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echo-bleu · 3 years

Text

jump and hope it’s not a cliff

Summary: Five times Alec and Magnus come out, and one time they come home.

“I’m gay,” he blurts out.

Some part of him still expects it to be earth-shattering, but it’s not. It’s almost nothing, just a word, a single syllable that falls out of his lips easily. It doesn’t suddenly make everything click into place, or scramble his whole being.

It’s just a fact.

Malec, about coming out and pride and supporting each other.

A/N: This is set in the same universe as map out a world and there are a few callbacks, but this should easily stand on its own. Alec is autistic, and everything else is mostly like canon, except that I stretched out the timeline. Part 1 to 3 are set somewhere during season 2, 4 during season 3 and the last two at some point in the future. The title is a quote from Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston (thank you Cor for the suggestion).

A huge thank you to the amazing @moonlight-breeze-44 who did a great job betaing this and cheering me on, as well as all the wonderful people in the Malec Discord Server for helping me come up with some of these scenes and being super supportive. This fic was truly a work of love and it's very close to my heart, so it's a little daunting to finally post it!

Warnings: part 5 contains a transphobic character who says very transphobic things. You might want to skip that part if it's a sensitive subject. The rest contains mentions of (mostly past) queerphobia and ableism, but it's all fairly light.

Read on AO3.

Alec can’t remember a specific moment when they came out to each other. He remembers Magnus openly flirting with him — right in front of his siblings, too, and Alec is just embarrassed by how utterly clueless he was, though Magnus seems to think it was adorable — and his own clumsy attempts at flirting back, once he got over his confusion. But he doesn’t remember ever saying “I’m gay.”

He’s not sure he’s ever said it out loud, to anyone, like the word is heavy and draining and it’s something best left half-implied, a whisper of a suspicion rather than a hard fact; despite the evidence. Alec is attracted to men — is attracted to Magnus, really, because besides his mistaken infatuation with Jace, he’s never felt that pull for anyone else — but he doesn’t speak of it. Magnus just seemed to know, just like Izzy did, just like Jace did, or maybe he took a leap of faith and he’s really good at appearing more confident than he actually is.

What he does remember is skimming through Magnus’ Clave file, that day before they went to meet him at his club, and the leap his heart made when he read about Magnus’ well known “proclivities” towards lovers of all genders. It was followed by fear and disgust, because of course the Clave would write this down as proof of Magnus’ untrustworthiness and dangerous behavior. Alec was dangerously close to thinking that way, back then, too terrified of people finding out about him to fully question what he’d been taught to believe. He tucked the information into a corner of his mind, and he’d be hard-pressed to tell if it influenced his first impression of Magnus and how.

They’ve been dating for over two months now, and they’ve never spoken about it. They’ve never spoken about Alec’s very public coming out to the Clave beyond agreeing to a date. They’ve discussed past relationships — or lack thereof — and the political issues that come with a Shadowhunter dating a Downworlder, especially as they’re both prominent figures in the city, but they’ve never spoken of themselves or the couple they form in terms of queerness.

And now, staring at the rainbow cover of the new book in Magnus’ hands, Alec wonders why.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and finishes hanging his jacket on the coat rack as Magnus puts down the book and stands up with a wide smile. They’ve decided on a quiet night in tonight — dinner and a movie — after a week that has been horrendously long for both of them. Unresolved issues are piling up at the Institute, but right now Alec just wants to relax and enjoy his boyfriend.

Boyfriend. He’s still getting used to that. He thought for so long that he could never have any of the things that so many people take for granted, and feeling for someone what he feels for Magnus, having it reciprocated, seemed the most unattainable of them all.

“You seem distracted,” Magnus remarks after a moment of silence in their dinner.

Alec looks up guiltily and stills his fingers, which have been tapping a discreet rhythm on his thigh. “Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “I didn’t mean to zone out.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Alec admits — it’s not a hardship to admit it at all. He spends most of the time that isn’t directly taken up by Institute business thinking about Magnus, in one form or another. He worries, often, that maybe it’s too much, that Magnus is going to find him too intense, but so far Magnus just preens at the attention.

“I’m flattered,” Magnus quips. “Anything specific?”

Alec’s eyes fall on the rainbow book on the coffee table again, across the room. It’s a book about queer history or something similar, something he hasn’t seen Magnus read about before. It’s flashy and mundane and distracting. There’s a strange tug in Alec’s stomach at just seeing a rainbow here, in Magnus’ living space, a fear that shouldn’t be there anymore.

“I’m gay,” he blurts out.

It’s just a fact.

“Okay,” Magnus says slowly, frowning a little like he can tell he’s missing something. “I already knew that, Alexander.”

Alec runs his thumb down the fabric of his jeans and works his jaw. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m not sure I did.”

Magnus frowns further, uncomprehending, then his face lights up. “You’ve never actually said it, have you? If you came out at the wedding—” he waves a hand.

“That wasn’t planned, and my parents aren’t exactly interested in talking about it,” Alec says. “I kinda feel like I used you, actually. We weren’t even dating or anything, and there’s a gap between flirting with me and kissing me in front of the entire Institute.”

Magnus shakes his head. “I was surprised, but I’ve never been shy or particularly closeted, if that’s what you mean. And I was definitely hoping that you’d call off the wedding. It was a hell of a way to come out, though.”

“It sure didn’t help my standing with the Clave,” Alec mutters. “Or my relationship with my parents. But I don’t regret it. I regret not really giving you a choice, though. Even if you’re not in the closet, I know the Institute doesn’t represent something positive for you, and publicly being with a Shadowhunter can’t be good for your reputation.”

“My reputation has been through much worse than this,” Magnus reassures him. “But I appreciate your concern. And I promise you I was a willing participant.”

Alec nods in acceptance and eats a few more bites of his risotto. Like everything Magnus conjures, it’s delicious. They eat in silence for a moment, but Alec feels Magnus’ gaze on him, intense but somehow not heavy.

“I’m bisexual,” Magnus finally says. “I’ve used many labels over the years, some whose meaning is very different now, and often no labels at all, but that’s the one I like best.”

Alec carefully commits the information to memory and looks up to meet his eyes, to show that he’s listening.

“Did you always know?” he asks. “Even when you had no words for it?”

Magnus takes a moment to think about it. “I think so,” he answers. “It was always a part of me, like my magic or my eyes. I didn’t always accept it, but I knew.”

Alec nods, feeling like he can’t relate to that certainty. Clarity isn’t something he’s ever had about himself, about anything. Whether it’s about his sexuality, or his aspirations, or even who he is as a person, it’s always been muddled. The identities his parents and the Clave tried to impose on him, Shadowhunter and Lightwood and soldier, have never felt quite right, like he doesn’t fit into the boxes he desperately tries to hide in, but neither have the labels he’s come across since, not really.

“I’m gay,” he murmurs to himself again. He’s not sure it feels right. Maybe he just needs to get used to it, after years of not daring to apply the word to himself. Maybe it’s really just a word, and its power drained out with the need to hide. Alec shakes his head. It’s better than anything else. It’s enough. It has to be, right?

Magnus claps his hands once, making a bowl of popcorn appear on his knees. “Here,” he says. “The real movie night experience.”

He had been horrified to learn that Alec has never done that before. His siblings have sneaked out to go to the movies with their teenage dates, but Alec was always the good son, and the Institute only has one TV in the break room that is certainly not casually watched by the Head of the Institute, which Alec has functionally been since he was sixteen.

Magnus doesn’t count the few classic movies Alec watched on his own on his laptop in the safety of his room as a real movie night experience. Movie night is, by definition, something you do with others.

He passes the bowl of popcorn to Alec, taking a few pieces with his other hand and popping them into his mouth. They’re sitting side by side on the couch in his living room, rearranged for the occasion. Magnus has pushed aside the two armchairs that usually occupy the other side of the coffee table in favor of a huge wide screen TV, which is currently displaying the opening scene of The Fellowship of the Ring.

“Why does it include popcorn?” Alec frowns, taking a few from the bowl and passing it back. He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a fluffy pillow on his lap and his new tangle toy in his hand. He’s very recently started to loosen up around the loft and actually make himself comfortable, rather than constantly staying straight-backed and tense, and Magnus never tires of watching him stim and relax.

Magnus puts his feet up on the coffee table. “It’s tradition, Alexander!”

“Aren’t you way older than the invention of the cinema?”

“Come on, movie night is something you’re supposed to enjoy, not question,” Magnus says. “Shh, I love this bit,” he adds when Gandalf makes his entrance.

Alec huffs and sits back, but there’s a smile on his face, and he’s almost close enough that their thighs touch. Magnus lets him take the first step, knowing that Alec doesn’t always handle touch well, but by the time Frodo sets out of the Shire, Alec has sought out Magnus’ free hand and interlaced it with his own.

He listens amusedly to Magnus commenting on every moment of the movie, marveling at the landscapes and critiquing the largest departures from the books, which Alec hasn’t even read. He doesn’t say anything beyond making some noises at the right places, up until the first sword fights.

“But you can’t hold a sword that way!” he protests. “His posture is all wrong!”

Magnus holds back a laugh. “It’s a movie, darling. Cinematic aestheticism is more important than realism.”

“But this is wrong! How can anyone not see it?”

Magnus keeps it to himself that he definitely didn’t, in spite of his rather extensive training. His martial arts knowledge is very different from Alec’s sword-fighting techniques. “Just relax and let yourself enjoy it,” he says, squeezing Alec’s hand.

By the time they get to the Moria fight, Alec is leaning forward to watch more closely and sputtering. “That’s not how you hold a bow!”

Magnus shrugs. “He looks rather dashing while doing it, so who cares?”

“Who cares? I care! This doesn’t make any sense! Don’t these actors have a modicum of training?”

“I’m sure they do,” Magnus says. Alec’s indignation is rather hilarious, even if it doesn’t let him truly enjoy the movie. His purpose was to show it to Alec, anyway, not to watch it himself. Watching Alec’s reactions is endearing and more fun than the movie itself. “But they’re thinking more about making it look good than realistic. And they’re all really hot doing it, which doesn’t hurt.”

Alec blinks at that and tilts his head. “You think they’re hot?”

Magnus turns his head toward him in surprise. “Don’t you?”

Is Alec jealous? It doesn’t seem to fit with his character, not over such a small thing, but Magnus doesn’t know everything about him yet.

“I don’t know, I guess?” Alec shrugs. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

Magnus opens his mouth and closes it. He pauses the movie, and Alec frowns in surprise. “Alec, do you...who do you think is hot?”

“I, uh,” Alec hesitates. “I don’t know. Why is that important?”

“It’s not, necessarily, but most people don’t say ‘I guess’ when asked if someone is hot or sexy. You can have a type, but—” Magnus gestures in frustration, struggling to explain. “It’s something you see right away.”

Alec stares at him for a moment, lost. “I don’t… I’m not sure I understand. I mean, you’re beautiful. You’re hot, I suppose. Them—” he gestures at the TV. “I don’t know them.”

Magnus carefully doesn’t let the ‘I suppose’ hurt — he knows Alec doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. He smiles at the compliment, instead. “So you need to know someone to appreciate their sexiness?” he asks.

Alec takes a moment to think about it. “You’re the only one I’ve really thought of as sexy,” he says slowly. “And even then...it’s not something I’d think unprompted? It’s just not important to me, I suppose.”

“Alexander, are you asexual?” Magnus asks slowly.

For a moment, Alec looks like a fish out of water. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, searching for his words. He’s twisting his stim toy more and more nervously, so Magnus releases his hand to let him stim freely, putting his own hand on Alec’s thigh instead. Alec flinches away, though, so he lets him go.

“I don’t know,” Alec finally says. “Maybe? What if I am?”

“There’s a bunch of different identities under the asexual umbrella,” Magnus says. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

Alec freezes for a second, then squeezes his tangle toy hard in his hand. “Is it a problem? If I’m completely asexual?”

“No, of course not,” Magnus says hurriedly. “You’re wonderful the way you are.”

“Then why is it important?”

“For us?” Magnus checks. Alec nods without looking in his direction. “It just means that we need to talk about boundaries a little more than I’m used to. I want to do that with you, anyway, but maybe we should dig deeper than I anticipated.”

Alec nods tightly. “Okay.” He doesn’t sound like he really believes it.

“Alexander, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it doesn’t make you lesser, or broken, if you don’t feel attraction to people. It’s just different. Some people are straight, some are gay, or bi, or something else. Some are ace.”

“But I’m gay,” Alec says.

It dawns on Magnus then. Of course, in the homophobic environment Alec grew up in, he would have defined a large part of his identity through his gayness, even before he was fully aware of it. Now that he’s come out, there are likely people at the Institute or even the Clave who only think of him as “the gay one”. Or “the gay one who is shagging a Downworlder,” probably, but Magnus doesn’t want to open that particular can of worms tonight.

“It doesn’t make you any less gay,” he says. “You can be asexual and homoromantic. Or gray-asexual or demisexual and still sexually attracted to men.”

“I think I’m attracted to you,” Alec says quietly. “I mean, sexually. I know I want to kiss you and date you, but I think I also want to have sex with you.” He’s red as a brick wall by the end of his sentence, but he bravely plows through, his voice even quieter. “I don’t think I was sexually attracted to Jace.”

Magnus nods as neutrally as he can. “And other people?”

Alec just shakes his head.

“Even romantically?”

He shakes his head again, his cheeks even redder. He’s started stimming again, so fast that his hands are a blur.

Magnus refrains from telling him that he feels giddy about being so special for Alec, because this isn’t something Alec chose. He doesn’t try to touch him, even though he wants to reach out. “So you’ve only been romantically attracted to people you already knew?”

“I don’t know,” Alec shrugs. “I didn’t really know you?”

“When did you start feeling attraction for me?”

Alec bites his lip, thinking. “I liked that you paid attention to me. No one gives me a second look, usually, unless I’m giving out orders. Jace and Izzy are easier to...approach, I guess. But I didn’t feel like...like you said, losing my breath and all that, until later. The day you said that, actually.”

“So you did know me by then,” Magnus says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Were you attracted to me from the beginning?” Alec asks hesitantly, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Yes,” Magnus admits easily. “But attraction isn’t something you have to act on. I liked what I saw as soon as I laid eyes on you, but then I learned to appreciate you. Your personality, your sense of humor, your loyalty to your siblings. That’s not just attraction. That’s falling in love.”

“And asexuals can do that?”

“Some of them can, some of them can’t. Some want to and some don’t. There’s no one-size-fits-all with this.”

