gasps out, finding himself panting for air. The fingers at his ribs uncurl. The cloth stays creased from his grip, but nothing scratches at his skin, and no air pokes through. He runs his hand down his stomach and looks down past the S-Shield at flat black.

Conner gathers the shirt up at its hem slowly, one finger at a time taking on a new fold. His eyes stay on the floor as he slides the shirt up past his ribs; his hands cross at the wrists, then switch sides to hold. Tucking his chin to his chest and bending at the waist, he slips the shirt up over his head. He releases its folds to pluck it off his wrists by the ends of the sleeves instead, keeping the right side out.

It’s all but weightless in his hands, but drapes soft over his palms, his wrists. He holds it open to the Shield burning bright and dark all at once at its center.

Around the Shield, he folds the shirt into the shape of a box that fits into the palm of his hand.

His eyes go to blue and red. He slides the rest of his shirts to the floor and lays the new shirt down on his desk. The red bag lies empty and open beside it. The blue-and-red bag stands tall and full. Conner pushes the red bag down flat, pressing it shut.

“I… hope you like it,” M’gann said, eyes hovering at the edge of exhaustion.

Conner swallows, adrenaline throbbing inside his chest, but a chill running up his spine.

It's perfect.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Bellanaris [Part 2]

N.B: The "Your hands are cold" moment is a call back to chapter 3 in Harellan. Though the plot about the Ring of Obliteration can be skipped over, it's the main plot behind "Not Some Fanciful Story", so read that first if you don't want spoilers (though I haven't posted the final chapter yet)! Summary: Lavellan is given a clue by Varric that Solas might have been in Rivain, searching for an artefact (takes place before "The Missing" comic). While there, she's betrayed by her Rivaini informant who is revealed to be a cult leader seeking revenge against "the Dread Wolf's Whore"--who he discovered was the Inquisitor because of old sketches Solas had left behind in the deep roads. The ring is destroyed in an effort to break the blood-magic-fueled block against the Fade. [Part 1] [AO3]

They had returned to the Fade, slipping past its membrane with ease.

It seemed impossible, and yet there they were, finally in that other world he had once wished for their spirits to be joined.

A torrent of emotions washed through her, wringing her spirit at the final crescendo.

Revas emerged disoriented.

Grateful for the sense of touch, her arm was still anchored to Solas’ shoulder when she stumbled backwards. He’d been quick to pull her towards him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face under her chin.

Solas was bent so awkwardly, his weight growing heavier with each shuddering breath, his form sinking deeper into her embrace.

She had almost forgotten how tall he was. Perhaps he had grown taller in the years they’d been apart. Perhaps she’d shrunk.

From over his shoulder, she could see how different the Fade was from how she remembered it, how strange it was.

Not blinding as it had been the first time she’d been drawn in. And not tainted by the crippling fear and confusion of the Fear demon's powers the last time they’d both journeyed into it, side by side. But a different thing altogether.

This iteration of the Fade still affected her to her very core, but it was stripped of all the dangers she'd anticipated. No giant spiders or wailing spirits. Somehow new, faded beyond compare, but imbued with something ephemeral, just as powerful as any fear, maybe more so. It wasn’t frightening but familiar. Like coming home without the memory of ever having one. A warped understanding of belonging. One that was trying to reach out through the clamour of confusion and the ringing madness of concern. A snuffed flame trying hard to burn as it used to once before, a long, long time ago.

These were his sensations that were passing through her. The repressed emotions left behind from the one-man war still waging under his armour. Obstacles of atonement.

The entire expanse was exactly as he’d phrased it. Empty. Greyed. There wasn’t the weight of mist in the air, the dryness of summer, the crisp coolness of a breeze. It was simply still. An expanse of colourless light and shifting space.

They stood on what looked to be the solid ground of a floating ruin with incredible similarity to that of Skyhold.

As the Veil closed behind them—the last one they’d ever close together, side by side—she heard Solas sigh in deliverance before he sunk to his knees, slowly pulling her down with him.

Once they were grounded, Revas turned to him, panicked. She opened her mouth to speak, to utter his name, call to her heart, but she was unsure if her voice would carry. Then, as he wrapped his arms around his frame, his breathing turning ragged, eyes shining with what should have been the glassy violet of a lavender field, she found her focal point. Doubts be damned.

She placed her hand upon his cheek, meaning to wipe the tears that had begun to flow as ardently as a waterfall, but the image had conjured that same feeling she had in Crestwood; when she’d been left alone with her reflection, bare-faced, hurt. That had been one of the few times in her life when the only solace for her pain had been to sit in the misery.

Suddenly, a large halla statue rose from a sea of empty void, bringing with it the faintest of colour. The kind of crystal blue that had built the waters of Crestwood.

Without knowing how, she managed to make her will manifest in the Fade.

