#writingarchive

[joeyborovicka]

[joeyborovicka]

[joeyborovicka]

BAD METAPHORS

Her hair was like wax paper.

He had a face like the back of his head.

Her fingers were jalapeno poppers, her voice a persimmon tree slated for chopping.

Her eyes were two little Elvis Presley commemorative stamps.

Night fell like a steak.

She held her wine glass the way a snake plays an accordion.

She felt like a half-eaten twizzler pull and peel.

Her head was a deck of cards, her heart a canasta tournament postponed due to lack of interest.

Her head was a frying pan, her heart a soiled box spring.

Her head was an ashtray, her heart a toddler with a smoker’s cough.

Bad luck followed him like an alpaca.

Her heart was a charlie brown mug in the communal cabinet of a staff lunchroom, washed at an unknown time in the past, but not with care.

He had a disco ball for a heart.

There was no going back after falling in love with her. It would've been like trying to put a cake back together after it was all sliced up.

His eyes were licorice sticks dipped in honey, deep fried and rolled in powdered sugar, stuffed into a gym sock and hurled with brutal force toward a swarm of sewer rats in love.

Summer came and went like a car.

She was a scrunchie wrapped around the ponytail of my heart.

All the world's a staple gun.

[joeyborovicka]

Two pm, December

the day already feels over

shadows are lying and

I ain't inclined to go nowhere.

[joeyborovicka]

Home, Obsolete Home

Another town, far from home, Saw a house that looked like my own

Knocked on the door, nobody there, No signs of life anywhere

Went inside to look around, Got the feeling I would not be found

Walls were the same, floors and ceiling too, But what happened in between was something new

Room to room each one stranger than before, You bet your life I kept one eye on the door

Didn't touch a thing it was enough just to look, Saw some sights that had me shook

Made it all the way to the back lot, Must admit my senses were shot

Figured I best be moving on, My feet were stuck I sank into the lawn

Now other people come drifting through, I tell em hey man I was once like you

[joeyborovicka]

[sherlockreinhold]

I Believe You

The Mutant Registration Act is passed, and the school had to be evacuated. Someone gets left behind...

Logan/Rogue AU

-

Frost swirled weaved its way through his hair and around his head as Logan continued his long trek through the snow, grunting with the effort it took to complete every other step. Thinking his foot had found purchase in the two-foot-high pile of snowy whiteness, he found himself to be utterly mistaken as the heel of his boot slipped on a patch of hidden ice. His entire balance became disrupted, and soon he was tumbling to the ground, accidentally sending the girl who had been clinging to his shoulders flying off his back as well. The young woman let out a yelp of surprise as she landed fast first in the freezing expanse, and in an instant Logan was back on his feet and running to her side. 

 “Marie,” he said, turning the girl gently onto her back, brushing flakes of gentle white from her hair. “Marie, hey… hey there,” he said with a smile as her eyes fluttered open again. “Hey, kid, c’mon. We’re almost there.” 

 “Logan…” She croaked, her throat parched and most likely stripped dry from the subzero temperatures. The wind had easily pierced through her thick parka by now, and by the way she was shivering the coat was just as effective being on her body as if it were on the ground. “Logan, I can’t, I can’t,” she whimpered. The man shushed her gently, reaching up to wipe away her tears before they fell down her cheeks and became frozen to her skin. 

“It’s just ahead, we’re nearly there, alright?” He said. “We’ve faced worse. Much worse, yeah?” He asked, waiting to see her nod. “There’s a good girl. Come on, up you go again,” He said, reaching under her arms and standing her upright. Logan watched as the girl swayed on her own two feet, despite the fact his body was still supporting hers. “Gloves on?” 

“N-Nice and t-t-tight,” Marie stuttered. Logan nodded, pressing his lips briefly to her forehead before helping her back up onto his back. He himself could feel the chill biting viciously at his exposed cheeks and fingers, but that was not his first concern. Logan knew his body would heal. While they both knew Marie could draw on his energy to heal herself if necessary, it wasn’t a risk they could take. The amount of time he would need to recover was far longer than the amount of time she could survive out here in this cold. So, he pressed on. 

“Just another mile or two,” he called back to her over the sound of the whipping wind. Marie nestled herself between Logan’s shoulders, resting her head on the taut leather of his jacket.  

“W-w-why are they doing this t-t-t-to us-s-s?” She asked in that hoarse voice of hers. Logan had to physically suppress the urge to growl out his response.  

“They don’t trust us, kid. That’s… That’s just how these things go.” 

“B-but why don’t t-they j-just kill us-s-s?” She whispered.  

“I think that’s the goal,” The man replied. When there was no response, he figured that the young woman was either too tired or too disheartened to continue her line of questioning. Or both. 

It was almost dark by the time the two of them arrived at the lodge. Taking care to keep Marie from slipping off his back, Logan shifted his weight to support her with one arm. He raised the other to knock a specific rhythm out against the heavy oak door, but before he even finished it was wrenched open. A gust of light and warmth rushed out to greet him, and Logan nearly fell to his knees in relief. Had he not been so concerned for the well-being of woman on his back, he might have done just that. 

“Erik, take Marie,” said an accented voice, as British and well educated as it ever was. “Careful, gently now, make sure not to touch her,” he said. Logan watched as the edges of his vision became tinged with black, the exhaustion he had been fighting off for the better part of forty-eight hours finally coming back to bite him. He quickly became disoriented as he felt the weight being literally lifted from his back, and felt his claws break through his frostbitten skin on instinct. “Logan, calm down, it’s alright. You’re safe, both of you. Erik, take Marie to the last guestroom, and help me…” 

But Logan didn’t hear anything else. Marie was safe, that was all he needed to know, as was evident by the fact that ten seconds later he crashed to the floor, and the room went black. 

Waking up wasn’t nearly as easy as falling asleep. He groaned with the effort of peeling his eyes open, finding himself facing the white pained ceiling. It was still dark out when he woke, though the snow was coming down so hard it lit up the outside world like the early morning. He sighed softly, thinking over the past three days.  

The passing of the Mutant Registration Act had come as quite a shock, especially seeing as how congress wasn’t supposed to even vote on the bill for another two years at least. As a result, no one was ready. Not the school, not the X-Men, not even the Brotherhood. In the heat of the moment, the desperate need to survive overwhelmed and past grudges or petty disagreements. Disowned siblings became family once more, friendships were rekindled, and differences were settled within the course of two hours as evacuation became the only focus of everyone’s shared attention. 

The young ones had been first. Hank had flown all of the children out of the school in the jet, or at least as many as he could take. The X-Men were left behind to battle the United States ground forces, who quickly caught on to the Xavier School’s little escape regime, while the other faculty members sneaked out the remaining students to a safe location way up in northern Canada. Once everyone was evacuated, Charles and Erik led the way to the safe house for the others, taking a role call once they arrived.  

“Wait a minute,” Bobby had said, “where’s Rogue?” 

Logan closed his eyes again, fighting the onslaught of memories. Marie had stayed behind as a sort of insurance, refusing to leave until she was sure all of her friends had gotten away. It worked-until she herself was left behind. Logan had to travel by foot to go and find her, seeing as traveling by jet or any other method would be easily detected. For two days he had walked through the snow, only to find the girl herself crumpled into a ball under a tree along the pathway they had taken, already half-frozen.  

“I-I was t-t-trying to follow” 

“You were trying to die! …Get on my back, I’ll carry you.” 

“B-but-“ 

“No buts.” 

It was unsettling to think what would have happened to the girl had Logan not happened to stumble upon her. Had she been out there alone any longer… He shuddered, and beside him he felt something move. 

“Hey,” he heard the voice of the woman herself croak, then fall into a coughing fit. 