“So what am I?”

Magnus takes a breath, trying to figure out what Alec really needs to hear. Does he need a label? Or just reassurance? He decides to go for the option that feels the least patronizing and tries to answer his actual question. “You can correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that what you’re describing is demisexuality, and maybe also demi-romanticism. It means you need to know someone, to have an emotional connection to them, before you feel attraction. But you could also say that you’re gray-ace and gray-romantic, since you don’t experience attraction often or in the same way as most people, but you do have some attraction.”

Alec nods throughout, his eyes boring a hole into the TV he’s staring at with intense focus. Magnus can even see him mouth some of the words, trying them out. “I think that sounds right,” he says slowly. “I don’t know, I need to think about it more, but it’s a start.”

“You don’t need to settle on a label tonight,” Magnus tells him.

Alec swallows. “No, I know, but...you deserve to know. Even if you’re amazingly tolerant, you deserve to know what you’re getting into.”

Magnus closes his eyes briefly. “No, Alexander,” he says, pained. “Your identities are yours and yours alone, and you don’t need to put words on them for me. I’m not being tolerant; I love you for who you are, and anyone who can’t accept you, all of you, doesn’t deserve the time of the day. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Alec breathes out through his nose and stills his hands for long enough to look in Magnus’ direction. “Okay,” he murmurs with a tiny smile. He reaches out and takes Magnus’ hand in his. “I love you too.”

“Mister Bane, please refrain from interrupting me in the future.”

Magnus sighs. The meeting has been going on forever, and the President of the Spiral Council, a warlock older than himself but disliked by nearly the entire community, is being downright insulting by refusing to call him by his rightful title of High Warlock. He feels the usual prickle of his skin at the address, at the way she insists on the Mister.

“My apologies,” he relents, all energy to argue drained out of him. He’s been fighting her on this matter — a change in the interrogation protocols for the warlocks captured by Valentine, ultimately a waste of resources — for three hours, and he’s done. He glares at the assembled warlocks around the table, who all agree with him but don’t have the guts to speak up. Why does he always have to do all the work?

He sits through the rest of the meeting without saying a word, resolutely ignoring the constant taunts from the President. She’s not worth his time. Not if no one will back him up.

Magnus is tired and more than a little upset when he makes it back to his loft. Minor inconveniences are piling up to make today one of the worst days of work he’s had in awhile. At least Alec will be here tonight, on his night off from patrol.

Magnus magically summons the few bills that have been left in his mundane mailbox downstairs at the same time as he takes off his jacket and haphazardly throws it on the floor of his bedroom. His heart constricts a little more at the sight of the address, Mister Magnus Bane. He doesn’t want to deal with this today, but he can’t seem to escape it.

He banishes the bills and changes his outfit to a silk robe with a snap of his fingers. There, better. At least now he’s comfortable.

Sighing, he sits down at his makeup console. He looks at himself critically for a moment. He went overboard with the makeup this morning, and the heavy, dark eyeshadow that he thought made him look mysterious now just seems to carve in his eye sockets, and he looks gaunt instead. He makes it disappear, leaving only the light eyeliner lines.

He woke up with a strong need to shave off his goatee, along with most of the hair on his body. He goes through one of these phases every now and then. He would usually do it straight away, but this time, he hesitated. What will Alec think, if he comes over tonight and finds Magnus smooth-skinned, not only his face but also his chest and legs?

Sure, Magnus could technically magic back the hair as soon as Alec gets here, but it doesn’t feel right.

“Everything okay?”

Magnus starts and almost falls off of his chair in surprise. Alec is standing at the door of his bedroom, in his socks. In his distraction, Magnus somehow missed him passing his wards, coming through the front door and removing his shoes.

“Fine,” he says. “Just a frustrating day. But you’re here now.”

Alec smiles. “I am. We can just chill out in bed, if you’re tired.”

“What about dinner?”

“I could do dinner in bed,” Alec shrugs. “I’ve been on my feet all day and most of last night. If I had my way, I wouldn’t move from bed for at least two days.”

“I could arrange that,” Magnus quips. He knows Alec would never go for it — for all that he says that, he’ll still be up at six on the dot tomorrow and unable to go back to bed. So Magnus has to take advantage of him while he’s here.

Snapping his fingers, he conjures a tray filled with Chinese food from a take-out place he knows Alec likes. “Dinner in bed it is,” he says.

“See, that’s why you’re my favorite man,” Alec smiles.

Magnus flinches. An actual, full-body flinch. He tries to cover it up by standing up, but Alec immediately spreads his arms to show his harmlessness, hunching over like he’s trying to make himself shorter. “I said something wrong,” he says.

“No, it’s fine, Alexander,” Magnus waves his hand, annoyed at himself.

“Please, Magnus. I can see it. You don’t have to tell me, but it would be better so I don’t do it again.”

“It’s just…” Magnus trails off, hesitating. He’s been putting off coming out to Alec, and he doesn’t know why. Or rather, he does know, but his fears are barely rational. Alec has taken him in stride so far, barely batting an eye, even at Magnus’ more extravagant habits. He had a truly amazing reaction to seeing Magnus’ warlock mark. So why would this be any different?

No, Alec won’t react badly. But if Magnus comes out now, it will become a thing. They’ll have to talk about it, explain, like every time he tells someone, and it will be weird for days. Magnus is tired. Tired of not being able to be who he is without everyone else forcing him into boxes he doesn’t fit in.

He’s tired and he doesn’t want to explain, but he also wants Alec to know. He wants him to know why words that seem perfectly normal and safe to Alec sometimes feel like a knife to Magnus’ back. He wants to be able to make jokes about his gender and have them understood. He wants to wake up next to Alec and know that his partner knows and respects him for who he is, fully.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not a man. I’m nonbinary.”

Alec doesn’t move. His eyes widen a little, but he doesn’t turn away from Magnus, keeping his gaze somewhere around Magnus’ mouth as usual. Magnus can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to decide what to answer with.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I don’t...I think I know what the word means, but I don’t know a lot about it. Do you want to tell me what it means to you or do you want me to research it first?” His gaze trails toward the bookshelf Magnus has put together of books on queer theory.

Magnus gapes, because this is so far from any reaction he expected that it didn’t even come to his mind as an option. “I—” he stammers. “I will tell you, but I’m too tired tonight. And maybe you could...read a couple things first? Would that be okay?”

“That’s why I offered,” Alec says, with a relieved smile.

“You’re amazing, Alexander. You know that?”

Alec grins, with that tiny frown that says he wants to refute it but knows Magnus won’t hear of it if he does. He still can’t take a compliment — he can’t, Magnus has come to learn, think of himself positively without remembering every time he’s been put down and belittled by the people who should have lifted him up. Magnus just pats his shoulder. “How about we go to bed? Tomorrow, we can talk.”

Alec nods, and Magnus realizes that he’s looking forward to it, to telling Alec about himself.

When Magnus wakes up the next morning, which is their day off — Magnus has adapted his own schedule to match Alec’s whenever possible — Alec isn’t in bed next to him. Magnus finds him in the main room, sitting crossed-legged in an armchair with his laptop on his lap, a full breakfast ready on the table. He’s obviously been up for a while, if he’s had time to prepare all that on top of his morning run and stretching routine.

“Hey,” he gives Magnus a wide smile.

“Did I oversleep?” Magnus asks. He’s definitely less of an early-riser than Alec, who tends to wake up with the sun whenever he hasn’t been on the night shift, but he’s usually awake by the time Alec comes back from his run.

“There’s no such thing on a day off, but I think you were tired,” Alec answers. “I’ve been up for three hours.”

“Oh my,” Magnus murmurs, checking the time with a wave of his hand. To his relief — and amusement — it’s only eight-thirty, definitely not that late by his standards. “What have you done with all this time?”

“Research,” Alec waves to the books on the coffee table in front of him, which Magnus only now notices. They’re from his LGBT+ book collection, and definitely his top choices for learning about gender identities. “I’m learning a lot.”

“Let me shower and we can talk about it,” Magnus decides, his body tensing with excitement and a touch of apprehension.

“Breakfast is ready when you are,” Alec smiles reassuringly.

He’s just serving coffee when Magnus comes out of the shower. Magnus hasn’t bothered to get dressed or do his makeup yet, avoiding his mirrors — which isn’t the easiest feat in his bathroom, which has no less than two full-length mirrors beside the one above the sink — because he’s not sure what he wants to look like today. His goatee still itches on his chin, but he needs to get a feel for Alec’s reaction before he goes ahead and shaves it.

He forbids himself from pulling at his facial hair and grabs his mug of coffee instead, hissing when it nearly burns his hand. “Hey, you okay?” Alec asks, his voice quiet and concerned.

“I’m fine, Alexander,” Magnus makes himself smile. There’s no reason for this to go badly. Last night, even though Alec didn’t know much, was already affirming and relieving.

The concern is always there, especially given the culture Alec comes from, but Magnus has seen Alec fight hard against his own racism and internalized homophobia, and more recently his internalized ableism — and Alec is someone who doesn’t relent until he makes things right. Especially when he’s the one who made mistakes. It’s going to be okay.

“Tell me what you need,” Alec says, meeting his eyes — something he only does when he wants to show Magnus his support, explicitly and deliberately.

“Ask me?” Magnus tries. He hates feeling this vulnerable. “Ask me whatever questions you have, without beating around the bush.” Don’t make it awkward and painful, please.

“Alright, I can do that,” Alec smiles softly, and Magnus melts a little, like every time Alec looks at him like that. He takes a sip of his coffee. “So, I’ve read that there are a lot of different nonbinary identities. Do you use any of those labels for yourself? If you want to tell me.”

Magnus swallows in gratefulness. “I don’t, not really,” he replies. “Most of those labels are very recent, and they don’t really match with how I’ve learned to think about myself. Even nonbinary doesn’t feel exactly right, even if I fit the definition. But I use it because it’s rare for me to feel part of a community, of a group of people who share that with me.”

Alec nods thoughtfully. “I think I can relate with that,” he says. “The community thing, I mean. I’ve never actually thought about my gender, not beyond where it relates to my sexuality, but I guess not needing to think about it is a good sign that I’m cis.”

“Probably,” Magnus shrugs. “Does it feel strange for you? Realizing that you’re not really dating a man?”

Alec takes the time to think about it, though he never completely looks away. “No,” he says finally. “I won’t lie, maybe a few months ago it would have, because...I fought against my own gayness so much that when I finally accepted it, I needed it to be clear-cut. But I don’t feel like that anymore. If I learned something about identities and labels, it’s that they shouldn’t be boxes where you have to cut off parts of yourself to fit inside. I love you. I’m gay. You’re nonbinary. Those don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

Magnus needs a few long seconds before he remembers how to breathe. “They don’t,” he murmurs when he can finally speak again. Alec isn’t usually eloquent, but he has a knack for finding exactly the right words sometimes. And surprising Magnus, every day.

“Yesterday, you reacted when I called you a man,” Alec says slowly. “I’m probably going to slip up a few times until I get used to it, but can you tell me how you want me to speak of you? What words I should use?”

“Yesterday I was irritated and dysphoric,” Magnus replies. “It usually isn’t a problem. I don’t love those words and I’d prefer to avoid them when it’s just us, but socially, I’ve been taken for a man for so long… I can’t say it doesn’t bother me, but I’m not sure I can really imagine anything else. Sure, I’ve had fun glamouring myself into something more feminine, or cultivating an androgynous style at different times, but I’m still...I’m more comfortable being seen as a man than as a woman. Warlocks are sometimes seen as sexless by mortals, like Seelies, because our customs are so different, and I’ve always played with those perceptions.”

“Your name is masculine, right?”

Magnus shrugs. “Yes and no. It uses the masculine marker in Latin, but Latin was a language with grammatical gender. There are masculine words referencing females, and the other way around. And it’s a dead language, anyway. It was dead before I was born. I don’t think of my name as masculine.”

“Then, that’s what’s important,” Alec says. “What about pronouns?”

“I’ve used many different pronouns in many different languages,” Magnus answers. “I’ve always been partial to languages with no gendered pronouns like Turkish, but I really don’t care. He/him pronouns don’t make me feel bad, and I’m used to them.”

“There are languages with no gendered pronouns?” Alec asks, fascinated.

“A number of them,” Magnus says. “We really need to travel more. But to go back to your question, maybe in a few years or decades, I’ll be more comfortable with the new gender-neutral pronouns in English like they/them, but it takes me a while to get used to new things. So he/him is fine for now.”

“Okay,” Alec nods. “What about...we’ve been calling each other boyfriends. Would you rather I use something else?”

Magnus laughs, relief finally washing over him. He was tenser than he realized, and it makes him feel like jelly, suddenly. “No, Alexander. Hearing you calling me your boyfriend is far too endearing to change that. Please keep doing it.”

Alec’s face illuminates with a wide smile. “My nonbinary boyfriend,” he says playfully. “I know we’ve only barely scratched the surface, but is there something else I should know right now?”

Magnus runs a few things through his head, deciding to keep them for later — he’s very curious, and not all that apprehensive anymore, of what Alec’s reaction to him in feminine lingerie might be — and strokes his chin. “Oh,” comes the illumination. “I really want to shave my face right now. It’s been too long since I last did that.”

“Okay,” Alec says. “That’s a gender thing?”

“Sometimes facial hair feels dysphoric,” Magnus replies. “Like today. Sometimes I just want to look different.”

“I love both looks,” Alec says. “I love all of your looks. I love how I never know what you’re going to go for in the morning.”

Magnus starts eating his pancakes, but he decides that he doesn’t want to wait. He conjures a hand mirror in front of his plate and runs his glowing hand over his chin carefully, leaving smooth skin behind. Alec smiles at him over his coffee mug and Magnus smiles back, glancing at his now hairless face in the mirror. That feels better. Maybe he’ll go ahead and wax his legs and his chest as well.

“Of all the days to be called out on patrol—”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Alec sighs, trying to appease Magnus’ annoyance by squeezing his hand. It’s Sunday, it’s the middle of the day, he wasn’t expecting a call from the Institute at all. “But the nest is in a busy metro tunnel just below the end of the parade. In a few hours, there’s going to be thousands of people down there, and who knows when the demons might try to attack the trains. And they’re bat demons, so they need my bow.”

The curse—and occasional blessing, if Alec is honest with himself—of being the only archer worth his salt in the New York Institute, is that despite now being the official Head, he’s still needed on the patrol roster. Most Institute Heads retire from the field, the administrative and political work being a full time job, but Alec still goes out with his siblings several times a week, and he usually leads the special teams called to handle demon surges.