Solas, too weak and bloodied to notice this, let out another heart-wrenching sob. He could not keep up the guise any longer, he could not feign being the ageless beacon of determination she had always seen him as.

With little effort, he collapsed onto her, his head resting against her folded thighs.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into his ear before placing a kiss to his temple, and then to his cheek. “You fought long enough. We both did. Rest now.”

“Vhen’an… I am so sorry,” he whimpered, hand gripping her sides with such strength, such care. “All those years you spent… All the things I never got a chance to tell you. So much pain! And I am the cause.”

“And despite it all, we endured.”

“But I turned away!” he shrunk further into himself, knees rising up to press closer to his chest. He had shut his eyes too tight, like a child afraid.

When she was younger, she had often imagined grabbing him by the cuff, bitter and enraged, demanding answers to all the questions that refused to leave her in the dead of night. Why was it so easy for him to leave? Was she not enough? Did he dream of her? But now, now there was just the old pain, the subtle sting.

“Did you? Truly?” she tucked her fingers under her jaw and pulled his face towards her. “Open your eyes, my love.”

He did. They became transfixed on the scars across her face, the ones she had gotten after he’d removed the vallaslin, after she’d adorned the Ring of Obliteration from Dorian, after Varric’s first letter that led her to Rivain, when the Fade had been closed to her.

Revas fought the urge to turn away and hide the discomfort which resided behind each line and curve that had been made by the necromancer’s blade. Though it had been years, the trauma lingered. On bad days, it made it difficult to face old friends or walk past polished mirrors. On the good days, it was the scar she used to remind herself that all things can heal with time given the right impulse.

Refusing to hide behind her hair as she had done out of habit throughout the years, Revas’ index finger trembled above the curling lines scarred into her forehead, “It happened a long time ago.”

“I know,” he sighed, tears rolling on either side of his face. He balled his hand into a fist in the air, biting down hard enough to form tension in his jaw. And then another sob eked out, “I should have been there to stop it…”

“Don’t say that,” she kept her voice steadfast in the face of the brewing storm inside her. Seeing pain was a daily occurrence for her, but nothing cut her as deeply as seeing it come from him. O, how foolish she’d been when she was younger and full of anger. How foolish indeed, if this was what she had once wished upon him, Yet, she had been right. For them to share these moments, the dinan’shiral had to break him. Lightly, she explained: “Without these scars, I might not have been able to share this with you. You see, I know you never truly turned away from me. You showed me that.”

Revas thought back to Rivain and the Cave of Misfortune, to the strange figure that had interrupted Regillus' ritual that attempted to tap into remnants of the Fade magic she had once possessed. The same figure who’d taken an arrow to the side as Sera unknowingly stuck Revas’ saviour with an arrow. A scar she was sure she’d find if Solas removed his armour.

“There was a time when I had been trapped,” she recounted. “A stranger in a strange land, seeking remnants of her past, trusting those I knew little of, risking the little time of peace the world felt obliged to offer me. And when I found it, what I had been unintentionally searching for—that love you undoubtedly carried, etched so beautifully on countless pieces of paper—I knew I had found what I was looking for. Proof. Proof that you still cared. And when I awoke on that ritual table, alive, able to dream again… I knew it had been you who saved me. I do not know how you sensed me with the ring, but I am grateful you did. You gave me more time to be with those I loved. You made me realise my mistakes. And I could only hope to do the same for you… before it was too late.”

“A spirit such as yours could not remain shrouded from me forever,” he reached up to touch a stray curl that had slipped from behind her ear. “I hear your song, even when there is nothing but the quiet. Rare and marvellous… the life we could have shared had I not been so blinded by my duty—”

“There is nothing but time for us now,” she reassured him. “This is the end of the dinan’shiral, for us both. This journey, these first steps that have never been shared between two of our kind before, we make our own. La ghilana ma var lath. We choose this. Together. And together we will form a bright and lasting new world. Even here.”

“How can you be so certain?” he sighed softly.

“Look,” she gestured to the world slowly forming around them.

A pantheon of shining new pathways and hopeful young colours bled into the grey. Muted, ever-so-slightly fading, but still filled with the promise of blooming deeper, perhaps into shades of things other than regret, that was the first sign. Perhaps the green of envy or joy would creep as the vines did in Skyhold. Then maybe the yellow of warmth, like Josephine’s silk dresses, would sway with the passing of time. And then red of passion and blood—desire and rage—that colour she was certain would bleed through. Beyond that, the possibilities were endless.

Where he saw nothing, Lavellan saw a canvas still forming.  

“Try as I might,” he shuddered, enraptured at the golden shimmer that formed far off in the horizon, “I could never manifest colour.”

Softly, she pressed her lips to his, imbuing their kiss with every emotion she carried, good and bad, and the sky above them turned a shade brighter.

“This is the power of our love.”

Hearing those words, seeing the introductions of colour, Solas relented whatever reservations he may have had and simply wept under the shelter of his lover’s gaze.