“Easy, easy…” Logan said, rubbing her back through the parka that was still bundled tightly around Marie’s shoulders. “What were you thinking, kid? Don’t answer, just… Of all the stupid things…” 

The two of them fell into silence. Logan never did stop rubbing Marie’s back, and she never said anything in opposition to it. Instead, she curled up further into his side, making sure that her gloves were still securely over her fingers before she hesitantly wrapped an arm around the man’s torso. After what felt like ages, just when Logan believed the girl might have fallen back asleep, she spoke again. 

“Nothing’s ever going to be the same.” 

“Yeah…” Logan agreed. 

“We’ll always be running.” 

“Probably.” 

“What will they do to us, when they catch us?” 

“Hey, hey, that’s enough-“ 

“What will they do to me?” 

“It won’t come to that, it won’t… I won’t let it come to that,” Logan said. “I didn’t let them hurt you then, did I?” 

“No, but-“ 

“So I’m sure as hell not gonna let them hurt you now, okay?” 

“You could die.”

“It’s kind of a habit,” he grumbled. He smirked when he felt her shoulders shake with faint laughter. “Besides, what you really have to look out for is metal brain.” 

“Do you think he’s actually changed?” 

“Not a bit.” 

Silence again. Then, Logan spoke once more.  

“But Charles-the professor… he does. And that’s what matters because those two… They’re our best hope. They’re the world’s best hope.” 

Marie nodded silently beside him, snuggling ever so slightly closer to his side. 

“I believe you.”

[sherlockreinhold]

I Will Protect You

“I distantly recall requesting ten silk scarves for this,” the seductive undertone to the lilting voice drifting from his bed drew a shudder from the man just entering his quarters, finding himself to be in no way alone. “Then again, I suppose I can make an excuse just this time. I’m sure such a demand would be hard to meet on the salary of a Commander.”

Cullen jumped softly in the darkness, attempting as best he could to will away the sudden goose flesh he had acquired. The voice of the Tevene Mage was closer now, much closer. He could feel the warm breath on his neck, a giveaway to the proximity of the lips that descended on the Commander’s neck a minute later. They nearly ripped a moan right from his throat, the man’s eyes rolling back as hands so hot they almost burned began caressing his sides and front. Lower and lower they went with each move, every passing second. Dorian had always been rather good at seducing his partner in… Well, in every situation. 

“Dorian, I have… The papers need signed or-"oh, Maker, don’t do that, ”-or Josephine will have my head,“ he attempted protesting. Still, he knew his efforts were in vain as he felt himself being pulled over to bed. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they moved step by step, following the hand tugging him along all too willingly. 

"Mm, that’s always far easier to do in the daylight, wouldn’t you agree?” Came the reply, as well as the soft creak of the mattress as Cullen fell back into the covers of his bed. Maddening, that’s what this Mage was. Driving him right to the edge like this when there were things to be done, things that were necessary, things that the Commander couldn’t stop even if he wanted to…

That single thought seemed to push away Cullen’s reservations as he let the buckles of his vambraces come undone, followed closely by his cloak and breastplate. He held himself together quite nicely as the Mage undressed him slowly, agonizingly slowly, despite his weakening protests of having work to complete. Yet everything crumbled apart when Dorian dropped to his knees before the blonde, bending to unbuckle the boots, but not before lifting the ex-Templar’s undershirt just enough to press a string of kisses from his navel all the way to the waistband of his breeches. 

That did it.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Cullen pushed Dorian back by the shoulders, making him loose his balance on bent knee and tumble rather gracelessly to the floor. Now sprawled on his back, the Mage opened his mouth to complain before he found himself cut off by a gasp instead. The Commander had not hesitated to drop down and climb on top of his partner, bodies meshed together, grinding his hips against the once-noble man below him. For someone who had once been so high on the social food chain, Dorian seemed to enjoy being treated rather roughly, as was evident both now and that night when Cullen had retired to his chambers only to find the Mage had gotten into the Inquisition’s supply of rope. Quite literally, at that. 

The world seemed to spin around them for a moment. It took the Commander a moment to realize that said spinning had been the result of his own actions, which led to Dorian now laying on his desk instead of the hard, freezing floor. The Mage smirked up at his eager partner when candles, quills, and dozens of documents were sent tumbling to the floor, crinkling in on themselves.

“Oh, Commander, after Josephine took all of that time to write those up,” he sighed almost wistfully, mocking the complaints that Cullen had voiced earlier. The other simply laughed.

“I’ll tell her I left them out in the rain. They tend to do that when they get wet,” he said. Dorian groaned at the awful pun, which transformed into a sweet moan as kisses were trailed softly down his neck. Oh, Cullen, such a gentle lover he could be at times. But… The odd tingling sensation left behind by the fingers running down the man’s sides was new. New and very, very strange. The Mage pushed up on the other’s chest only to find his arms being held gently but firmly over his head. When he felt teeth sink into his lower lip, Dorian pulled his head to the side to escape the sudden roughness, tearing open a small cut in his mouth that began to bleed fresh and strong. 

“Fasta vass,” he cursed, wrenching his arms free from Cullen’s grip and backing away quickly. The torches lining the walls on the Commander’s office sprung to life as the Mage’s power spiked in self-defense. He steadied himself against the wall as the Templar’s nullification ability reacted, causing a small yet audible “pop” to resonate all around. Still, even as the room spun around him Dorian never took his eyes off of his partner, suspicion flashing in the eternal storm that raged in the grey irises. “Care to explain yourself?”

Cullen murmured something in reply, but it was too soft to be heard properly. He refused to meet the rather cross glare he was receiving. It wasn’t as if he needed to look up to see the accusations being thrown at him silently. The way Cullen so pointedly avoided his lover’s gaze surely made him seem guilty as sin itself, so much so that he could feel the tension in the air ease as Dorian softened. 

“You’re not telling me something.”

“I said I was sorry and I don’t know what came over me-”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The tone the Mage had taken was callous, demanding the truth and nothing more. The sudden harshness to the man’s voice forced the Ferelden to look up at last, cursing himself under his breath as their eyes locked. Trapped, that’s what Cullen was, pinned to the spot by Dorian’s look. After almost a whole minute of silence, the latter turned away.

“You said there would be no more secrets.”

“I know, and I meant it, really I did! Ask me anything, anything at all, I’ll tell you.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“…Anything but that?”

“Unbelievable,” Dorian scoffed, turning on heel and walking toward the door, grabbing his top robe off of the Commander’s chair. Cullen groaned, running a hand through his hair as he ran for the door first, cutting off his partner’s escape. That left him directly in the way of a rather powerful pyromancer whose glare alone could have incinerated the blonde to nothing more than a pile of worthless ash. 

If only that were the case.

Thankfully, the Mage seemed to not take notice of the faint pained expression on Cullen’s face. He rolled his eyes, stepping back with his arms crossed over his chest. “If you’re quite finished?”

“Wait…” the Commander began, hesitating. Dorian raised an eyebrow yet did not move a muscle as he waited for some sort of explanation. For a moment, it seemed as though there was a war raging on in the Commander’s eyes. Was he faced with some sort of dilemma? After a while, Cullen’s shoulders sagged, and he looked just as weary as he did at the end of a battle. “I…” He heaved a great sigh before looking up at the other man again. The sincerity in his features was almost overwhelming. “I love you.”

So simple a statement, yet it was enough to stun the Mage into silence for once in his life. He softened at last as Cullen continued, biting at his lower lip. Odd, he had never done that before. Dorian elected to ignore it, chalking it up to his nervousness. The sharp, metallic taste of his own blood still registered on his tongue from Cullen’s earlier roughness.