Today, he curses that necessity with everything he has. Magnus has been excited about their first Pride together for weeks, and Alec was truly happy to do this with him.

“We were supposed to go to the parade,” Magnus sulks.

“I’m really sorry,” Alec repeats. “Maybe if we handle this fast enough, I can join you part-way through? I’ll do my best.”

Magnus looks at him critically. “No. I’m coming with you.”

“I know the parade is important to you—”

“It’s only important if we go together,” Magnus answers. “If I come with you, it will be faster, and then I can portal us into the procession directly, if there’s still time.”

“Alright,” Alec nods.

The team, larger than usual patrols because of the size of the demon nest, is almost ready when Alec and Magnus make it to the ops center. Alec quickly gets his bow and quiver and straps on his thigh holsters, and moves to signal the go ahead.

“Wait,” Magnus holds him up. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it in style.”

Alec frowns as he waves his hand, releasing a cloud of blue magic onto the two of them. Alec looks down at himself, his eyes gliding over his outfit before he clocks the changes. The lapel of his leather jacket now holds two prominent flag pins, a rainbow one and one with the black, gray, white and purple of the asexual flag. He sees matching pins, significantly larger, on Magnus’ vest, with his own flags. It’s the first time, as far as Alec knows, that Magnus has outwardly worn his nonbinary identity in the Institute, and he feels a swell of pride at the shine in Magnus’ eyes.

“Look at your arrows, sir,” Underhill’s voice comes from over his shoulder.

Alec twists his head to see the fletching of his arrows, usually red, is now brightly colored. Each fletch bears the colors of a different pride flag.

“So we can defeat the demons with pride,” Magnus smirks when Alec looks back at him.

“I like it,” Alec smiles. The mass of bright colors hurts his eyes a little, but the gazes of his teammates on them aren’t full of judgment but of amusement, and that’s a victory in its own right. He runs a hand over the little pins on his lapel.

“Um, sir?” Underhill asks, clearing his throat.

“Yes?” Alec turns to him, but he realizes that Underhill is looking at Magnus and not at him.

He gestures at the pins Magnus is wearing, and Alec can feel Magnus brace himself for a comment. “Could I, uh, have one too?”

Magnus blinks. “Of course,” he recovers quickly. “Rainbow flag?”

“Yeah,” Underhill nods.

Magnus snaps his fingers, and a pin as large as his own appears on Underhill’s chest.

“Thank you!”

Alec is certain he can see his subordinate’s eyes shine.

“Anyone else?” Magnus asks, full of mirth. A few people grumble, including Jace, until a young Shadowhunter takes a step forward.

“Can I have a trans pin?” she asks, her voice only wavering a little.

Alec feels a swell of pride. Kara is one of the youngest recruits, a sixteen year old who’s mostly kept to herself since she transferred to the Institute last winter, because he was the only Head willing to accept her chosen name and pronouns. Her face is set in stubborn determination as she fields her teammates' stares and stands in front of Magnus. Magnus beams at her. “Here you go, darling,” he snaps his fingers again. Kara looks down at the shiny pastel colored pin in reverence, and flashes him a smile.

“Are we ready to go?” Alec asks. He doesn’t want to break the moment, but they really need to move.

Magnus takes a step back and throws out a portal in front of them. “Let’s go kill some demons,” he says.

Alec grabs an aromantic-themed arrow from his quiver, smiling internally at the pun, and nocks it onto his bow string before stepping through the portal.

Alec does his best to pay attention to what Jia is telling him, but he’s not having the best time of it. He’s had a full glass of champagne already and it’s getting to his head a little, and the ambient noise isn’t helping his concentration — in fact, it’s loud enough that his head is pounding and he’s losing track of what’s going on.

And then, there’s Magnus. Alec keeps stealing concerned glances at him, standing across the room in conversation with an older Shadowhunter from the Prague Institute. It’s been at least ten minutes, and every time Alec looks, Magnus is wearing a new accessory.

Alec knows why Magnus elected for a plain look today, for their very first reception since they moved to Alicante. He wanted to avoid dragging attention to him, knowing that many people in attendance are doubtful toward the new High Warlock of Alicante. Tonight marks Alec’s official nomination as Inquisitor, and he wanted to spare Alec a scene.

Alec is starting to suspect that a scene may be unavoidable, and if the reason is what he suspects, then he will wholeheartedly defend Magnus. It started with earrings. Magnus went for a simple dark suit with almost no jewelry beside his wedding ring, but he’s now sporting a very shiny pair of diamond earrings. And a necklace. And a butterfly hair clip that probably costs more than a year of Alec’s now sizable salary.

And now, lipstick. Very obvious, bright red lipstick.

“I’m so sorry,” Alec turns back to Jia, “but I believe my husband needs my help.”

Even though she’s now his direct superior, he doesn’t wait to be dismissed and he strides through the room, his height and his new status meaning that everyone gets out of his way. Izzy catches his eyes briefly, and Alec signals at her to stand by.

By the time he’s made it to his husband’s side, Magnus’ hair has turned into a vibrant rendition of the nonbinary flag, and that’s not a good sign. Alec steps into his field of vision before putting a hand on his arm.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Peachy,” Magnus says through his teeth. “This gentleman right here was just telling me about a very strange sort of demon that possesses young Nephilim men and makes them pretend to be women in order to assault actual women.”

Alec blinks as he takes that in, as well as the poison in Magnus’ tone. He tightens his grip on Magnus’ arm, feeling the stares on them — Magnus’ new hair color is hard to miss.

“Really?” he asks innocently, tilting his head. “I’ve never heard of those demons. I should read up on them, so I can make sure every Institute is fully ready for an invasion. What did you say their classification was, Mr. Svec?”

The man gapes at him. “They’re...uh...I don’t…”

“That’s what I thought,” Alec says icily. “There’s no such thing. You’re Kara’s father, aren’t you?”

“That monster isn’t my son,” Svec spits out.

“No, you’re right. She’s not. She’s your daughter. And she’s absolutely thriving at the New York Institute, by the way. She’s the best fighter in her class. That’s what happens when people accept you for who you are.” Alec deliberately turns his back to the sputtering man and looks at Magnus. “Honey, it’s getting late, we should probably head home,” he says, purposefully speaking louder than he needs to. Magnus is trembling with rage, fighting to rein himself in. “Let me just tell Jia, okay?” he adds in a murmur, just for Magnus.

Magnus closes his eyes and nods. “Get me away from him,” he says.

Alec gently guides him over to Izzy, who immediately takes Magnus’ hand. “Let’s stay out of the crowd,” she says, nodding at Alec that she’ll take care of him.

Alec finds Jia with Aline by the buffet. “I can’t condone this kind of bigotry coming from the Head of an Institute,” he says through his teeth.

“I don’t think he’ll try that twice around you,” Aline chuckles, nodding toward Svec, who is now glaring at them from across the room, clearly ostracized. “He didn’t make any friends tonight.”

“What happened tonight isn’t enough to remove him, but as Inquisitor, you’ll be able to push for someone else to take his place when his contract is up in six months,” Jia says. “I understand your anger, Alec. But we can’t change people in a day.”

Alec remembers, not for the first time since she offered him the job of Inquisitor, that she’s not just the progressivist Consul that the most conservative Nephilim frown at, or the mother of one of his best friends. She’s also the person who once sentenced Clary to death without a second thought. If he wants change, he’ll have to bring it on himself.

He exchanges a look with Aline, thinking of the folder on his new desk, the proposal they might have a chance at getting through now that he’s the Inquisitor. Jia’s right, it won’t be done in a day. But it will happen. Alec will make it happen.

And if at some point in the meantime, he has the opportunity to get rid of a few bigots like Svec, he won’t turn his nose up at it.

“Magnus and I are going home,” he says. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Congratulations on the promotion again,” Jia nods. “I’ll expect you in my office at eight tomorrow.”

“Good night.” Alec has to unclench his fist to shake Jia’s hand, and he realizes just how angry he is. Aline clasps him on the shoulder with an understanding look.

He finds Magnus and Izzy at the door, ready to go. “Can you portal us home?” he asks Magnus as they step outside.

Magnus wordlessly opens a portal and steps through without checking that Alec is following him, a testimony of how unsettled he still is. Alec takes the time to hug Izzy before he goes through. “You were amazing,�� she slips him, kissing him on the cheek.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he answers. “Thanks for your help.”

Alec comes behind Magnus and embraces him as soon as he’s out of the portal. Magnus took them straight to their bedroom, but he hasn’t moved since, standing there trembling in rage — or in something else.

“I love you,” Alec murmurs over and over in his ear. “All of you.”

After a minute, the shaking subsides, and Alec feels his own anger drain with it. It leaves him tired and out of sorts, his head still ringing with the noise of the reception. He loosens his hold on Magnus and takes one hand off of him to pull off his tie.

“I’m sorry,” Magnus murmurs. “I really wanted to avoid making a scene.”

Alec moves to face him. “Don’t ever apologize for something a bigot caused. It wasn’t you.”

“I tried to just ignore him, but—”

“He was awful,” Alec finishes. “I know.”

“I don’t know why I let him get to me so much,” Magnus sighs.

Alec guides them both to sit down on the bed.

“You love Kara,” he says. “He was saying horrible things.”

Magnus shakes his head. “I didn’t even know that was her father.”

Alec shrugs. “We all get triggered sometimes. He just pushed the wrong buttons.”

Magnus curls up and buries his hands in his still colored hair. “I usually have better control than that,” he says.

“I think I know what happened,” Alec sighs. “You were feeling insecure because you toned down your whole identity for me, in a place where you don’t feel safe. You were already on edge, and probably dysphoric, am I wrong?”

“No,” Magnus mutters. “I hate slacks.”

“Magnus, I don’t want you to change yourself for me, ever,” Alec says. He puts a hand on Magnus’ shoulder, to make sure that he’s really listening. Magnus looks up at him. “I don’t want you to make yourself smaller or more acceptable because you think it will be better for me.”

“I just—” Magnus sighs. “It was your day.”

“We’re not, ever, going to be normal. Not for the Downworld, and definitely not for the Clave. And I don’t want us to be, Magnus. I’ve spent enough time trying to make myself fit into a mold that didn’t fit me. I don’t ever want you to tone yourself done for them.”

“Okay,” Magnus murmurs, his voice fragile. Alec feels a strong pulse of anger at Svec course through him again, seeing Magnus so vulnerable. Magnus isn’t supposed to be vulnerable. Not about this.

Or maybe he’s more insecure about it than Alec realized.

Alec holds him for a while in silence, feeling Magnus’ need to recoup. “How did you know I was feeling dysphoric?” Magnus asks suddenly, after a few minutes.

“I’m starting to recognize it,” Alec shrugs. “Also, you might want to look at a mirror.”

Before he can realize it, Magnus is out of his embrace, staring at a hastily conjured hand mirror. “Fuck,” he mutters, showing Alec that his suspicion was right. Magnus didn’t realize the way his magic responded to his discomfort.

“Did I just come out to the entire Council because I was angry?”

“Uh,” Alec hesitates. “I doubt that many of them know what the colors mean. They’ll just put it down as one of your...eccentricities. Izzy might know, though.”

“That’s why she kept saying she loved me,” Magnus breathes out, running a hand through his colorful hair.

“Should I be jealous?” Alec raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, Alexander. I’ve been thinking of leaving you for Isabelle’s legendary cooking skills.”

Alec makes a face at him, then he reaches out and touches the tip of Magnus’ artfully styled hair where it’s dyed bright yellow. “I like this look on you,” he says. “I mean, I don’t like that you felt so threatened that your magic reacted this way, but I like to see you proud and loud. You’re beautiful.”

Magnus beams at him and relaxes back against Alec’s chest, holding up the mirror to look at the both of them, Alec straight-backed in his serious black suit and Magnus boneless against him, a flurry of colors. Alec wonders, often — especially on days like today — if they could make a more disparate couple, at least in the eyes of the world.

And yet the ways in which they fit together outweigh their differences, every day.

+1.

“I asked you here because I want to show you something,” Alec says when Magnus walks into his office on a Friday afternoon, holding his phone in his hand and looking confused.

Magnus stills at his seriousness. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. The opposite, actually. But it’s important to me, and I thought you’d want to see it.”

Alec takes a thin blue folder from his desk and hands it over to Magnus, a small smile on his lips. Magnus opens it with a frown.

“What is this?” he asks.

“The ruling from the latest Council meeting,” Alec answers. “It came in just this afternoon.”

“The one they asked you to testify in?”

Alec confirms with a nod. He didn’t tell Magnus exactly why he needed to talk at the Council assembly, but it’s a common enough occurrence that Magnus didn’t think much of it. To Alec, though, it was a moment he’s waited for for a long time.

He watches Magnus skim the first lines of the ruling, his eyebrows shooting up. “Is that what I think it is?” Magnus asks, glancing up at him.

Alec’s fingers find his wedding ring and start spinning it. “Depends what you’re thinking,” he shrugs, trying to look unconcerned. He probably shouldn’t be anxious about Magnus’ reaction, but he is. “It’s the first part of a set of amendments to Clave law that I’ve been pushing for since before I was named Inquisitor. Aline and I presented them to the Council last month, and they’ve just been voted.”

“You and Aline,” Magnus says pensively. “‘Amendments concerning the inclusion of members of the LGBTQUIA+ community,’” he reads out loud. “You did this?”

“Full marriage equality regardless of gender, including for mixed-species couples,” Alec recites. “Automatic acceptance of name and gender change requests if related to transition. Recognition of the existence of genders outside the binary.”

Magnus gasps in surprise. Alec nods to confirm the truth of it. It’s one of the things the Council fought back the most on, and he pushed hard to get it to pass. It goes beyond even mundane progress in every country he’s looked up, but it was too important to let go.

“Anti-discrimination policies,” he continues. “And this one might affect us directly someday: equal rights to adoption and the use of surrogates.”

Magnus’ eyes light up briefly, though he doesn’t immediately comment. Alec wrings his hands and rambles on nervously. “We didn’t manage to get the legalization of polyamorous marriages, but we’ll keep working on it. We’re preparing a second proposal on Downworlder inclusion, but that one will probably make amendments to the Accords necessary, and that will take a lot more time.”

“Alexander,” Magnus says in a low voice. Alec almost keeps going, too nervous to stop, but there’s something almost dangerous in Magnus’ gaze.