“I know what this is,” the Commander went on to say, hand instinctually raising to rest itself on the pommel of a sword that wasn’t there. His fingers hovered for a moment, almost unsure of what to do with themselves before falling to rest loosely at his side once more. “I know what we are. Stress relief, isn’t that right? Another person to sleep with at night, so maybe we both don’t have to feel alone. This wasn’t our choice, it’s what we’re forced to choose. Not just you and I, but the Inquisitor as well, and Josephine and the Iron Bull and…” Cullen hesitated, taking a deep breath before a small, uneasy smile graced his lips. “We only have what we were given. I’m sure that a Templar from Ferelden wasn’t your idea of a future. It’s alright, mine wasn’t a Mage from Tevinter who cheats at chess.  But, for what it’s worth, I think it worked out alright. More than alright, I think it worked out just right. Call it what you want, fate or destiny, it doesn’t matter, but the chances of both you and I being right here, right now… I’m positive it has to be more than just luck. I don’t want you to leave, but I don’t want to tell you all this because I know where you stand on the subject and I’m not trying to-“

A pair of lips cut off Cullen’s speech, which had taken a nosedive into a nervous ramble. Dorian waited until he felt the blonde relax before finally pulling away, their foreheads resting together. He gave a half smile.

“I don’t think you do.” “Don’t think I do what?”

“Know where I stand on the subject,” the Mage whispered. “Not anymore, that is,” he said. Dorian’s heart was beating furiously in his chest, the confession having been almost the exact same words he himself had been struggling to say to the blonde for the past few weeks. “I love you, Cullen,” he said, grinning happily as their mouths met once again excitedly.

The kiss was soft and slow, the pyromancer’s hands coming up to cup Cullen’s face, warming his cheeks while the Commander’s arms snaked around Dorian’s waist to draw him closer. The energy between them was no longer destructive or defensive as it had been mere minutes ago. Now it was gentle, caressing them both as the lights began to dim once more. Their tongues mingled together after a short while, and Dorian could taste both his blood and Cullen’s in his mouth now. When at last they pulled away, both men were more breathless than they had ever been before. The Mage drew closer to his lover, resting his head on Cullen’s shoulder while the blonde himself took a shuddering breath, muscles tense. Dorian was about to question it when he felt the hold on his waist tighten. He simply smiled and closed his eyes, leaning into the blonde, completely content.

“I love you, too, Dorian,” the man repeated, “and that’s why I’ll protect you…”  Removing one arm, he drew something from his pocket. The scent of burning flesh filled the air, accompanied by an odd sizzling. Cullen’s hand travelled up the pyromancer’s chest, and for a moment it seemed as though he was going to place a hand over his partner’s heart. “…No matter what.”

Dorian’s eyes flew open and his lips parted in a silent scream as a red hot piece of scrap metal bent into a sunburst pattern was pressed to his neck. His body went rigid in pain and shock as he felt a kiss being pressed to his cheek, as well as whispers of “I’m sorry”, “please forgive me”, and “you’re safer this way” being spoken into his ear. The world around him lurched violently and the Mage suddenly became heavier in Cullen’s arms. Dorian could do nothing but dig his fingers into the front of the Commander’s coat in agony, thumbnails scraping against the metal chest plate. Tremors wracked his body, which soon escalated into full convulsions as pain shot through his body. The sensation could only be described as someone tearing his body apart.  

Soon, the torches in the room began to extinguish themselves. One by one they flickered out, lifeless darkness taking their place. When at last the veilfire had disappeared, the candles were next. One by one they went, in equal intervals. As Dorian drifted further and further from the Fade, more and more candle flames blinked out of existence. It was like some sick countdown that Cullen couldn’t take his eyes away from. He watched as his lover was plunged into emotional emptiness, and when the last candle flame winked out, regret overwhelmed him. The makeshift brand of Tranquility, still agonizingly hot against Cullen’s palm, dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor. The noise echoed through his chambers like the clang of a bell. What had he done?  

“Dorian?” he asked cautiously, pulling away slightly from the unconscious man to look at him. “Can you hear me?”

For a second, there was no response. Then, slowly, his eyelids began to flutter. Cullen watched with baited breath, hoping he had failed, praying that something had gone wrong and when those eyes opened they would be full of anger, betrayal, that he would see the storm rage on in irises the color of darkened rain clouds. He wanted Dorian to yell at him, scream at the top of his lungs as he condemned Cullen for his betrayal and accused him of being the monster he truly was…

“Can I assist you in some way?”

The Commander’s heart plummeted when he heard the emptiness in the Mage’s voice. When at last he was able to look into his eyes again, he could see no trace of emotion, no swirling of clouds, no sparks of lightning within them. There was no passion, no life. The color wasn’t right, either. They were a shade lighter than they ought to be, and as flat as the cover of a book. There was no depth, no hope, no…

No love.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen whispered, brushing his fingers through Dorian’s hair and down his cheek. The man he knew would have pushed him away, chastised him for mussing his appearance. The new Dorian did nothing, only stared back blankly. “I’m so, so-“

“You shouldn’t waste your breath, he can’t understand you.”

The deep voice that resonated from behind the Commander made him stiffen. He held the Mage, no, the Tranquil man closer to himself. He tried as hard as he could to ignore the magister’s words, focusing only on the person in his arms. Corypheus continued anyway.

“He doesn’t know why you’re apologizing, you’re only hurting him more by trying to make him understand something he doesn’t.”

“I never wanted this. I only wanted to keep him safe, I didn’t know…” Cullen snapped back, nuzzling his nose against Dorian’s cheek. There was no reaction to his gesture, all he received was an empty stare.  

“You wanted to keep him safe. He would have turned against you in the end, you would have been forced to kill him otherwise. You knew what you were doing, Cullen. This isn’t the first time.”

“I never knew what it was like. All those Mages, all those people. The Order-“ he gasped in pain when the darkspawn magister walked around in front of him and raised a hand. Cullen’s eyes briefly glowed scarlet, and shards of glowing red stone ripped through his chest plate, right where his heart was. It continued to grow until the Red Templar coughed up blood. Corypheus released him at last.

“I need a Commander for my army, not a weak-willed Templar. I have enough of those,” he said, turning to leave. Cullen, who had been hunched over desperately trying to catch his breath, lurched forward. He nearly knocked over Dorian, who had gotten up already and was trying to help his “master”.

“W-wait!” the blonde said, taking Dorian’s hand and searching his empty eyes once more. At last, he looked away. “You said you would fix him, when this is over. You promised that if I did this and led your army, Dorian would be safe. Can you reverse this?”

“I am able to reverse the process,” Corypheus said. His lips shifted into a cruel smirk. “But whether I will or not depends on how quickly I receive results,” he said. Cullen held his tongue, nodding once.  

“When do we strike?” he asked. How quickly Corypheus received results? What did that mean? The siege of Skyhold had been in the works for months, and by his and Samson’s calculations the attack could last anywhere from five to eight days with heavy casualties. “Fast results” didn’t exist in terms of a battle this large. Cullen felt his lover’s fingers twitch as he held them with his own, almost like a silent plea not to go through with this. Sparing one last glance at Dorian, he turned away, watching as Corypheus vanished in a cloud of smoke with one word ringing around the stone room.

“Dawn.”

[sherlockreinhold]

GreySummers Witch Hunter AU

In which Scott is a hunter and Jean is a witch. 

I actually originally wrote this while thinking of James Marsden’s Scott Summers and Sophie Turner’s Jean Grey, so apologies for the apparent age difference.

--

Scott found her huddled outside of the tent, sitting on a rotting log a little ways out toward the rest of the forest. In the distance, near the bright warmth of the center fire, the sounds of celebration and merriment could be heard. Another successful raid, this time with no casualties. The others would most likely be out until daybreak, glasses held as high as their spirits.  

Every step closer to the girl took Scott further away from that inviting familiarity of brotherhood. He wanted to crash his own drink against Hank's, to reminisce on the old days with Charles, to banter with Logan instead of their usual cold belittlement because tonight they were not just fighters: they were victors.  

She was muttering to herself again, back hunched over and turned resolutely towards the encampment. Even from this distance Scott could see the way that her breath frosted through the nighttime chill, little white crystals of ice swirling up towards the night sky before dispersing into nothingness. Scott came to a halt for a moment, still a dozen or so paces away, and sighed. He glanced up at the darkness above. Every now and again he could see the faint glimmer of starlight through the thick canopy of the trees.  

There was a faint crackling sound that originated seemingly from where the girl was sitting. Curiosity having now caught hold of him entirely, Scott walked forward. Out of instinct he kept his footfalls quiet, stepping so lightly that the snow on the ground below refused to crunch under his boots. As he finally drew close enough to peer over the young woman's shoulder, he watched as flickers of flame and sparks of electricity popped into life a few inches from her knees, levitating a good foot and a half or so off the ground as she continued to amuse herself. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Scott suddenly snapped, his temper having already spiraled out of control before he ever even had a hope of gripping onto it. He grabbed onto her shoulder as he spoke, turning her to face him. Terror mingled with surprise caused the witch to seize up beneath his touch, but when the girl turned and saw who had snuck up behind her Scott could physically feel the tension melt away beneath his fingertips. The witch snapped a couple of words from an unknown language at him in a nasty tone, and Scott had the feeling he was going to be tripping over his own shoelaces for the next day or two. Still, his fury did not subside. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if anyone else had seen you but me? Don't put too much thought into it, I'll spare you the effort: you would already be dead!" 

"If you hadn't snuck up on me-" 

"You're damn lucky it was me and not anyone else from the camp! And I wasn't even 'sneaking', that's just how quiet we are. I've told you that how many times? Jesus, Jean," Scott breathed, finally releasing the witch's shoulder and taking a few steps away to cool himself down. "What if it had been Hank, huh? Or worse yet, Logan. He likes you and all but he doesn't trust you yet, either. He would have torn you to shreds before either of you could even realize what happened. It's all-" 

"Instinct, yes, I know," Jean scowled, her voice mocking as she watched Scott pace back and forth in front of her. She huffed and turned away from him, drawing her knees up beside her on the log and wrapping her arms securely around them.  

Scott rolled his eyes. Jean was going to her herself killed if she kept this up. Each and every member of his team was trained to impulsively attack the moment they were in the presence of magic. Charles was by far the most effectual at restraining his abilities in such situations, as was the result of having spent so much time around Erik and Raven, both powerful witches in their own right. He also had his telepathy to act as a sort of warning as to whether or not there was a witch within close proximity and their intentions, which allowed him to respond accordingly. The others, however, were nowhere near as experienced. Hank struggled with keeping himself human half the time, Logan had tendencies to descend into murderous rampages, Kurt accidentally kidnapped a senator from Montana twice in a week, Bobby once turned Lake Michigan into an iceberg, and Rogue was simply deadly. She was just a baby, hardly even older than Jean, but one of the most powerful and dangerous Hunters Scott had ever encountered.  

The fact was that Jean knew all of this, and yet here she was out in the woods at night by herself casting energy spells. Scott exhaled slowly, walking over to sit beside the young woman. Why did this always have to be a battle between them? He was just trying to keep her safe.  

"We had a deal," he reminded her. "No magic. Remember?" Scott heard the girl scoff in response, curling in tighter on herself. At least she wasn't openly displaying hostility anymore. She didn't make any effort to move away or spit at him in strange tongues the way she had when he had first rescued her. Scott still wasn't sure what had compelled him to embark on this suicidal path. All he knew was that when they had raided that den and Scott found this young witch shivering in a pool of her own blood he hadn't been able to stand by and just let her die. Yes, there were probably countless other ways to have helped Jean aside from lying to his team and saying she was a human survivor from the raid, but it was a little late for that now.  

Jean blended in rather well with the others, though. Her own telepathic abilities made it possible to guard her mind and keep any subconscious thoughts about witchcraft or her origins from pinging on Charles' radar. She and Kurt seemed to get along well, though usually they simply sat together in utter silence. Scott had to wonder if the silence was both physical and mental or not, however, seeing as how he would catch Kurt looking up at him every now and then trying to cover a smile while Jean pretended to be picking at lose threads on her shirt. Rogue... well, Rogue liked everybody who would give her the time of day, but she seemed to find a certain connection with Jean in the tragic "surviving a witch attack" backstory Scott had helped her create. Hank was happy with anyone who would listen to him chatter about science for hours on end, and seeing as Jean didn't talk much he found her to be quite the listener. Bobby and the others didn't interact with her much, tended to keep more to themselves, evidently not sure whether or not the outsider could be trusted. Then there was Logan, the most suspicious out of them all. He was nice to Jean's face, and that was all Scott needed to see in order to know that something was wrong. Logan wasn't nice to anyone outside of Rogue. Even Charles had to put him in his place on an almost daily basis, and one time it had gotten physical when Logan had brought Erik's name into the picture. So for Logan to be all buddy-buddy with Jean meant he wanted to keep an eye on her. 

Despite all of that, most of the time the girl was with Scott. They shared a tent, did patrols together, and ate together. What little talking they did was usually working out the kink of their little plan, such as her cover story or how she could fit in to life at the camp better. Jean was tainted now, she couldn't just go running back to her world. Not only had her own kind left her for dead, but if Jean returned as the sole survivor of a raid as deadly as the one Scott and his team had launched on her old den, she would fall under suspicion of her own people and be dead by the following sunrise. They were in this for the long haul, and Jean finally seemed to be accepting that. The first weeks had been rough, but she was adapting to a life of no magic or rituals now. Really, the only issue they seemed to be having anymore was... 

Scott glanced over the witch's shoulder. "What's the matter?" He asked, noticing the way her hands would ball themselves into tight fists, clenching around nothing before relaxing and spreading out her fingers. They did this again and again, as if Jean were grabbing at something and squeezing the life out of it before releasing it to fall to the floor. It was a long time before Scott heard her speak. 

"I want to kill them," she murmured, so quietly that if the two of them weren't in the middle of the forest during the dead of night the Hunter would have never heard her. "All of them. I want them dead." 

Ah, yes. That was still a problem.  

"Jean...." Scott sighed. 

"I'm not going to, okay?" The witch snarled, turning her head halfway so that she could see him out of the corner of her eye over her shoulder. "I just... want to. I really, really want to," she said. Jean turned toward the faint glow of the camp in the distance, her lip curling back in disgust. "Listen to them, chanting and cheering, celebrating murder like it's a holiday. Like they're not drinking and dancing over blood that's been spilt and lives that have been taken by their own hand." 

"Jean," the Hunter tried again. "You're levitating." 

He watched as the girl looked over and down at the log underneath her, as if she didn't believe Scott. Dark clouds of energy had gathered underneath and were swirling under Jean's body, whipping themselves into a frenzy beneath her weight and causing her to float about six inches or so in the air. She turned around to face Scott when she spoke to him again, immediately backing away into a defensive position. The Hunter watched her with amusement. 

"You're not attacking." 

"Nope," Scott said simply. Jean furrowed her brow at him, and he smirked. Truth was, he had lived with Jean and her little private outbursts of magic long enough to at least restrain himself from attacking her on the spot. "You know, you're actually kind of cute when you get all hot and flustered about not having the answer to everything," he teased. Normally this was when he ended up knocking out cold from a sleeping curse and waking up the next morning naked in the middle of the snow with his arms taped together behind his back. Instead, however, Jean merely rolled her eyes and dropped her guard, evidently not in the mood to do battle. She looked back over toward the camp again, and Scott could see there was a sort of longing in her eyes. Not in the way that she would want to be included or anything, but when that sort of expression was coupled with the lounge clothes she was wearing and the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, it wasn't hard to put two and two together: Jean was tired. Exhausted, probably. She looked like she had just crawled out of bed, despite the fact that she must have been out here for an hour at least.  