“Yes?”

“You did all this?”

“Not on my own,” Alec shakes his head. “Aline wrote up most of the proposal, and we got as many queer Shadowhunters to come testify as possible. There aren’t a lot of trans Nephilim who are out, but it was important, especially since most of the people on the Council have little knowledge of these issues. Aline being Jia’s daughter probably helped a lot, and our wedding made a lot of noise around here.”

“No,” Magnus catches his wrist. “You did all this and you didn’t tell me anything? Not once?”

Alec deflates. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure it would go anywhere at first, and I know Clave politics can be a touchy subject for you. And then when we finally got the hearing, I kind of wanted to keep it a surprise? I didn’t want you to be disappointed if it didn’t work.”

He doesn’t understand Magnus’ reaction, or rather his lack of reaction. He’s been absurdly happy ever since Aline came by his office earlier this afternoon to bring him the ruling, and he thought Magnus would share his mood once he found out. But he seems pensive instead, like this doesn’t interest him all that much.

“What about you, Alexander?” he asks. “What if it hadn’t worked?”

“We would have kept trying,” Alec shrugs. “Like the last four times we submitted the proposal.”

Magnus blinks. “Four times?”

“The first time, it didn’t even make it past Jia’s office. She’s supportive, but it was shortly after she was elected, and she couldn’t afford the waves it would make when there were still so many Circle supporters around.” Alec consciously stops himself from talking and stills his hands, clasping them behind his back. “Magnus—”

“Yes?” Magnus prompts him.

“Are you angry I didn’t tell you?”

Magnus’ eyes widen in surprise. “No, Alexander, of course not. I’m just—overwhelmed, I suppose. I’m sorry I made you think that.”

“Then what is it? I thought you’d like it.”

Magnus looks away, biting his lip. “I do,” he says. “I—what you’ve accomplished is incredible. It’s going to change—everything—for some people, and that’s amazing. And I know that you didn’t do it for me, but—”

“You’ll be able to get the gender mentioned on your Idris ID changed or removed,” Alec finishes for him. “And anything else you want. I did do it for you, Magnus. Not just you, but for you, too.”

“I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Magnus says.

“You live here, now. This will apply to every Downworlder in Idris, too.”

Magnus works his jaw. “I’m having a hard time processing it,” he admits. “It’s been so long that—to be able to have my whole identity recognized, in Idris of all places—it’s almost impossible to believe.”

Alec’s tension relaxes almost on its own. “You can take your time,” he smiles. “It will still be here tomorrow, and the day after. Are you...mad that I didn’t include you in the process?”

“Why didn’t you?” Magnus frowns.

“I figured you had other things on your mind, with all the work you’re doing to get more Downworlders to move here. And it felt like...like something we should achieve on our own, somehow? I don’t know if that makes sense. Aline and I discussed asking you for advice several times, but we felt like it should be our project.”

“It does make sense,” Magnus nods. “This isn’t just about changing the law. You’re trying to change the culture, your culture, and I’ll never be a part of that. I understand.”

“I don’t want you to feel excluded,” Alec says immediately.

“I don’t. I’m amazed at what you’ve achieved. And if the next step is a rewrite of the Accords, then I’ll back you every step of the way, and push for those changes in the Downworld communities too.” He reaches out to stroke Alec’s cheek tenderly. “I love you, Alexander. You still surprise me every day, and I love you so much for it.”

Alec feels his heart speed up at the declaration, a wave of warmth and love coursing through him, reaching for Magnus. He opens his arms, and Magnus comes to nestle his face in Alec’s neck, hugging him tightly. “I love you too,” Alec says. “It would mean everything to me if we can take this next step in tandem. Change the world together.”

Magnus moves to beam up at him. “You’re incredible, Alexander. You know that?”

“You keep telling me,” Alec smiles, leaning in to kiss him.

As they pull apart again, he can’t help admiring the way the light hits Magnus’ face just right, highlighting the golden sparkles in his blue eyeshadow. Magnus has made it a point to wear warlock blue everyday since they moved to Alicante, but today it’s subdued, down to just his makeup and a discreet sapphire bracelet. He tilts his head, and the light makes his eyes glow.

“When you said the amendment about adoption could affect us, did you mean it?” he asks.

Alec bites his lip. “I know we’ve only talked about children in a very abstract way, but—is that something you’d want?” he asks in a smaller voice than he’d like.

“I’ve never truly wanted it before I met you, but yes, I think I would,” Magnus answers, looking a little awestruck by his own realization.

“It’s not something we need to commit to right now,” Alec reassures him. “But now, if we want to, the Clave will fully recognize any child we adopt as ours, and as a legal resident of Idris.”

“All thanks to you,” Magnus murmurs, tears in his eyes. “Yes, Alexander, I want children with you.”

“Then we’ll start thinking about that,” Alec says with a wide smile. “For now, let’s go home and celebrate properly.”

Magnus laughs wetly and twists his hand to make a portal. “After you,” he says.

Alec grabs his hand and pulls them through together.

#shadowhunters #malec #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #shadowhunters fic #mine #echo's fanfiction #map out a world #autistic alec lightwood #asexual alec lightwood #nonbinary magnus bane #malec discord server #hmdiscord

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wri0thesley · 5 years

Text

sweetness - yandere!risotto x reader

WARNINGS: sfw. yandere warning - stalking, obsessive behaviour, gaslighting. brief mentions of abuse (reader’s father is implied to be violent towards them). blood and violence. a lot of food descriptions. reader is gender neutral! 10.3k.

Risotto finds himself in a rainstorm one busy evening and ducks into your place of employ for a brief reprieve. Your father’s sweet shop. Risotto is the kind of man who is used to having people be scared of him - nobody ever has the courage to treat him like an ordinary human being. Nobody has ever treated him like someone normal. Not until you. He leaves with a bag full of gifts for the rest of La Squadra, the memory of you smiling, and a crush that grows into an obsession.

It’s a coincidence that Risotto Nero ever saw you in the first place - an assortment of the misfortunes that Risotto has come to accept as commonplace in his life. He had long ago accepted that the Nero family was not one for whom luck ran in the blood - a family who did not particularly care for him, the death of his cousin when he was fourteen, ending up in an organised crime syndicate with a gun in his hand and a list of names in his pocket.

It’s a coincidence he’s glad of.

That, at least, is not something he ever really thinks. Things that happen to him are either annoyances or acceptable; he goes home to a quiet, empty house and he grunts when he sees his neighbours but he does not offer anything more than that. He is perfectly civil to his associates in La Squadra di Esecuzione; they, he knows, think of his stoicism and his silence as strength. They look to him like a leader, because he has had to prove himself such. When he had been given control of his team at twenty one and met Sorbet and Gelato, already over a decade older than him, he had known he had to prove himself.

If he has left some of his humanity behind, what does it matter? Humanity is not an important trait for a killer. Better for him to clog their veins with needles and razor blades instead of worrying about the family they may or may not be leaving behind.

The day his life changed forever, he was on his way back to his mercifully quiet apartment after a day spent giving out orders to his teammates. It had not been a kind day; the pay the hitmen get, for what they are expected to do, is laughable. Risotto is keeping his roof over his head, but it is not without effort on his part - and his subordinates are still not always quite so lucky. The newest recruit, Ghiaccio, had been practically scarlet in the face when he’d been given his share--

Risotto pauses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a persistent ache in his temples. Ghiaccio is good at what he does - or he would not be a member of Risotto’s team - but Risotto is always left with a headache after speaking to him. The day is already on a southward spiral. The cold nips at his bare skin, the sky grey and cloudy, the pavements crowded with businessmen and women attempting to get home in the rush of the end of the day. Some of them glance twice at Risotto, leaving him a wide berth on the walkway - one or two of them even cross the street to avoid coming too close to him.

His height and his dark eyes and his strange way of dressing put people off - but so does that way he carries himself. That dark, brooding knowledge that seems to follow him - a whisper that says; this man is involved in unpleasant business. And on the streets of Italy, that unpleasant business generally means only one thing.

He feels the cold splash of water droplets on his skin before he realises that it’s begun to rain. He is not usually one who minds the rain - in the right circumstances, he finds walking alone in the rain quite peaceful - but these are not the right circumstances. The pavements are already growing slick as the rain gets heavier, and the people crowding all around him are searching for umbrellas, thrusting them up into the sky--

Risotto is taller than most men, and umbrellas are hardly the most social of accessories. Awkward points bite into his shoulders as people rush by him, their sights blinkered by the canvas above them, no longer concerned by what Risotto might be now that he’s not in their direct field of vision. As yet another umbrella - this one patterned with rainbows - connects with his chin, he’s forced to stop for a moment, his eyes scanning the street beside him to see if there’s somewhere that’s still open he might take shelter in.

Ah. There. A softly lit pale blue shopfront, a hand-lettered sign flipped to “open!” in its window. Risotto grasps the handle and steps in (stooping a little when he realises how low the doorway is), a bell chiming out across the little room to announce that the shop has just received a customer.

He takes a moment to breathe as he catalogues his surroundings.

It is always a good idea for an assassin to know where he is. The moment his gaze flickers around the room, he’s able to put a name to the shop he ducked into for some solace from the rain and the barrage of umbrellas; this is Dolcezza, a little sweet shop that has been on this street for three years. By all accounts, it keeps a steady enough clientele, but it hardly brings in a large amount of money - which Risotto assumes is the only reason that the owner, an older man, has not been badgered or hounded about the protection fees he most certainly is not paying.

It’s a nice place, Risotto thinks grudgingly, looking around. The walls are lined with jars of brightly coloured candies and sweet treats - a glass case at the front of the shop features some more specialised treats out in the open. Fudges and special chocolates and neatly packaged boxes of sweet assortments. There’s an open doorway, beside the cash register, where Risotto can see a large table and some silver specialised equipment and a figure in gloves and an apron bent over, clearly hard at work on the confections. A cash register sits on top of the wooden portion of the glass cabinet, and Risotto’s gaze falls upon that bit of technology, his eyes also meet the girl behind the cash register’s own wide stare.

He is perfectly used to the flash of fear that he sees in her eyes. He sees it constantly in people on the street and sometimes when he is dragged into restaurants with other members of his team and when he goes out to buy his weekly shopping (he does this once a week, at the same store, and buys the same things). It’s to do with the set of his mouth and the ink and blood colour of his eyes - the girl behind the counter falters. She is pretty enough, he supposes, with dark hair and dark eyes and wearing a neat pinstriped dress that he supposes is a uniform of sorts. He doesn't really care about that. What he cares about is how she watches him warily, like a cat about to run if he gets too close or startles with sudden movements--

And he has spent his entire life with people being afraid of him, and sometimes the best way to cope with the knowledge you are feared is to take control of the room. He takes one slow, deliberate step towards the counter - and, like he knew she would, she jumps.

“I-I’m s-so sorry, one moment!” She says in a babble, her voice running into one long continuous noise, and she scrambles through the large, open doorway and out of Risotto’s sight. He’s impressed that she managed to say anything, actually - still, how predictable. The smirk curves his full mouth before he can stop it, and he finishes walking towards the cash register, looking around the little place and amusing himself by imagining what kind of sweets he’d take for the rest of La Squadra.

With any luck, the rain will have stopped before the worker has even had the courage to peek around the corner to see if he’s still there.

Sweet tobacco for Prosciutto, perhaps. The blue and white shark sweets that look like they have the most horrific texture for Pesci. Balls of bubble gum for Melone, who will pop them next to Ghiaccio’s ears to annoy the new recruit. Illuso . . . well, Risotto has never quite managed to get the measure of Illuso, who listens more than he speaks and regurgitates the gossip of other people instead of his own. Perhaps one of the small fudge assortments, to be safe. Gelato has a sweet tooth, and Sorbet indulges Gelato in everything - he’d take a bag of the heart-shaped marshmallows for those two. Apropos on account of them being lovers, which they have never bothered to hide--

He hears a raised voice from the other room, and then a figure stomps out - most certainly not the figure of the girl who had not been able to stomach his presence through her fear. And Risotto . . . well, at first, he does not know that he’s looking at his reason for living. His reward for all of the hardships he has endured. That comes later.

All he knows is that when you look into his eyes, there isn’t a whit of fear reflected in yours, and he feels comforted and known and not like a monster for the first time in a long while.

Elisa comes tearing into the back room, where you’re industriously cutting the fudge into perfect cubes, and looks like she’s seen a ghost. You sigh, raising yourself up - your father had hired Elisa after one of your last workers had gone on maternity leave, and you’d soon realised she was easily flustered and prone to making a drama out of things. You suppose that you’ll have to stay a little later tonight to make sure that the fudge is all finished - you don’t trust Elisa to do it, and at any rate, she’s not paid to do things like that.

“What’s wrong?” You ask her, keeping your temper. Shouting does nothing good, you’ve learnt. Your father might use a raised voice to get what he wants, but that just makes you even less likely to jump straight to righteous anger. “I heard a customer come in, but I didn’t hear one leave.”

She gasps a few times, her big brown eyes wide, until she hisses out;

“I can’t serve him!”

Him? You wonder if perhaps it might be an ex-boyfriend or an awkward crush, but Elisa looks far too rattled for it to be something that simple.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, keeping your voice even. You and her are about the same age, but you know from the few friends you’ve managed to make in your life that people have a tendency to see you as the sensible one. The parental figure in any given situation. The one who keeps the rest of them calm. “Do you need me to go out and serve them?”

“No!” The response is instantaneous. She looks terrified. You wonder if this man has threatened her with a knife or something - this reaction seems over the top, even for someone like Elisa. “You can’t!”

“Elisa,” you say softly, pulling off the gloves that you were wearing for hygiene. “I’m sure he’s perfectly fine and civil. I’ll go speak to him.”

“I think he’s part of the Mafia! Of Passione!” Her words spill out all at once.

You look at her, your forehead creasing in confusion.

“Elisa,” you say, very slowly and carefully. “What business would a mobster have in a sweet shop? Do you think he’s here to assassinate the lemon drops? Slit the throats of our barley twists?”

“You’ll see!” She insists. She’s trembling. “You shouldn’t go out there!”

You sigh softly, and you go out to see what all of the fuss is about.

You understand when the man, stood by the cash register, his hands casually in his pockets, turns to look at you. You understand that perhaps Elisa was a little justified in being afraid of him; he stands well over six foot, his clothes . . . unusual, a scarred and muscled torso very prominently on display. His hair is pale and plastered to his forehead by the rain - but most striking of all are his eyes. Blood red irises and inky dark sclera, boring into your own gaze as you look up at his face (he’s handsome, you realise, and try and curtain the thought) and make sure that none of the brief flash of fear you do feel shows in your expression.

Because even if he looks scary doesn’t mean he is. You know not to judge a book by its cover! And this man, you suppose, spends a lot of time being judged for his stature and his eyes and all of the things he can’t help, and you refuse to be a part of the problem. Part of you, too, wholeheartedly believes that a gangster would have no business in your father’s humble little sweet shop.

You’d known when you’d rented this storefront that it was in an area controlled by Passione; when you’d spoken to your father, he’d assured you there was nothing to worry about - so you assume your father pays the protection dues he’s supposed to. There’s no reason for any member of Passione to step foot in here unless they were hankering for something to satisfy their sweet tooth!

And if they are here to buy, they are a customer and not a gangster, and you intend to treat them simply as the former. Who are you to judge how one earns their bread?

“Get caught in the downpour?” You ask, cheerfully, taking your place behind the counter. “It looked pretty bad out there! I’m glad to be inside!”

You keep eye contact with him. You notice that he seems surprised, and you chalk it up to the fact that people probably don’t look into his eyes - you suppose they are a little unnerving, but the more you look at them the more ordinary they seem. Your smile does not fade a whit.

“O-oh,” he says, and his voice is very deep and pleasant. You watch as the faintest dark flush creeps up his cheeks. “Yes. I dodged in to avoid the rain.”

You look at the clock on the wall.

“Oh dear,” you say, meaning it. You’re sympathetic; getting caught in an unexpected rain shower is bad at the worst of times, but this man appears to be in head to toe leather, and leather is never comfortable when damp. “And at this time, too! The roads are always so horribly busy with everyone getting home from work! I’m sorry you got caught up in that, Signore.”

He pauses before speaking, as if he’s really mulling over his words.

“I kept getting hit with umbrellas,” he grunts out, eventually.

“Well, we never have too many customers around this time anyway,” you say, smiling. “I don’t mind at all if you ducked in for some reprieve from the showers! You’re welcome to stay and look around until it goes - it’s not very big, but my father and I make all of the sweets ourselves and we’re very proud of it!” You smile, and then, you wink at him. It feels like he needs a kindness, after Elisa ran out of here practically screaming. “If you want a sample of anything, just ask!”

He blinks at you, as if he can’t quite believe that you haven’t turned tail and run - and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I think I frightened the other girl,” he says, eventually - he does not sound exactly ashamed of it, but he does sound sorry. “I’m sorry if I caused any problems for you.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you say, lightly. “Elisa’s new here. She’s still getting to grips with everything, and I think she just got a little overwhelmed by--”

You hesitate. How do you tell this man that his very presence is intimidating?

A smile breaks his mouth.

“Yes,” he says. “I tend to have that effect.”

There is a smudge of flour - or some other powdery white substance used in baking, he knows it is not the powdery white substance he is most familiar with, at least - across the bridge of your nose, and keeping his eyes off it is proving to be a challenge. He wants to stare at your face for hours. He wants to memorise the shape of your eyes and your lips, covet the colour of your eyes - remember what it feels like to be looked at like a man and nothing more.

He’s not often lost for words, but in front of you, he finds himself faltering. It’s been so long since he has had a conversation that is just simply a conversation - even at the supermarket, the cashier looks up and looks down and scans his items without drawing attention to themselves, too fearful of whatever Risotto might do (even in the well-lit aisles of a public place, apparently) to do much else. You, though - you are before him, smile on your face, eyes directed at him, open warmth and sunniness diffusing everything you do.

He didn’t intend to buy anything. He does not have much of a sweet tooth. He prefers the sour or the salty when it comes to consumables - but somehow, looking at your friendly open face, he cannot bring himself to leave empty-handed. Even though you had openly said you didn’t mind if he’d only come in to shelter from the rain (which he had done, after all), he does not want to disappoint you. There’s nobody else in the shop. How many customers have you had all day?

If he buys something, and says he liked it . . . if he does that, that’s an excuse to come back in and see you again, isn’t it?

It’s not that Risotto has a crush, he thinks - though now that he mentions it, he notices how pleasant he finds your colouring, how your curves and lines fill out your own uniform (pinstripes and aprons) so well, how he likes the way your hair is pulled out of your face - but rather that he wants, just for a few moments, to feel like he is being looked at as another person on the street. Before today, it had been a long time since he’d been allowed to feel normal.

And if the price of feeling ordinary is a few bags of sweets and a lighter wallet, is that so high a price to pay?

And he could always buy things for his teammates!

He might not be planning on enjoying any delicacies himself, but if one of his teammates enjoys the treats . . . he smiles to himself at the sheer genius of his plan.

“May I have some bags made up?” He asks you. “I’m afraid there are a few things I want, I’d rather keep them separate--”

“Of course, Sir!” You say, immediately brightening - even more! He didn’t think it was possible for that glow you had to get any brighter, but he’s proven wrong. “Are you buying some gifts, perhaps?”

“Yes,” he says, watching you reach behind the counter and put on a pair of thin plastic gloves. “Some gifts for my colleagues, we’ve just done rather well on a project.” He can’t stop watching your hands. He wonders how small they would look if he were to put his own beside them. If he were to take ahold of you.

(He does not say that the “project” he refers to is the murder of an influential government official whose demise had been reported this morning as due to a combination of old age and a rare blood disorder nobody had realised he’s had, one that caused a horrible iron deficiency. It’s much better that you don’t know that.)

“Oh!” You say, the smile not leaving your face, your eyes not leaving his. “I’m really happy for you! You must be a considerate boss, to want to buy everyone else presents! How many are you buying for? We have a couple of gift boxes and selections that might fit the bill, if you want to bring in a treat to share--”

“No,” Risotto says quickly, imagining the chaos that might break out if he were to provide a box for his teammates to pick and choose how they pleased. Ghiaccio would certainly accuse someone of having more than their fair share, and Prosciutto would berate Pesci for eating too many, and Gelato would definitely actually eat too many-- “I’ll get them all individual gifts, if you don’t mind.”

Your smile is infectious. Risotto isn’t certain when the last time the curve of his lips held this long.

“That’s more than fine. I’ll make sure they’re all very nicely presented, don’t you worry about that! How many individual bags would you like?”

He pauses, counting in his head, partly not wanting you to move too far away from him and partly hypnotised by the tilt of your head and the colour of your eyes and the way your attention is focused solely on him. He’s used to not being seen - that’s his job description, after all. But you make being noticed seem . . .pleasant. Like it’s not something to be avoided at all costs.

He’s grateful for the little game he played with himself earlier, assigning all of the sweets to members of his team. It means he doesn’t embarrass himself tripping over words and sounding unsure about what he wants, making you feel as though he’s incompetent - he watches as you take scoops out of the big impractical jars and pour them into sweet little striped paper bags, reaching behind you to pull out lengths of ribbon and cut them so they curl beautifully, neat little cards with the name of your shop attached to the shimmering tails--

You move so quickly and neatly and Risotto is duly impressed. He’d find this kind of work horribly dull; you seem to be having a good time, enjoying yourself as you tug on a ribbon that isn’t quite even and straighten the tag of Prosciutto’s sweet tobacco. He feels . . . warm, somehow, that you’re taking such care over the little bags of sweets, though he knows they can hardly be the most expensive things you sell. Risotto cannot afford the most expensive things you sell, he thinks, looking at the price of some of the chocolate assortments in satin boxes behind the glass.

“There!” You say, stepping back and enjoying the neat sight of all eight bags of Risotto’s choice lined up on the counter. Risotto has to admit they look very neat and pretty - whilst he knows Ghiaccio will probably just tear into his bag of pretty pale blue peppermints, he hopes that Prosciutto or Illuso or someone will appreciate the work put into presentation. He knows he is - or perhaps he’s just admiring the one doing the presentation. Aren’t they the same thing, in the end?

You tell him the total and Risotto fumbles for his wallet. It’s been a while since he paid for anything in cold hard cash - he has a fake bank card for things like groceries under a false name, but somehow he wants to ensure things here are more . . . personal. He hands over the money and his breath catches as your fingers brush his--

Did you feel that spark of electricity? That brief zip of excitement?

“Which of them are for you?” You ask him, as if nothing has happened, waiting for your register to print his receipt. You’re thankful for your father’s insistence on pricing things in whole numbers - you’ve never had much of a brain for mathematics, and you’d felt somehow . . . discomfited by the way Risotto’s fingers had felt when they brushed your own. You’re glad to avoid touching him too much.

“Oh.” He looks at you. “None of them are.”

You look at him, profiling him - and then, smiling, you tap your nose. You reach to one of the jars closest to you, filled with dark pinwheels the colour of this man’s scleras - you take a handful of them and pop them into one of the bags your father usually leaves for Halloween-time, black and white striped.

“No charge,” you say, tying it with a neat little black bow. “I think you’ll like the licorice! You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys too much sweetness.” You drop it into the bag with the rest of Risotto’s purchases. “You should always allow yourself to indulge! You deserve a reward just as much as the rest of your team do!”

“I-- thank you, Signorina--”

You wave away his thanks, your cheeks pink, and Risotto decides right then and there he’s going to have to come back here, if only to see your face flush that colour once more. He knows you’re going to haunt his daydreams for days. That someone like you has existed so close to him for so long and he has been unaware. . .

“I hope you and your colleagues enjoy them!” You chirp. You point to the windows. “The rain’s stopped too! I was very glad to meet you, I hope I’ll see you again sometime--”

And you step away from him, turning your body towards the doorway, and Risotto is leaving before he shames himself by grabbing your shoulder and asking you to stay longer and just talk to him for a while. As he opens the door and the bell rings across the shop, he hears your voice:

“Elisa! He was perfectly nice, you were just being silly--”

Nice.

He hasn’t heard that word ascribed to him in a long time.

When Risotto hands Formaggio the prettily packaged parcel of sweets shaped like little cat faces, his subordinate looks up at him with wide eyes, as if trying to gauge whether or not Risotto is being serious about it. For one thing, gifts are not really a done thing among the members of La Squadra - for another, if Formaggio were to be handed confectionary, he would not have expected to be handed it by Risotto. Pesci, perhaps. Gelato, maybe - though he would hesitate eating anything given to him by Gelato. Illuso, maybe, if it were something elegant and not something twee--

But Risotto’s eyes are very focused and serious, so Formaggio takes the bag and drops out a confused thanks, and wonders if this is his capo’s way of poisoning him. He’s always imagined that Risotto would be sneakier than this, but maybe it’s one of those mafia honour things and he’s supposed to just eat it so that Risotto doesn’t kill him in a more painful way? Formaggio screws up his face looking down at it, and then watches as, across the room, Risotto stops Prosciutto.

He picks out another bag of candy. Formaggio’s cat candy is tied with an orange bow; Prosciutto’s candy - Formaggio doesn’t know how to describe it, but it looks kind of like pale, sugary tobacco - is tied with a yellow one. Prosciutto looks down at it, and then back up at Risotto, and gives a halting thanks.

A few hours later, Formaggio has ascertained that every member of La Squadra has been given a not-quite-identical bag.

When Formaggio hesitantly puts forward that perhaps Risotto is going to kill them, Ghiaccio barks out angrily that their Capo would never do anything so stupid--

“I recognise this shop, anyway,” says Illuso, who is chewing a piece of fudge as he talks. Okay, maybe they’re not actually poisoned, then. “It’s down one of the main streets. Quaint little confectioner’s. Only been there a few years but seems to do okay business. I don’t know who owns it, but as far as I know it’s nobody who Passione or Risotto might have in their back pocket.”

Formaggio looks at the bag again, and, sighing, reaches in. His fingers close around one of the brightly coloured sweets, surprised by how hard it feels - he’d expected some kind of gummy sweet. Throwing it into his mouth, the hard candy immediately tastes sweet and warm and pleasant all at once.

He crunches the sugar between his teeth loudly, because that is the kind of man that Formaggio is. Sorbet, across the table from Formaggio, wrinkles his nose and dutifully feeds Gelato another fluffy pink heart-shaped marshmallow.

“Well?” Ghiaccio demands. “Are you going to die?”

Formaggio considers for a moment. Sweet strawberry aftertaste lingers between his teeth. None of the rest of his teammates who have professed they’ve already eaten some of their ‘gifts’ appear to have dropped dead where they stand yet.

“Nah,” he says, eventually. “Don’t think I’m gonna kick the bucket any time soon. These are real good, by the way.”

“Mm,” says Melone, who pops another brightly coloured gumball into his mouth. Formaggio has heard the bubbles popping for most of the night - as Melone does it, a vein in Ghiaccio’s forehead visibly twitches. The blue haired man already looks like he’s teetering on the edge of collapse - Formaggio supposes he did not enjoy the use of the phrase ‘kick the bucket’. Ghiaccio can be a real uptight asshole. “We should ask Risotto to be rewarded like this every time a hit goes well. Really makes us feel like a team, don’t you think? I’ll give you one of mine if you’ll let me try one of yours.”

Formaggio laughs, flicking one of his cat candies across the table and catching Melone’s tossed gumball with grace, sweeping a low bow. There’s a brief hubbub on the table as Formaggio walks away, probably about who’s being allowed to try some of whose candy, and Formaggio is smirking at the chaos he’s caused as he goes to find Risotto.

He really wouldn’t mind some more of these, actually.

He slips it into conversation with Risotto a few days later, expecting to be rebuffed immediately - the whole thing was already so out of character for their quiet, impassable leader - but he’s surprised when Risotto doesn’t tell him to be grateful for what he has. If Formaggio didn’t know Risotto so well, he’d say that the veil that fell over Risotto’s gaze was almost . . . fond. Longing.

After a moment, Risotto speaks.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The statement is vague, without making any promises - and yet Risotto’s tone sends a shiver down Formaggio’s spine. Formaggio himself has never been the kind of man who makes a plan and sticks to it - if Formaggio gets what he wants, it’s usually because of pure luck. But when Risotto speaks, even to say something so up in the air . . .

Formaggio gets the impression he’ll definitely be getting more of the prettily decorated bags from the confectioner’s down the main street.

And for some reason, that certainty leaves him feeling unsettled.