"Go to sleep," Scott told her. Jean looked back at him, eyeing him up and down, trying to figure out what his angle was. She was going to be sorely disappointed.  

"I'm not tired," she lied. 

"I didn't ask," was the Hunter's callous reply, softened by the slight curve of his lips. "Come on, what do you think I'm going to do, kill you? It's a little late for that," he reasoned. "Go to sleep, and I'll carry you back inside when the noise settles down. I won't even smack your head off a tree when I carry you, promise." 

He heard the girl mutter something under her breath in an unfamiliar language before wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. She walked back over to the log and laid herself down over the wood, curling herself up under the blanket she brought with her. After a few minutes more, Scott heard her breathing even out. He leaned his head back and looked back up toward the stars. They certainly were bright out here, without all the light pollution from the cities.  

Scott whipped his head down when he heard movement and felt something touch him. His eyes focused on the shape of Jean, having stretched out more comfortably on the log they shared. In her sleep, she had also take it upon herself to seek out his body heat and lay her head down in Scott's lap. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. If he woke her up now, she'd be obstinate and ornery, not to mention most likely homicidal. If she woke up and found herself like this, she'd be suspicious and distrusting, as well as most likely homicidal. Seeing as how it was unlikely Jean was going to be waking up anytime soon, the Hunter decided to take his chances with the latter. He found himself watching her peaceful expression as she rested, and found it curious that she could look so ferocious and off-putting when awake yet so gentle in slumber. He also couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had she simply not been a witch. She was young, very young, which made such thoughts of romantic entanglement entirely wrong. But Scott couldn't help wondering if they would have ever met, possibly become friends and, when she came of age, then maybe something more. Would they enjoy evenings of laughter instead of their current evenings of arguing? Would they talk while they ate rather than sit in stony silence? Would they be close to each other, even call each other friend rather than having the word "enemy" branded on their relationship simply because of their very nature? Would they be happy together? 

Could they still be? 

With Jean and her abilities unconscious, Scott was safe to let his mind wander. He had spoken with Charles countless times and heard the stories of how he once fell in love with a witch, yet never been able to fully understand it. But sitting here now, as the witch in his own arms drifted in the realm of sleep and he held guard over her through the night, Scott was beginning to comprehend Charles in a way he never had before.

[sherlockreinhold]

This Darkness (Your Company is the Light)

Things haven't been the same among the Guardians since the Ego event, and Gamora is feeling the effects. Sometimes all you need to conquer the darkness surrounding you is a little light in the form of a bowl of fruit and an unlikely companion.

Rocket/Gamora

Written as a commission for a lovely friend! Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Things had been quiet around the Milano for a while, now. The death of Ego had taken its toll on Peter, to be sure, only to be compounded upon by the loss of  Yondu  so soon after his biological father’s demise.  Gamora  didn’t quite understand how a person could be so broken up over such a loss, but then  again  she hardly knew what the word “father” even meant. All she knew was that it was best to leave Peter to grieve in peace.  

The ship was a decent size, but with a team the size of the Guardians, it was hard to ever find somewhere to be alone. Unless she was content with remaining cooped up in her quarters for hours on end-which she most surely was not- Gamora  was sure to run into someone out in the main areas of the vessel.   Not that she particularly minded. It wouldn’t do her any good to hide herself away in this sort of mood anyway.

Gamora  wandered around the ship, giving a nod to Drax as she passed by. The two of them functioned as a team, yes, but they weren’t exceptionally close, so she didn’t linger to make conversation. The sound of music could be heard blasting down the hall, and the warrior rolled her eyes.  Apparently  Groot, in all his adolescent angst, had “forgotten” to close his door while playing his stereo. Again. A few steps further brought Gamora  to the lounge, where she found Mantis perched neatly in a seat against the wall, and quickened her pace to leave before the other Guardian had the chance to strike up what was sure to be an agonizing conversation, if the last few they had shared were anything to go by.  

A nearby rustling caught her attention, and without pausing to think about her actions,  Gamora  found herself turning left into the kitchen. Rocket didn’t even so much as budge from his position on the counter, elbow deep in a bag of some sort of crunchy snack, the word “Peter” written in black ink across the logo.  Gamora  glanced to the left, where a sign was posted against the wall with the words “Eat Your Own Food” written prominently in red across it.  

“Doubt he’ll even miss it,” Rocket grunted in reply to the warrior’s pointed look.  Gamora  couldn’t keep the smirk from her lips. Peter did tend to hog most of the food for himself, so it wasn’t as if this should be  unexpected.  After a minute or so, Rocket reluctantly offered the bag toward Gamora , who shook her head in silent refusal. Rocket looked pleased as he drew the bag in closer once more, one arm curled around it in a manner that was nothing short of protective.  

It was such a mundane act, yet  Gamora  knew it meant much more than common courtesy-mainly because Rocket didn’t have any. Peter wasn’t the only one who had changed, and whatever Rocket had experienced during the Ego event had turned him into a different person. Well, maybe that was being too generous, he still was-and most likely always would be-a selfish asshole. But unlike before, when Rocket was only looking over his own shoulder, he had learned how to watch more backs than just his own. He had actually learned how to be a functional part of a team.  Gamora glanced at the stolen snacks in the Guardian’s grip once again. Okay, mostly part of a team.  

“’Sides,” the sound of Rocket’s voice snapped  Gamora  from her musings, “it serves Quill right. His head’s been up in the clouds for weeks now. Everybody’s starting to get restless.”  

“ So  your solution is to eat all of his food?” She asked.  

“Sure. Soon enough we’ll run out of the goods and he’ll have to land us somewhere to restock. Knowing this group of assholes, it’ll take us about twenty minutes for trouble to find us once we’re on the ground,” he muttered the last part under his breath, but he certainly wasn’t wrong.  

The warrior found herself sharing her teammate’s opinion for once. All this mourning seemed so… excessive. After all, there had been revelations and losses for all of them in the past, yet Peter seemed content to be mired down in his depression forever.  

“Very clever,”  Gamora  smirked, “for a  raccoon -“  

“Watch it,” Rocket growled in warning, one arm instinctively reaching backwards for the gun resting on the counter behind him. He made sure to never stray too far from the weapon, always within arm’s reach should there be a need to suddenly leap into action. In their line of work, there usually was.  Gamora  didn’t retract her statement, but she didn’t quite finish it either, and that seemed to be enough for Rocket. The two of them fell into a rare, companionable silence, one that was broken every now and then by the crunching of Rocket’s snack.  

“Eh, I don’t see the point in getting all caught up in this whole sob story, anyway,” the expression was punctuated by Rocket flicking the empty bag toward the trash receptacle. He stood and dusted the crumbs from his paws, pacing along the counter either search of something to wash down his meal with or more of Peter’s food to steal. “Look at us! I never even had a dad, you don’t see me crying over it. And your father -“  

“ Thanos  is not my father,”  Gamora  cut him off swiftly, her tone even and steady yet as cold as the dead of space. Factual. The warrior’s hand instinctually tightened into a fist at her side. “My father died a long time ago. I hardly knew him.”  

“Geez, is there ever going to be a time on this ship that someone can mention parents without someone having a nervous breakdown?” Rocket muttered, rubbing at his eyes. Part of  Gamora  wanted to snap back at him, to let the Guardian know he was being the insensitive prick he always was, but there was a lack of malice in his tone that had her reserve such harsh character criticisms. She took time to assess Rocket with an unbiased eye, to survey him as she would an opponent.  