Risotto is a careful man. He goes into the store that you work at once or twice a week; though he quickly memorises your schedule, he makes sure to pop in every so often when you’re not working. Once, he is served by Elisa, who looks at him with wide eyes and shaking fingers and jumps when the bell rings and another customer walks in. She’s clearly been told by you that Risotto is no threat, and yet she cannot shake that human nature: fear that which you do not think you could outrun or outsmart. Risotto does not smile at her.

Likewise, he does not smile at the older man who is working one Tuesday morning when he enters the candy-scented room to buy himself some more of the licorice. You had been right; he wasn’t a sweet kind of man, but he found himself enjoying the licorice you’d picked out for him immensely. He likes the salt and the chew of the black cables - sometimes, biting into them feels like stress relief.

This man, he assumes, is your father. He does not treat Risotto badly by any means, but Risotto sees the way that your father looks at him distrustfully and sees that he gets much less licorice in the bag than when you (or even Elisa) weigh out the contents.

It’s a pity, he thinks, you had to have a man like that for a father.

When he does get to see you, it feels like all of his troubles are lifted at once.

He had become used to the feeling of carrying all of his burdens around his heart like iron chains. He had accepted that was his lot in his life; he had accepted he was going to feel like he was drowning until he was murdered in a back alley after becoming too cocky with his stand. He hadn’t realised how bad that feeling had gotten until you’d smiled and winked and given him free candy out of the good of your heart and not because you were afraid of him, smudge on your nose and all.

He supposes, surrounded by other men who kill for money, he had not realised that some people were just inherently good.

Well. Perhaps not some people. In his experience, you are the exception that proves the rule.

And that you are reduced to being a confectioner in your father’s business and working behind a cash register, doing mindless things like measuring out grams and tying ribbons makes him ache in the middle of his chest. Someone like you deserves the world. Risotto does not dislike himself - but he does not like himself either. His body is simply the prison that he lives in. Other people whisper behind their hands about what Risotto might do with a face and a body like that, what blood might stain his past, what he might do if he were given an inch of leeway and they were to take their gaze from him for just a moment--

But you do not do that. You smile at him and always put an extra scoop of the sweets into whatever he orders (Prosciutto does not like the sweet tobacco; he asks for one of the beautifully decorated boxes of candy cigarettes, and you put three into his paper bag, telling him nobody ever really buys them anyway). You ask him banal questions about his day like he’s an ordinary man.

Once, angry about the man’s conduct on their last ‘project’, he lets slip Melone’s name. He curses himself in the back of his brain, hating that he’s made himself vulnerable - but when, a few weeks later, you ask about whether Melone has calmed down any yet, any fear he had about you misusing the new information floats away like dust on the wind - you are simply a wonderful person who remembers things that you are told. Who cares about his life, though nobody else ever has.

Risotto sees little things about you. Every day, he learns something new. He learns that you have no particular interest in sweet-making, but your father did not trust easily (this comes as no surprise to Risotto, even with his limited interactions with the man). He learns that you still live at home. You mention that you walk through one of the shittier neighbourhoods to get there, and that is enough for Risotto to draw a brief sketch in his mind of where you might reside--

He learns other things, too. He’s not surprised by your gentle kindnesses, but they still hit him full force in the chest whenever he gets to see one.

It is not just him you give extra portions to, after all. Small children who come in and laboriously count out their money onto the glass, the tap-tap-tap echoing in Risotto’s brain, are rewarded with you exclaiming about how good they are with numbers and a few extra scoops of whatever sweet thing they’re hankering over. A few times, when you and he have been chatting, you’ve slipped him one of the licorice pinwheels from the jar whilst you chewed on your own delicacy of choice.

(“Almost nobody ever buys the licorice!” You tell him, laughing. “You’re doing me a favour by eating some, really!”)

Once, a little girl comes in, sniffling. It transpires she has lost her mother in the hubbub of a busy Friday evening, and you talk to her softly and gently and fetch a chair from out of the backroom for her to sit on. You amuse her by telling her about a time you got separated from your father when you were a small child, and you give her one of the brightly coloured lollipops decorated with rainbow swirls from your display cabinet.

When her mother eventually flies into the shop in a tizzy, she is grateful to you - and more, she’s grateful to Risotto, her eyes not once straying to his peculiar clothes or his strange eyes. To him, she is just one of the two people in this little confectioners who helped keep the light of her life safe, and her eyes are full of happy tears when she gives him a quick hug--

He doesn’t remember the last time somebody hugged him.

Just another example of your bright sunshine rubbing off on him. When somebody is by you, he thinks, they cease to be just themselves - they are lent some of your warmth and sweetness and are made all the better for it. A little voice in the back of his brain, gnawing viciously at the knot in his chest that forms whenever you smile at him, whispers that nobody else deserves this. You are too good for this world. You must be protected and kept safe and guided away from the evils of the universe--

You give a little boy and his even younger sister who come in to browse - and admit shyly, sadness in their eyes, that they have no money, and just enjoy the colours and the smells and being surrounded by delicious things so they can imagine how they might taste - a bag made up of two sweets from every jar in the shop.

“Don’t you lose money?” He can’t resist asking you, after the children have exchanged wide eyed looks as if they cannot believe their fortune and ran out of the door, babbling impassioned thanks. “Giving things out for free like that?”

You meet Risotto’s eyes - and in them, you see that worry that the extra sweets and the free things you slip into this man’s orders have been a burden on you - and you shake your head.

“You never lose money on kindness,” you tell him, and Risotto remembers that for days afterwards. No.The world doesn’t deserve you. Somebody is going to take advantage of you. That voice - the one he has never been good at ignoring, the one that leads him to splattering brains on the pavement with a handgun before he turned twenty - whispers that the only place you will be safe is with him. Risotto believes it.

He believes it even more when one night he has dropped in to buy Formaggio some of his cat candy, and you and your father are arguing in hushed whispers in the back room. You see him, and go to greet him and ask him what he wants tonight--

And your father reaches out, hands encircling your wrist, dragging you to face him too close and hissing something that, if Risotto were not intimately acquainted with listening to conversations he is not supposed to, he would have missed.

“You’re going to bankrupt us--”

“It’s just a few sweets--”

“They’re my sweets. You’re fucking lucky you have a job at all, you ungrateful little--”

Risotto steps forward, and your father - like the coward he is - falls silent. He looks up at the imposing six foot something man with muscles the size of his head and cannot think of anything to say. Risotto’s voice is low, like the rumbling purr of a motorcycle engine when he speaks;

“Is there a problem here?”

Your father blinks up, and you look at Risotto like he has saved you from a very dark fate - and Risotto cannot help but love that look of relief and adoration on your face.

“No problem,” your father mumbles, and scurries away back into the other room, tail tucked firmly between his legs.

Risotto turns his gaze on you.

“Are you alright?” He asks, sensing that you’re about to cry or do something worse. He looks at the way you cradle your wrist protectively in one gloved hand and wonders if it’s the first time your father has ever laid his hands on you - for your father’s sake, Risotto hopes it is. He cannot describe what he would do to anyone who would hurt you more than this.

He wants to take you away then, as you right yourself and wipe at your eyes and summon a smile for him - ever the sunny one, even when your world is raining. He envies and loves that about you. But he cannot. Not yet.

He must plan slowly. He must earn your trust. Risotto does not rush into things.

Risotto has his responsibilities. He longs to be able to devote every moment of every day to you; he wants to watch you wake up and see sunlight dapple your beautiful face, wants to see you sleep-tousled and soft in the morning. He wants to walk beside you on your way to work. He wants to cook you dinner. He wants to hold you in his arms and never let go. He wants to lock you up so that soft prettiness you have and that sweet sunshine can only be gazed upon by him and people he thinks deserves you. He wants to chain you up and keep you safe so that you might never have to interact with people who do not deserve you ever again.

But he can’t. Not yet.

For now, he tries to keep his longing sated by dropping into the sweet shop whenever he can. He prefers early mornings and late evenings - when you are more likely to be alone, and the shop is most likely to be quiet. He’s walked you home from your shift once, when you’d sighed that it was raining and you hadn’t brought an umbrella--

(“I owe you for the first time,” Risotto had grunted - and you, who have come to be fond of this over-protective huge man in the way one is fond of an awkward older brother, allow it. You know about your basic stranger safety - but Risotto has been so loyal in the past few months, and he’d stopped your father from shouting, and he’s never been weird or creepy towards you. You can’t help but think the man is just lonely - so you accept the proposal, although you don’t let him walk you any further than the top of your street.)

Sometimes, he lets Metallica out, and he blends into the walls behind him, and he watches you go home. He follows you and watches you go into your shitty little house that you’d tried so hard to keep a secret from him - he thinks you must be ashamed of it. The front door looks as though it’s been kicked in once or twice. The flower garden out front has gone wild. The windows are grimy, and one is smashed. The sweet shop cannot be doing so well, then.

It’s alright, he thinks to himself. When you and he have your future together, he’ll make sure the house is perfect. You will not have to worry about vandals or criminals. You won’t walk down a street to get home that is lined with used needles and empty bottles.

He finds out, coincidentally, it is not the first time your father has laid hands on you, and he aches for justice. That anyone would have the nerve to hurt you! That anyone could try and dull that sparkle or rain on that sunshine!

Risotto knows he is not a good man - but he knows you are good, good, gooder than any person has a right to be. If you are his, perhaps some of your goodness will rub off on him - and if it does not, at least he will be able to ensure that you never lose it.

It’s enraging.

And though he promised himself he would wait . . . well. Patient men who can control themselves do not end up the capo of La Squadra. They do not end up in Passione’s employ. They do not develop stands that are suited for nothing so much as death--

And he thinks about how your father does not pay Passione’s protection fees. He thinks about how your father clearly thinks he is too good for that - thinks he is too good for you, though Risotto knows that is the opposite of the truth. His stomach and his brain and his bloodlust roar with anger, for the world to be set to rights, for your father to pay for his transgressions.

And Risotto Nero, capo of La Squadra di Esecuzione, fool who has fallen irrevocably in love - he sets the cogs turning, and his plan in motion.

It’s early Tuesday morning and you’re opening the shop today. Your father stayed late last night - when you’d woken up, he was still not in, and you assume he’s spent all night working. He does, sometimes, when he’s concocting some new flavour or messing around with some new way of doing things when the old ways have sufficed perfectly well for hundreds of years.

You do not share your father’s passion for the art of confectionery. You’re only working this job because he hadn’t been able to find anyone else he trusted with the machines and the shop - though you do not want to spend the rest of your life here, he always guilt trips you when you mention moving away, and you’ve accepted you’re going to be stuck here for eternity. Your feet are dragging on the ground, putting off the inexorable boredom of working something you do not care about, when you hear a voice behind you.

“You’re late today.”

It’s faintly amused - low and deep, and you turn and see Risotto.

(You’d laughed at his name and he’d laughed too at your reaction. It’s one of the few times you’ve heard him laugh, and you wish he did it more. He always seems so serious. You feel awfully sorry for him.)

“Just putting off the daily grind,” you tell him, slowing down so he can fall into step beside you. You trust Risotto, insomuch as one can trust a customer. “Are you stopping by for something?”

“Ah,” Risotto says. “Melone has ran out of those cinnamon candies shaped like women’s mouths.”

You nod. Melone is one of Risotto’s colleagues; one of the ones he mentions a lot. You think that Melone is a ladies man, a flirt, and someone who evidently does not take his job half as seriously as Risotto himself.

“Well,” you say, smiling still. It’s nice to talk to him. “You’re welcome to come in and wait whilst I get the shop ready, as long as you promise not to nab any of our licorice whilst my father is watching! He never came home last night, so I can only assume he’s been at the table in the back like a mad scientist.”

Risotto holds up his hand - you can’t help but notice how big they are. Sometimes, little flashes like that remind you of why Elisa was scared of him. He hasn’t eased up on showing off the skin or the black leather or the intense eyes - still, you know not to judge a book by its cover. You’re glad that you hadn’t, when it came to Risotto. You look forward to him coming in. He feels like a friend.

“On my honour,” he says, and you laugh - and then, abruptly, the laugh dies in your throat.

The glass door is smashed. Your neatly written sign lays on the floor, “Closed” side up. Your lip wobbles as you look down, and Risotto breathes in sharply as he sees what’s given you pause.

“Be careful,” he intones, lowly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“My dad--”

You step up into the building, eyes flying around the room. The jars of candies are in disarray. The bonbons are on the floor, where they must have rolled when their jar came crashing down - all around you are shards of both glass and of brightly coloured hard sugars.

The devastation of the main floor of the shop is not what worries you, though.

Not even the cash register, emptied onto the floor, the drawer a little way away from the body of the thing with what is clearly absolutely no money in it, makes you worry as much as the red substance that is smeared across the tiles beneath you.

“Oh, dio mio--” you whisper, your heart beating double time in your chest.

You turn to see that Risotto has followed you into the shop, his eyes taking in the scene around him, his shoulders hunched. He sees you looking.

“Do you want me to wait outside?” He asks, and you feel a pang in your chest. “I’ll stay, if you need me--”

If whoever did this is still here, you think, you might find yourself glad of the offer. You nod at him, trying to force past the lump in your throat to produce anything that comes close to being intelligible.

“Please,” you whisper, and Risotto nods and comes to stand behind you. Together, you two advance past the chaos of the shop, through the scattered sweets and the glass jars and the ribbons and bags that have been disturbed during whatever tussle took place here. You two creep through the doorway - and when you see it, your breath catches in your throat and you think for a moment you’re going to scream.

Your father is on the floor. His chest is moving, but its faint - your eyes are drawn to the blood around his head, haloing him like he’s an angel. You have often disliked your father, hated him even - but seeing him like this still makes you feel like bile is rising in your throat.

“Wh-who would do this?” You whisper, your hands shaking. Risotto moves slowly and carefully, inching past you (you don’t notice how warm his body is or how hard it is in your grief, though Risotto notices how soft you feel against him). He picks something up from the big wooden-and-metal table you use for rolling out hot sugar and cutting fudges and all of those things.

(You won’t be using it for those for a while, you think. It’s horribly unsanitary now! The very thought makes manic laughter bubble to your lips, though when it comes out it just sounds like great gulps of air).

“Passione,” Risotto says, his voice flat. He hands you whatever it is he’s holding; with shaking hands, you take the matte black calling card. There is no name on it; just a fancy design, etched in the cardstock so that you can only see it when you tip it to the light. “This is . . . their symbol.”

You know about Passione. Of course you know about Passione!

“B-but--”

“I can only assume he didn’t pay protection fees,” Risotto says. You’re grateful for the monotone way he’s speaking to you, the slow enunciation - you’re not sure if you could take emotion right now. Not when your heart is beating so frightened against your ribcage. Not when you can’t breathe. Not . . . not now.

“I--”

“Do you need me to call someone?”

Risotto’s voice sounds very far away.

He repeats your name.

“There must be someone,” he says.

Someone.

Your father’s unconscious body.

An ambulance, perhaps.

But if it’s Passione related. . .

You speak, and just like Risotto’s voice, your own sounds very far away.

“My fiancé,” you manage to say. “He’ll know what to do.”

Oh.

You don’t know that saying this is a mistake.

You don’t know that Risotto’s heart feels like it’s turning upside down.

You don’t know what’s about to happen.

Poor you.

If only you had.

Risotto has followed you and watched you and dreamt about you, tossing and turning in his sheets, wishing you were there to hold onto. He has seen your home, seen your family, seen you walk to and from work and talked to you more than he’s ever talked to anybody he wasn’t supposed to either work with or kill. And he’s never come across even the slightest mention of a fiancé. You’ve never implied that there was anyone in your life!

His heart is vibrating. His throat is dry. His fingers twitch idly. You look up at him, eyes wide, lip trembling--

There’s a cut on your hand. You must have brushed against one of the cracked or broken jars. Risotto’s eyes fixate on the bead of dark red--

Nobody but you has ever seen him as anything but a monster.

Nobody has ever seen past the dark storm clouds in his heart - nobody has ever even tried! You’d walked into his life, all sweetness and sweet foods and laughter and treating and touching him like he was just another human, no thoughts as to whether he was involved in shady business or whether he’d ever been at the other end of a gun. He’d seen your smiles and your laughter and the light in your eyes and thought he was getting somewhere!

Something in him snaps.

If you’ve never mentioned a fiancé before, perhaps it’s not something you want. Perhaps it’s someone you’ve felt indebted to, like working for your father - oh, Risotto can see that easily. You’re such a bleeding heart. Too gentle and too kind for your own good, never the kind to want to upset someone.

If that’s it, he thinks, he’s doing you a favour - and he thinks of his car, parked one block away. He thinks of the tinted windows. He thinks of his house, on the outskirts of the city.

Doing you a favour. Taking you away from all of this. Keeping your light safe and bright and making sure nothing ever dims it.

He crooks a finger, and you blink, woozy on your feet suddenly. The little faces of his Metallica peek out from the cut on your hand, and he imagines them in your bloodstream even now. He imagines them melding together, taking the iron flowing through you (even your blood is pretty, he thinks, as you make a distressed noise and reach out for him and he steps towards you) - and he visualises the iron disk blocking your windpipe. Your hands clutch uselessly at your throat, eyes widening and closing, a horrific noise falling from your lips--

(Oh, he’s glad he’ll only have to hear that once. You should never be in pain.)

And your eyes flutter closed, your body falling heavy into Risotto’s arms.

Risotto is more than strong enough to carry you out of the door. A passerby sees him and you - Risotto calls out to her, and she ducks her head, not wanting to attract attention. Risotto is used to that. Risotto is used to being hurried past. Risotto has never considered it a right for people to treat him as they treat other human beings.

“I’m going to the hospital,” he calls out, even though the woman clearly does not want to know. “Passed out.”

She hurries past, and Risotto carries your body to his car. It’s still early in the morning. Nobody but that lady is around to watch the man take your body and bundle it into the back seat.

He eases the disk away, but continues to pull iron from your bloodstream. Better for you to be dizzy and unconscious and unaware whilst he takes you away. He doesn’t want you pounding on the doors of his car and attracting attention - or worse, realising where you two are going well enough to find your way back.

Somebody else will deal with the mess in Dolcezza. You - beautiful, wonderful, lovely you - will never have to worry about cleaning up after your father again.

He drives. He thinks about how safe you will be in his home. He thinks about coming home to you after a hard mission - he thinks about how your hands will feel on his shoulders, how your smile will warm his cold heart. He thinks about the brush of your lips on his - he wonders if you taste as sweet as the things you make. He thinks about your skin hot against his whilst he’s asleep, your head on his chest.

Risotto has never entertained thoughts of a domestic life before - he’s never thought he’d ever find anyone to share it with. He’s been thrown his fair share of admiring looks, of course, but he’s seen the darkest parts of the world. Most people disgust him.

But not you.

You stir, groaning, and Risotto uses Metallica to draw more iron from you until your breathing evens out.

Nearly home, he thinks - he feels almost giddy when the thought flickers in his brain. He has always thought of it as his house. It has never been a home - but with you there, in his bed, in his arms, in the kitchen or the living room or anywhere at all . . . with you there, it is certainly a home.

One of his neighbours is out, a hosepipe in his hands. Risotto takes a moment to remember his name. Clemente. He is old and infirm - even now, he stoops, watering his garden.

Risotto does not need to think twice. He parks his car neatly and goes to the back door, opening it to scoop you out - and Clemente looks at the man he has lived next to but never spoken to because he is too afraid, and puts the pieces together.

Before he can scream, there are razor-blades in his throat and knives in his wrists and needles in the vital arteries pumping blood to his heart. Risotto is strong enough to drag the body to his door with one hand and support you with his other arm.

It is not exactly a spur of the moment decision, really. Risotto thinks as he locks the door to his house behind him and carries you up the stairs, leaving the still gasping but far too weakened to move Clemente in the hallway to bleed out.

It makes sense, Risotto tells himself, that you might be afraid at first. You do not know Risotto Nero that well. You have only ever known your life with your father. You are leaving behind all of those other people who ate at your time and basked in the glow of you that they did not deserve. He expects an acclimatisation period.

And with fear, he knows, comes a desire to escape. He is not so selfish as to think you will not try. Risotto is a smart man. He drops you on the bed carefully, making sure your head is cushioned by soft pillows. He goes down the stairs to fetch Clemente - with the man’s body, he is far less careful, his fetching a drag.

Clemente’s blood bubbles from his mouth, but that is unimportant. Risotto will dispose of the corpse later.

The iron in Clemente’s body does well for forming the shutters over the window - it blocks out the natural light, but Risotto has lamps - and the light of your smile and your laugh and your voice will be enough for him. In time, perhaps you’ll win the light back. But for now, the windows are too much of a risk.

He uses more iron to make the caged bars that come down outside and inside of the door - inside first, and a key. There is just enough left in Clemente to make the outside cage - and then Risotto is left with a shrivelled corpse. He’ll deal with that at a different time, by cover of night - he knows all of the best places in the city for such things. He has used them plenty of times. If worst comes to worst, he will take the corpse in his car to the rest of his gang and ask Illuso to toss him in a river in the mirror world. It will hardly be the first time the other man has dealt with clean-up detail.

Iron shutters. Two locks. The bars too strong and thick to bend.

Yes.

He knows this will be the best for you.

You will be away from the life that you never wanted. You will be with him - you’ll love him, Risotto is sure of it.

No.

You already love him! For if you do not love him, how could you bear to look into his eyes? Why would you laugh like a silvery bell when he tries to tell a joke? Why would you trail your fingers across his hand just so when you hand him his goods and his change? Why would you talk to him and not run from the blackness and the evil and the rot inside him?

You must love him. You’ll realise you love him.

His teammates will miss the sweets, of course. Risotto will miss his licorice.

But that’s a small price to pay for the sweetness of your body and your mind and you, every day to come home to for the rest of your life.

Click. Clank. Click. Clank. Click. Clank.

He is alone in the room with you, the doors secured, no light creeping in through the iron shutters on the windows. He approaches the bed - and brave now that you and he are finally alone, he leans down and smoothes a kiss over your forehead. He lets the iron drain slowly back into your body.

Any minute now, you will come back around.

Any minute now, Risotto will be able to introduce you to your new life. Show you your new room. Whisper to you about the future he has already built in his head for the two of you - a rose-tinted future he’d never have been able to even imagine had you not smiled at him and given him those free licorice pinwheels. Had you not had sparkling eyes and a smudge on your nose and the sweetest laugh he had ever heard--

Oh.

He can hardly wait.

#spooky collection #risotto nero #writing #sfw #gender neutral reader #yandere for ts #blood for ts #abuse for ts #violence for ts #risotto x reader #jjba

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catharrington · 4 years

Note

12 and 128 with billy and Steve?

Y’all really really do be trying me with this domestic stuff. I’m so sorry but I just don’t write mpreg so I’m changing it up a little. I was playing around with tags on this post and @thinger-strang asked where’s the meat?? Here it is bae!! Dedicated to U ;)

***

12- “I’m pregnant.” && 128- “Don’t touch me. We’re fighting.”

Steve has never been to a gym before, really never wanted to. He has always played sports. Outside! In the sunlight and fresh air, not inside a stuffy box crammed with sweating dude bros who didn’t seem to like using the showers for their functions. He’s here, at Robin’s request, with an overpriced membership to Planet Fitness Gym, only because he’s a good friend.

“Okay! I am so, so done,” Robin huffs out as she throws the exercise ball she was using, it bounces against the mirrored wall and almost comes crashing back into her. She turns to Steve with a grimace. “I’m going to use the last bit of time just running. You coming?”

And of course Steve was joining her, she’s the only reason he’s suffering in this place. “Sounds fantastic.”

So Steve slips back on his loose hanging tank top while Robin cleans up their area. Then she’s leading out to a slightly raised running track that winds around the whole gym floor. It takes the runner past each area and room then loops back around to make a lap. Robin’s pushing her headphones on her fluffed up hair, the grimace still on her face.

“How much longer, exactly?” Steve asks innocently, but she’s already started off without him.

Steve has to run to catch up then settles into a soft jog next to her. He didn’t bring his headphones, why didn’t he bring his headphones. He could be zoning out as much as Robin is now. Instead he’s submitted himself to the entertainment of the gym around him.

And sure, it’s interesting. Lots of girls with ill fitting training bras bouncing, lots of tshirts with funny inspirational sayings. Lots of people struggling through their workouts with even funnier faces.

It’s especially interesting when they get to the weight lifting area. The equipment set up around the clean white floors and walls look like torture devices, Steve couldn’t bring himself to image how they worked. Jogging past he noticed one that you moved like wings and one that you kicked out, all with wires and huge metal weights, all with jacked out super serious people working them.

One guy is slinging two lengths ropes up and down, then stops to take his shirt off to wipe his forehead. An oh, Steve doesn’t mind that so much.

Then he jogs past to the last room before a curve and it’s a simple one, Mostly empty, except for a few standard lifting benches. And there’s only one guy occupying it. He’s looking at himself in the mirror and God, Steve is looking at him too.

This guy could be Adonis turned rock star, with his long curled blond hair pushed back with a folded bandana in replacement of a sweatband. He’s shirtless with only the smallest of small cotton shorts on and he’s flexing in long languid sweeps of his arms. Poses, moves, poses, Steve’s glued.

Then the guy flexes one bicep, just the one closest to Steve of course, and happens to turn over his shoulder to admire himself. And their eyes meet. And Steve’s still glued, still looking, his mouth must be hanging open he’s so embarrassingly staring.

And this guy, this Greek god, a total babe, keeps his eyes locked with Steve while he leans down to plant a wet, open mouthed kiss on his taught, sun-kissed muscles.

Steve’s heart stops, full stops, but his feet do not. They twist and collide one after the other like a car crash, and he sends himself tumbling to the ground with a squeak.

In a weak attempt to stop, Steve stretches out his arms. But he only manages to grip the back of Robin’s baggy shirt and bring her down with him.

“You are a complete dingus!” She screeches as she shoves Steve’s lanky limbs off her.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers softly, scrambling to his knees. He pushes his hands through his sweaty hair. And yeah, he can feel how flushed his skin is. He knows he is blushing tomato red. Steve doesn’t, he can’t, look back over at the guy who caused all this by being so amazingly distracting.

“I’m sorry,” Steve mutters again. Robin throws her hands up. Then she’s stomping off towards the ladies’ locker room. Steve has nothing to do but trudge off towards the men’s locker room, his tail between his legs.

By some grace Steve is saved meeting eyes with anyone else, and the locker room is empty. He rips into his locker to collect his towel. Steve pushes his sweaty face into the material and just screams.

“So smooth, so smooth you idiot!” He scolds himself.

There’s no way that guy is going to see Steve as anything other than a joke, a weirdo who tripped over his own feet. Maybe Steve will even have to quit the gym membership after only one day. Maybe he’ll just tuck himself in bed and never come back out.

Sitting on the benches, Steve’s hanging his head in defeat. His towel around his neck and hair in a messy curtain over his face.

He doesn’t see the door to the locker room open up. “Hey,” some guy calls.

Steve is seized with fear, yeah he’s really about to get kicked out of this gym for being a bisexual disaster. He brings his head up slowly.

“Oh,” he gapes as he sees the same Adonis as before, now standing only feet in front of him. Still shirtless, Steve notices. He’s even better looking up close.

“Wanted to say sorry about that,” the guy is smiling and Steve wants to die, “I didn’t mean to distract you or make you fall down. I was just being an asshole.”

“Nah it’s okay,” Steve stutters out. Then he notices how this guy has thick eyebrows; just as thick as his thighs glistening on display. His brows have a cut down one. And the other is currently raised a little in question.

“Oh- oh no! I don’t mean you being an asshole is okay! It’s just ah,” Steve feels his face flush red again. “I’m just a clutz naturally, I likely would have eaten shit on that track with or without a seriously hot guy with great muscles- oh. I didn’t mean to say that. Shit.” Steve has to stop talking too fast. He sounds so dumb sometimes, he scolds himself more as he buries his face back into his towel.

“It’s okay,” the guy is laughing now, laughing at him. But he keeps talking. “You were really... cute.”

That has Steve lifting his face from his towel. Scoffing a little chuckle himself, he pushes his hair back out of his face and sits up straighter. “How rude of me,” he stands up to hold out a hand, “I’m Steve Harrington.”

“Billy,” the guy, Billy, slides forward easy to take his hand in his. It’s big, warm, rough in lots of spots, and his fingers are thick just like every other damn thing on him.

“Hello Billy,” Steve says. The shake is quick, don’t make it awkward, but Steve misses his hand as soon as it’s gone.

“Sorry, again, I made you take a tumble back there, Bambi.” Billy stops Steve’s heart for a second time, but the wide hungry grin he’s wearing starts it right back up. Shocks Steve to his core with the electric power he has.