He looked weary, affected by the negative atmosphere on the ship the way they all were. It made sense. Even being a group made up entirely of society’s greatest outcasts, the Guardians still had managed to find a sort of family with one another. Or at least, they had each found a place where each person could confidently say they belonged. What one Guardian felt, they all felt collectively. Peter’s anger and pain rippled through the team, overtook the Milano and washed it in a sort of darkness that no one could seem to completely ward off. Lump that in with the added isolation Groot had taken to recently and it was entirely understandable as to why Rocket might have been on edge. After all, it had been the two of them alone as partners for so long. No matter how much Rocket claimed to be unaffected by the changes in Groot,  Gamora  knew what she could see with her own eyes.  

“You’re a pilot,”  Gamora  said, changing the subject, “why not simply take the vessel and fly it somewhere yourself?”  

“Too easy,” Rocket replied, and she was pleased to see some of the invisible weight lift from his shoulders. She watched him pull that “rest of the world be damned” bravado of his back into place. “Also, uh, Quill might have locked me out of the controls.”  Gamora  actually chuckled at that. It was no secret that Rocket and Peter had a strong rivalry when it came to their respective piloting skills. Their tiffs over the subject had gotten the team into trouble in the past.  

“ So  you mean to say you can’t fly us somewhere yourself?”  

“Listen, lady, I can fly any ship anywhere at any time I want,” he said, turning to face her and easily rising to her challenge. “I could break into that lock in a snap, I just… don’t feel like it right now, okay? You ever think that maybe I don’t actually want to fly us through deep space just to land us somewhere where we’re sure to get our asses kicked?”  

“I know that has never stopped you before,”  Gamora  retorted. Rocket paused, his jaw working but without any sound coming out. At last he simply snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, crossed his arms and turned his back to her with an angry huff.  

“I’m not afraid of that stupid lock, just don’t feel like  dyin ’ today, that’s all…” he grumbled under his breath.  Gamora  smiled at his form as he leapt up and dug around through the cupboards, further amused.  

Not for the first time,  Gamora  found herself wondering what her life would have been like had she never become a Guardian.  

They continued to banter back and forth for several minutes about different subjects: what sector of space they were currently in, what planet they should stop at next, even the benefits of fighting hand-to-hand combat versus using long-range weaponry. It was the longest conversation they had ever had, and it was the first time  Gamora  felt as though there was more to Rocket than just humorless antics and a broken moral compass. For all his showmanship, Rocket still was a person. He had opinions and feelings just like everyone else, no matter how he tried to deny that. Not that  Gamora  would ever admit that she could see that within him.  

They had moved to a small table in the corner now, a large bowl of fruit pieces between the two of them. It was the only food in the kitchen they could compromise on sharing…. Or as close to compromise as the two of them could get.  

“You are taking all of the melon pieces,” the warrior said with a roll of her eyes, snatching one up before they were all gone.  

“That’s cause they’re on my half of the bowl.”  

“There is no ‘half’ that’s just for you, we’re sharing all of it.”  

“This whole ‘teamwork’ thing is getting old,” Rocket sighed, but didn’t relent his constant barrage on the melon pieces specifically.  

“You would rather protect the entire galaxy by yourself?”  Gamora  questioned. Rocket looked as though he were about to confirm her words without a second thought, then hesitated. When she thought he was going to answer, he remained silent instead, staring intently at the bowl between them. The warrior didn’t ask again, taking his silence as all the answer she needed.  

“What did the galaxy ever do for us anyway?” Rocket muttered, picking up a berry and inspecting it thoroughly before popping it in his mouth. Gamora  scrunched up her nose in distaste as he continued to speak while chewing. “We sure do a lot of protecting for nothing in return.”  

“That is not the point,”  Gamora  sighed. She didn’t feel like having this conversation with him again. It almost always turned into an argument when they started to discuss ethics. “I do not remember you complaining when the Nova Corp erected a statue in your honor.”  

“They could have gotten the nose a little bit better,” Rocket shrugged in response, content with dropping the matter. “You  gonna  eat that?” he asked, pointing toward the fruit  Gamora  was now neglecting on her side of the bowl. She rolled her eyes and nodded her consent, not bothering to push the dish any closer. If he wanted it so badly, he could come and get it.

Hopping up onto the table, Rocket made his way over to the other side, not watching his step. He had just reached the other end when his foot caught, sending him tumbling forward into the warrior sitting across from him.  Gamora  glanced up just in time to see her teammate falling toward her, unable to do much to stop it in time.   She didn’t even think to back away until it was far too late.

The way their lips met was entirely a mistake, both of their eyes growing wide from the unexpected contact. If was different, to be sure.  Gamora had kissed very few people in her life, and affection wasn’t exactly a value that had been instilled in her since childhood. The warrior could sense that this sort of contact was unfamiliar to Rocket as well, who was stiff as a board the entire time.  

Rather than move away, they stared at one another in shock for a handful of seconds. At last,  Gamora's  mind caught up with her, and she was the one to break the kiss first. She reared her head back quickly, but didn't find herself instinctively twitching toward her sword the way she always had when Peter had kissed her.  She couldn’t even summon the strength to scowl at Rocket. After all, it had been an accident.

The phantom tickle of fur continued to dance across her lips long after the two of them had parted, the experience foreign yet not entirely... unwelcome. Rocket was rendered speechless as well, for once, as the two of them sat in awkward silence across from one another. He cleared his throat, and  Gamora  could practically see his mind working to come up with some witty one-liner to ease the sudden tension in the room.  

"Don't," the warrior said, cutting the Guardian off before he could even start. Rocket blinked at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. She gave him a gentle smile. All that ever seemed to be shared among her team anymore was sorrow, it was time for a change.  Gamora  wanted to feel something jubilant, something good, emotionally satisfying. Accidental or not, that kiss had been just the sort of spirit-lifting that she needed. By the way Rocket's dark eyes glimmered and his lips curved into a genuine half-smile,  Gamora  could tell that she wasn't alone in her line of thinking.  So no, she was not content to sit by and let the Guardian make a joke out of the first thing that had felt real in a long time. "'What happens on the Milano...’"  

"’Stays on the Milano’," Rocket finished. The words lingered between them, leaving room for more to be said, but neither of them seemed keen to seize that opportunity. Not right now, at least. With a single nod,  Gamora  stood and exited the kitchen, intent on continuing her trek around the ship to clear her mind.  

Several new thoughts were clouding her mind, taking the place of the weighty grief that had fallen over the entire team.   Gamora  attempted to sift through what she could, but there were simply too many ideas swirling around to organize them all at once. The warrior hesitated as she passed by the door to Peter's room, shaking her head, the smiling expression still lingering at the memory of what had transpired in the kitchen.  

Maybe a few more weeks stuck onboard the Milano wouldn't be so bad after all. 

(Interested in commissioning me? Click here to find out more!)  

[sherlockreinhold]

Pretty Lie, Ugly Truth

I basically have no shame

Dee/Sophie Pregnancy/Student-Teacher AU

----

“Have you told anyone?”

“T-Told anyone?”

“Don’t play coy with me. This is an extremely serious matter.”

“I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sophie insisted, tugging on the overly-long sleeve of her brother’s sweatshirt. Josh’s clothes were the only things that ever seemed to fit her these days, and even that was quickly becoming a stretch. Sophie had to be careful not to slouch in public every minute of her day, lest her ever-growing stomach bulge out against the faded fabric of the UCLA emblem across her front.

Her response evidently did not please the man across from her. John Dee sighed and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, shutting his eyes. Sophie didn’t allow herself to watch her history teacher for long, instead letting her own gaze wander everywhere else it could around the room. When she dared to glance back at the man, his eyes were open again.

“Do you at least know who the father is?”

The girl hesitated, biting her lip. Damn it! That was a mistake. Why hadn’t she just fed him the lie she had been telling everyone else who dared to ask? Eyes now trained on the ground at her feet, Sophie didn’t look up when she heard Mr. Dee shift forward so that he was leaning against the desk between them. She could feel him staring at her now, willing her to look up at him, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of compliance. When it was clear Sophie wasn’t going to answer, he tried a different approach.

“I’ve heard the rumors circling around,” he began, and Sophie could feel her cheeks flushing a bright scarlet. “Word has it that you don’t know who the father is, is that right? Things escalated quickly whenever someone snuck a few bottles of wine into… what was the party for?”

“Yearbook committee.”

“…That is the absolute worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t remember you being there,” Sophie snapped suddenly, head whipping up to glare at him. The tension between teacher and student was suddenly palpable, thick enough to be cut with a knife. Mr. Dee rolled his eyes.

“When I think of wild high school parties, ‘yearbook committee’ isn’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind,” the man replied.

“Then stop thinking about it.”

“Miss Newman, I really don’t care how this happened to you or whatever backlash you receive from it. You’re hardly the first pregnant girl I’ve taught-“

“Do you actually have a point? I’m missing my trigonometry course,” Sophie muttered. Mr. Dee rolled his eyes.

“Have you told your parents?” He asked abruptly. Sophie sat back further in response.

“Tell my parents?” She laughed. “Are you crazy?”

“Evidently, seeing as how I had some glimmer of hope that you might have actually had some sort of common sense in this situation,” Mr. Dee sighed. The girl knew that her displeasure with his commentary was reflected on her features, but she was certain that her teacher couldn’t care less. “The faculty are starting to talk.”

“I don’t understand why that matters here. You said yourself it isn’t the first time you taught a student who was pregnant.”

“It doesn’t matter that they’re talking about you, it matters that they are talking. This little event of yours has broken past the limits of daily student gossip and is expanding outward. It’s only a matter of time before news reaches the PTA, and thus your own parents,” Mr. Dee reasoned. Sophie swallowed the bile that was gathering in the back of her throat that had nothing to do with the bout of morning sickness she had experienced earlier. Oh, God, she hadn’t thought of it like that. She had been hoping to more or less just keep this entire ordeal a secret and tell her parents that she was just gaining weight as a result of the cheerleading season coming to an end. It was weak, but she thought it would work, since Coach Dare had them all on such a rigorous diet and exercise routine the rest of the season. Now though… Sophie could hear ringing in her ears as the world started to disappear around her, replaced with the fear of her parents having any sort of knowledge about her situation.

“Miss Newman… Miss Newman!” the man said, louder the second time so that it could snap the girl out of her oncoming panic attack. “Did you hear a word I said?”

“There’s more?” She squeaked. Mr. Dee rolled his eyes.

“Yes, there’s more,” he said slowly, addressing her as if she were some toddler incapable of understanding him. “There’s the issue of the father.”

“I-I said I don’t remember who he is,” Sophie managed to stutter out. Mr. Dee smirked.

“You might not remember him,” her teacher said, “but he could very well remember you. You tend to keep a very low profile, Miss Newman. Quiet, shy, reserved. You and your brother only did just join the school district a year or so ago. You don’t have any sort of… reputation for unrespectable behavior. That makes you distinguishable.” Mr. Dee frowned when the girl attempted to hide a smile behind her sleeve. “Is something funny?” He asked.

Sophie, for her part, managed to keep any traces of tears from her eyes. She had shed enough of them over this entire mess, the girl wouldn’t allow herself to be upset or mourn over the matter anymore than she already had. Sophie lowered her hand from in front of her mouth so that she could speak clearly to the man across the desk from her.

“Trust me, Mr. Dee, I’m not nearly as memorable as you might think,” she assured him, offering no further insight on the matter when he gave her a curious look.

“Alright…” he replied, silent for a moment as he regarded the girl. Then, clearing his throat, Mr. Dee continued. “Well, even as the situation stands, word is travelling quickly. It is only a matter of time before someone is able to add two and two together.”

“I doubt it.”

“Is there some sort of light you would care to shed on the subject, or are we going to continue with the cryptic self-pity?” Mr. Dee snapped. Sophie didn’t answer him once again, though she did maintain eye contact with him this time. After a solid thirty seconds of silence, her history teacher sat back in his seat with a roll of the eyes, obviously irritated with how the path the conversation had taken. He waved a hand towards the door dismissively. “If you have nothing more to say on the subject, then consider yourself warned, I’ve done all I can for you and you’ve made it expressly clear you don’t care for my help. I’ll email Mrs. Flamel in regards to why you were late for trigonometry today-“

“He’s married.”

“…Excuse me?”

“The father,” Sophie said, her head bowed in shame once again and gaze focused on the ground. “I know who he is, and he’s… married.”

“What member of a high school yearbook committee could possibly be married? I know there are several senior-student relationships in the club, and I’ve heard of several ‘engagements’, but none of them are married.” Sophie remained silent, allowing her teacher to process the information. “Unless, of course, your supposed wild night of passion was not with a fellow student at all,” he concluded. Sophie closed her eyes, unable to keep up the metaphorical floodgates she had been so insistent on earlier.

“Mhm…” Was all the girl was able to respond, lips tightly sealed.

“Oh, Sophie…” Mr. Dee groaned. She knew better than to take it as any sort of sympathy, however. “You stupid, stupid girl! Do you have any idea what you’ve done now? You’re only sixteen, this isn’t just your own life you’ve ruined! What you’ve done was bad enough,” he continued to berate her, “but now you have proof of your crime inside your body.”

“I didn’t mean to…” She whispered. Mr. Dee laughed.

“What do you mean you ‘didn’t mean to’?! Didn’t mean to what, sleep with a married man? Or didn’t mean to become pregnant!”

“I might be pregnant, but at least I can remember the night it happened and take responsibility for my part!” She shouted back, the pressure of the situation finally causing her to crack. “Can you say the same?!”

Silence.

If the tension in the room had been tangible before, it was nothing short of suffocating by now. Sophie glared at her teacher fiercely, while he simply stared back at her. She could practically see the inner workings of his mind as he tried to piece all of the information together. She watched something dark settle in his eyes, and in that instant the girl knew that the pieces of the puzzle were all settling into place. Her outrage quickly dissipated, whatever remnants of it had been left behind morphing instead into mortification and terror. What had she done, blurting that out the way she had?

Sophie could feel her heart beating so hard and fast in her chest that she was certain Mr. Dee could hear it, too. She watched as he was the one this time to break eye contact with her first, turning attention to his own hands folded in his lap. The girl couldn’t help but notice how his gaze seemed to be focused just ever so slightly to his left, studying his hand and the ring that rested on the fourth finger there. The silence was going to break here if one of them didn’t speak. Sophie knew that if she didn’t start talking, her mind was going to snap and she would end up delivering this child in the back of an insane asylum.

“I don’t think,” she began slowly, pausing to clear her throat before starting again. “I don’t think that his only concern is going to be that he had sex with a minor.” She watched as Mr. Dee’s hardened gaze shot up to meet her own once again, with such intensity that Sophie wanted to run from the room and never look back.

Fortunately, salvation came in the form of the bell that ended third period. Mr. Dee didn’t make a single move or gesture for Sophie to leave, though he didn’t stop her when she hesitantly stood up from the chair and gathered her things, either. She had the next period with her brother, and if she wasn’t there he was going to be concerned. Sophie didn’t look back as she quickly exited the room, though she could feel her teacher’s eyes on her the entire time until she walked out and shut the door behind her.

The girl didn’t stop for a single moment as she walked toward her locker. Stopping meant that she could no longer focus on putting one foot in front of the other, which was really the only thing keeping her from thinking back to the conversation that had just transpired and having a breakdown as a result. Sophie was so disconnected from reality that she didn’t even notice her brother standing beside her locker waiting for her until he actually had to put his hands on his sibling’s shoulders to physically bring her body to a halt.

“Hey, slow down,” he greeted with a cheeky grin, the fabric of his letterman jacket rustling as he reached around to grab Sophie’s bag from her shoulder and carry it for her. “Geez, you both almost slammed right into me! I’m the one who’s supposed to be getting the concussions, you know, not the little one. He still has a couple years to go for that,” he joked. The smile slowly fell from Josh’s face as he took in his sister’s appearance. “Soph? Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“He knows,” she breathed. Josh raised an eyebrow.

“Huh? I couldn’t hear you. Is someone bothering you again? Give me a name, Soph, I’ll make them pay. I’m not going to let anyone bother you about this. If they think they’re going to pick on my sister, they have another thing coming to them!” Her brother continued to ramble on with vague threats.

“Josh!” She cried so he would finally hear her. “He knows…” she repeated, her voice wavering and cracking as finally the tears overwhelmed her. “He knows.”

“He… what?” Josh whispered. “I thought you weren’t going to tell him.”

“I didn’t!” She said, wet tracks already running heavily down both cheeks. “N-Not really, he just… He f-figured it out, and…. Josh, what am I going to do? S-soon mom and dad will know, and then… and then…!”

“Shhh, hey, Soph calm down, okay? Nothing is going to happen, you’ll be fine. We’re going to work this out,” he said, brushing away the tears on the girl’s left cheek. She shook her head violently, ignoring the way people were openly watching them both in the hallway.

“No, Josh, I can’t! I can’t, I just… I-I can’t….” Sophie took a deep breath, turning her head away and waiting for the crowd to pass. Once the other teenagers in the hallways picked up on the fact that there wasn’t going to be anything more to see, they slowly began migrating towards their next class. Sophie waited until she heard the late bell ring to start speaking again, when she knew her and her sibling were alone. “I can’t do this anymore, Josh,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt him pull her in for a tight hug. After a moment, she asked, “How is any of this going to turn out okay?”

“I don’t know, Sophie,” he sighed. “I just don’t know.”

[joeyborovicka]

Sentimental as shit!

[joeyborovicka]

Bigly’s Beast

Bigly O’Gilley was about to take his first sip of coffee when one of his piglets started squealing up a storm. Down went the mug and up went Bigly’s mitt to the rifle on the wall, and Bigly was out the door faster than you can say jackrabbit gravy. Now, you'll never guess what he saw when he got

outside--it wudn’t a piglet stuck in the mud or a coyote snatching a little breakfast bacon. No sir, what he actually saw was nothing. And that ain’t because they wudn’t nothing to see, mind you. And it wudn’t because Bigly’s eyes is bad neither. On the contrary, Bigly could count the stripes on a bumblebee from be-hind a blindfold. (After all, a fella cain’t enjoy a life as long as Bigly’s out in that wild hill country without senses sharper’n snakes’ teeth.)

The reason Bigly’s eyes couldn't see anything was because they had simply never seen a thang like the thang they was pointing at right then. Like I said, them eyes is as good as yours or mine at recognizing stuff, but the thang making the piglet squeal was a thang so strange, so foreign, they was no re for them old eyes to even cognize.

Now, don’t you worry about old Bigly, he and the piglet both make it out of this story jest fine. And if you had been there to ask him about it afterwards, Bigly would have only been able to describe the thang he saw as a large, dark cloud. But a few sleepless nights later, after that large, dark cloud had had enough time to float around in old Bigly’s head and bump into lots of other familiar thangs he was storing up there, why, Bigly had developed a better picture of it. And when he made his weekly trip into town soon thereafter he described that there picture to a small audience of menfolk at the hardware store.

These men, having never known Bigly to fib nor exhibit any symptoms of senility, had no reason to doubt Bigly’s tale, and so they started picturing this thang in each of their heads. Now, each picture was a little different from the rest, naturally, but that didn’t really matter since the men had no way to compare they pictures anyhow. And as strange as these pictures was, they was still not as strange as the thang had really been because even at his most captivating Bigly couldn’t tell a story that could make a fella imagine a thang so outta this world, so…unimaginable! It would’ve been like trying to describe blue to a blind person or bitterness to a fella with no tongue.

Nonetheless, Bigly did his best, and the way he described the thang was thus: It was big. Humongous, in fact, about the size of four grizzly bears if two of em was standing side-by-side and the other two was sitting on they shoulders. And it was black. Black as a moonless night in a mineshaft. Even in the broad daylight they was no sheen to its fur--which was wispy, and floated gently in the air like grass in a flooded field. And with no sunlight reflecting off its contours at’all, the whole thang looked like nothing but a gigantic, hairy hole cut from the hills behind it.

Now, this humongous, black, wispy-haired beast that looked like a gigantic hole had some sort of tentacle wrapped around that piglet’s hind leg, and that tentacle was as black as the rest of the beast, meaning from Bigly’s point of view the piglet’s leg almost appeared to be severed from the rest of it and both pieces was floating in mid-air between the beast and Bigly.

Ya with me so far? Alright. Bigly couldn’t recall the beast having a head to speak of, but he did remember seeing waves shimmering off the upper part of it, like those that rise off the horizon on a hot day, and he got the idea that those waves was coming from some sort of brain or what-have-ya from which the beast sensed its surroundings--and sensed old Bigly standing there clutching his dinky little rifle.

After Bigly had described the appearance of the beast as best he could to them fellas in the hardware store, he commenced to describing the action of the story, which was thus: Bigly stood before the beast for what seemed like FOR-ever, wondering the whole time why it didn’t just swallow the piglet whole and then him too. Oddly enough the beast seemed ever bit as confused as Bigly, and eventually it lowered the piglet (who run off a-grunting) and then belted out a shriek that sounded like railroad tracks being rung out like a dishrag. Then the whole beast shriveled to the diameter of a wagon wheel and floated high up into the air, drifting off in the di-rection of the woods between Bigly’s property and Dunkle Doogle’s.

That was the end of the story. And wouldn’t you know old Dunkle happened to be in Bigly’s audience at the hardware store at that very moment, and at this point ALL attention was turned toward him. Dunk got a little defensive at being put on the spot and assured them fellas he hadn’t seen NO unusual activity at his place--save for an ab-normally large hornet’s nest he’d knocked off his barn roof a few days prior.

You ever notice how saying thangs out loud relieves the pressure in your head like a big belch after a bowl of cabbage stew? That's how old Bigly felt jest then. If you’d asked him how he knew, he couldn’t’ve told you, but after telling the story to them other fellas, a feeling of calm came over him that he hadn't felt since that day when that piglet got to squealing. He knew now that he’d seen the last of the beast--the first and the last, as it was.

Way he figured, the beast wudn’t just some wild, earthly thang prowling around the woods snatching piglets. No sir, they wudn’t no way a thang like that could’ve gone un-seen long enough to grow that humongous--not considering how many cattlemen have crossed them hills over the years. And if it was local it must have a momma and a daddy and a whole line of grandmommas and granddaddys  living in them hills; but Bigly’d never seen nor heard of any of them neither. 

The  beast--Bigly reckoned to himself while the menfolk in the hardware store set to speculating--had been from another dimension--though he didn’t even know what that word meant or where he’d learnt it. Nonetheless, he knew it to be true. The beast must have appeared to him through some sorta crack in the cosmos, and, being that a few days had passed and no one else had seen anything unusual, that crack must have corrected itself, meaning the chances of the beast ever appearing again was probably slim. When this occurred to him, Bigly felt nothing but special for having gotten to witness such an unusual thang in the first place. From that day forward Bigly was not only unafraid of the beast that’d set his piglet to squealing, he was dern near unafraid of anything at’all.

[joeyborovicka]

[joeyborovicka]