Steve doesn’t want to look away from Billy’s bright blue eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of his smile, his smile for Steve, oh wow. But he does glance down when Billy sips a piece of paper out of his shorts pocket to offer him.

“If you want those pretty doe legs worked out a bit, I’d be happy to help with some tips in exchange.”

What Steve wants is to scream. Wants to spin in a circle. Instead, he casually takes the paper. Glances it over. Nods. Internally faints. It’s a folded paper with information printed out for a beginners lifting class, ‘any size & any age’ it reads. And under the slogan, in the margin between room number and time, is a hand drawn cartoon of Billy lifting a barbell with one arm. His bicep curvy and huge, and one of his cute little cartoon eyes closed in a wink.

Under the drawing is a hastily scribbled phone number. Billy’s phone number. Steve is shaking with effort.

“Give me a call, Bambi. I’ll reserve a spot for you,” Billy calls over his shoulder as he walks back out of the locker room.

Steve has to close his eyes to remember to breath after Billy walks out. He goes to spin around to his locker again, already dreaming about all the nicknames and emojis he’s going to put next to Billy’s contact name, when his shin cracks against the wood of the bench. He goes crashing to the floor. Second time in one day. At least Billy isn’t here to see it this time.

After Steve showered and nursed his bruised ego enough, he slips out of the locker room. Phone in hand as he looks fondly down at his new contact.

Billy God of Hot Bod 👅💦💪🏻

“Robin, guess what?”

“Don’t touch me. We’re fighting.” Robin shoves off his thin finger jabbing into her side.

He shrugs. “Oh so you don’t want to know?”

She shoots him a hateful glare over her shoulder. They walk out to the parking lot and stop at Steve’s car, standing flush up on the doors and talking over the roof. “Know what?” She finally bites.

“The good news?” He wiggles his phone for her to see.

Robin furrows her brows as she tries to read the phone. “Good news?” She mimics.

“I’m pregnant.”

Robin almost screams at his terrible joke. She slams the door as she climbs in the car and orders Steve to take her home now. While they drove Steve might have talked the whole time about how Billy’s fingers felt, but who could blame him.

#its thirsty for billy hours #its projectiing my messy bi ass on steve hours #but lets be real this is who steve is #this is the most in character my steve has ever been #harringrove #harringrove fic #my fic #harringrove fanfic #steve/billy #prompt fill

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radiojamming · 4 years

Note

I feel like the low-hanging fruit of a prompt to give you is something around the canonical presence of the Franklin Expedition in TMA lore. Everchase fic?

[GRABS THAT FRUIT AND SCURRIES BACK UP MY TREE WITH IT BEFORE U CAN EVEN BLINK]

also i picked my 3rd favorite franklin expedition boy as the main dude here :3c and this isn’t terror-centric so much as it lines up with MAG 133!

- - -

Tom doesn’t understand what possesses the men he sails with. Some of them have such a want; such a craving and a desire that he cannot fathom, what with his simple daily tasks and basic training. He sees it, sometimes, when he’s tying off ropes or painting or tarring. He sees their hunger, spies it when they look out at where the sea is caked in ice, threatening the end of a cold summer. Out beyond the grey mountains and glaciers, the knife points of broken ice, the strange creatures, the dancing lights that curtain the stars, he knows they see the Northwest Passage. They see it so clearly that they’re blind to what’s in front of them now.

He sees a job. He sees chores and things that years in the Navy have taught him to do.

Of course, he also wants things. Everyone does. Tom wants to make it through the expedition in one piece, whether it end in the Sandwich Islands or England if they have to turn tail. He wants to collect his double pay, count it out from his hands to his mother’s, and feel safe and warm again before the next set of sails and ropes entices him back to the sea.

And once, he wanted adventure. He wouldn’t have had the thought to sign onto Erebus if there wasn’t some part of him that craved it. It didn’t capture his senses the way it does for some of the men, but there was a thrill that ran a gauntlet through his heart when he saw something truly strange, like the auroras or the twirled horns of narwhals peeking up through the ice. Sometimes, he would eagerly run down to the orlop after his watch ended and pen out a quick letter to his sisters, his brother, his mother, or his cousins—just hurried observations of the Arctic and how different it was from Gillingham.

He wanted adventure. The past tense is deliberate and fierce. He wanted, because the only reason it was ever in the present tense at all is now buried under six feet of frozen gravel some two hundred miles north. If he must want something presently, he wants his brother back from the dead.

No, he doesn’t understand the men who seek the Passage like hounds on a scent. What’s the use of wanting something you’re not meant to have?

- - -

They freeze in for the second summer in a row. The sun kisses the horizon, pressing rosy lips to grey shale and pink ice—then draws back up into a powder blue sky to wink above them.

That’s when people start to disappear.

First, it’s Sir John. He dies in June—or so Tom’s told. He apparently dies in the night, long after the dog watches take place. Captain Crozier tells the men that they’ll be burying Sir John right away, but Commander— no, Captain Fitzjames’ face is fixed peculiarly when the announcement is made. Dreadfully ill, Crozier tells them. He can’t be seen.

It doesn’t make sense. Many of the ABs echo the sentiment, but the mates and lieutenants are quick to quash their concerns. The burial is hasty, committing a simple wooden box to the gravel with only a large stone to mark the grave itself. This strikes Tom as stranger than all the Arctic’s oddest traits combined. His brother, a lowly able-bodied seaman, was afforded more decorum than Sir John Franklin.

More disappear after that. Fairholme and Osmer apparently die on a hunting expedition. Aylmore, Goddard, and Kinnaird aren’t far behind, disappearing into that sun-soaked horizon with only whispers left behind.

Reddington makes the oddest display before his disappearance; honestly, he’s the best hint to Tom that something very, very strange is happening. The night before he goes missing, he wakes half the ship up with a maniacal laugh, practically screaming in pure incoherence before Lieutenant Le Vesconte drags him into the Wardroom, presumably to calm him. Le Vesconte opens the door only once to ask for Captain Fitzjames and a glass of brandy before he shuts them both in and the screaming starts again. All Tom can catch is the howl of, “It’s there! It’s there! I’ve seen it!” before Fitzjames arrives.

The next morning, Reddington is gone. Fitzjames says he broke loose and ran off after the second dog watch, presumably having gone mad.

A few days later, Crozier says they’re going to abandon ship and begin a long walk south.

- - -

The craving begins in September, Tom thinks.

If there even is such thing as September.

In his mind, it’s The Craving, titled like a book. In this book, he thinks the plot would be about men so far gone in their hunger that all the humanity in them decays to nothing, leaving them crazed husks searching for the impossible. At this point, what with men falling into the stones and dying halfway through the descent, he feels they shouldn’t be like this. They should be tending their wounded and ill, making camp more often. But The Craving is in Crozier’s eyes, dragging them further and further towards… something.

Tom doesn’t think they’re looking for the Passage anymore.

He follows along, as he always has. Ever the seaman, now ever the AB, following orders from a boatswain with lips scarred from his whistle freezing to the flesh and tearing away.

Then, The Craving gets carnal when their last food stores begin to dwindle. Tom barely notices, watching as if in a dream as the man who used to be Daniel Arthur cracks marrow out of a bone, greedily clawing it out of the hollows with his frostbitten fingers. He eats like an animal, and stops only when they begin to move again.

Tom doesn’t eat with them. Every time he thinks of it, his mind plays some terrible trick. He thinks of John, entombed in ice and rock, emaciated and torn open like an animal was the one who pried his ribs from his body, and not a surgeon. He thinks of what John’s marrow would taste like, and imagines his brother watching him, eyes unfocused behind the mists of death, jaw unhinged in that silent scream of a corpse—judging him.

Tommy, he thinks John would say. Always stealing off my plate, huh?

He doesn’t eat. When the hunger saws at his stomach with iron teeth, he bites his hands, his lips, the wool from his coat, the copper-tasting metal of his buttons. He swallows snow until he vomits.

And somehow, impossibly, he lives on.

- - -

There are no days.

No weeks.

No months.

Maybe years, but Tom’s stopped counting.

There are only steps, one after another. There are bloody footprints thousands of miles behind them. They abandoned the sledges back in the snow and gravel, leaving useless cargo and a trail of broken bodies. Men still die, but there seems to be no real reason why they do. Tom should have been dead… ten? Twenty? Fifty years ago? He can’t remember. All he knows is that he’s still walking, following behind Crozier and Fitzjames and a dwindling party of men still dressed for the Arctic weather.

They’re in a desert.

Surely they should have found the Passage by now? Tom thinks this as he sees a lizard scurry up a strange plant, spiked like a well-used pincushion. The sun bites his blistering flesh, scrapes its glowing teeth along the back of his neck. Still, he’s never felt the need to take off his slops. There’s something comforting about the What Was, after all.

Why is he here? He doesn’t Crave the way the others do. They always talk about the Passage. It’s over that hill, surely. It’s along this river. If we just walk over there, it will be within sight. He knows it won’t be. It never is.

So why does he walk?

Because you Want, something tells him. It’s a deep, odd thing set in his soul, prone to ring out when struck like a bell, reminding him that he Must Always Walk.

For what?

For the Wanting, it says. And what do you Want, Thomas Hartnell?

Somewhere beyond a flat-topped mountain the colour of blood and bile, he thinks about that question. What does he Want?

He wants his mother to kiss his forehead and tell him good night. He wants Charlie to take apart their father’s pocket watch and put it back together, just in time to proudly show it to Tom. He wants to hear Mary Ann sing old shanties while she kneads dough on Friday morning. He wants to sit at the base of an apple tree while Betsy throws down the fruit, giggling as she does so.

He wants John to come back from the dead.

He wants to go home.

And Home is over that next mountain, says The Craving. Tom looks up at another blood-red mountain, the winking sun pressing a kiss to the slant of its neck. Don’t you want to see it again? Gillingham? Kent? The River and the Sea?

Of course he does, but it isn’t—

Well, maybe it is.

So Tom Wants, and he Craves, and he Walks.

#tma #the magnus archives #mag 133 #THIS WAS REALLY REALLY FUN

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my-brothers-corrupted · 4 years

Text

My Brothers, Corrupted

Chapter 2 : Section 2 : Bite Back

Dap, Red, and Blue are headed home after pulling off a robbery with complications. Dapper’s decision to rewind will likely lead to conflict at home. But home, as we’ll see, has enough conflict already, and some of our boys have had just about enough of Anti’s torment and humiliations.

Trigger warnings for major abuse, ableism, choking and beating, and discussion of an off-screen suicide attempt.

Find Chapter One here.

Find Chapter Two here.

Part Two of Chapter Two: Bite Back

cest-mellow asked: what if you say like, an animal started pawing the bag so you turned it back to get the gross off? anti isn’t fond of animals, maybe that ??

“Hm,” Dapper blinks at you, considering. “Maybe something like that. He sure doesn’t - ��

“Hey,” Blue cuts him off, flashing you a warning glare. “Honey, just tell him the truth, you’re only ever going to get in more trouble when he finds out you lied. You know he can see these signals if he wants to, right? What happened, anyway, Dap?”

Dapper pauses, staring up at his big brother.

Blue’s been good to him. Blue’s always as good as he can be to his brothers. That makes him unique to Dapper - he’s the only person he knows who’s never abused him.

“I’ll explain when we get there,” says Dapper, and even he isn’t sure, in that moment, if he is lying or telling the truth. “It was stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

“Mmh,” says Blue, dissatisfied. He doesn’t press him, though.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Blue, are you okay with how Anti treats you guys? I mean, he did hurt your little brother...

Blue sighs and leans back lazily against Red’s shoulder.

“Anti has temper problems. I don’t pretend otherwise. But I trust that he’s doing his best and I know that when worst comes to worse, he will protect us with his life. Most of the time, he’s good to us. And the times he loses his temper a little… well, it’s our fault anyway.”

Guilt washes across Blue’s face and he closes his eyes, feeling the bus rattling around him.

“But that’s my job to help him with. That’s my duty, above all else. When Anti is not himself, I am the one who’s best at easing him again. I do what I can to keep us all safe. But I trust Anti. I trust Anti. To the ends of the earth.”

His hand tightens on Dapper’s shoulder, massaging gently at his muscles.

Submission (still doesn’t tell me who from for some reason?):

a cute little fam to brighten your day

“What is that?” gasps Red, pushing over Blue’s head despite an irritated “owww, Roser!” “A cow? I fucking love it, holy shit.”

“They’re just sending him pictures of animals now,” complains Blue.

“Don’t whine,” giggles Red.

“Anti won’t like it.”

“Fine, fine, sheesh. I can turn that off. But look, Dapper likes it.”

Dapper snorts and rolls his eyes, smiling, nevertheless, at the cute little cows.

“Okay, Red can come with me when I run away to be a dairy farmer, but Blue’s too grumpy.”

“Hell yes!”

“Hey! Little jerk!”

Anonymous asked: Hey, Blueberry Poptart! You know if you guys ever get into a jam again, you might want to be able to speak some Spanish, and I know a little! In fact, there's this awesome Spanish poem that I know. You like *poetry* don't you? Anyway it's by San Juan de la Cruz and it's called "Llama de amor viva" or "Flame of Living Love" in English. I could teach it to you if you want.

“My Spanish is quite good, actually!” chirps Blue, looking up at you. “Anti says I studied languages with my first master. A lot of magic doesn’t translate across languages, so it’s best to learn as much as you can in the original tongue. But hey! I’d love to hear some poetry if you want to send a chunk of it. You never know when you might find a spell curled up in the letters.”

“He’s a nerd for that shit,” comments Red, patting his head.

“And maybe you can teach this dope here some of the language, anyway.”

“Hey!”

Dapper’s listening too, careful. He can’t speak it, but he’d love to get an ear for it.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Is it that bad for lil' Dap to be happy, guys? They're harmless pics of animals.

“I told you,” answers Blue, a little warning in his voice. “My job is to keep my little brothers safe. If I think Anti won’t like his work cameras being filled up with pictures of baby cows, it’s better to just get rid of it. Anyway, it’s rare we get this fancy bigger camera, the type that can show pictures here on the side, so it doesn’t matter much.”

“Oh!” Red peers eagerly over his shoulder. “We should take some pictures.”

“What did I just say about clogging up the camera?”

“Aww.” Red slouches down in his seat, kicking his legs up on the one in front of him, but he knows Blue is right.

nikkilbook asked: A bunch of grumpuses, the lot of you.

“Grumpuses,” repeats Red, popping the ‘p.’ “Grump, grump, grump.” He bounces his leg and stares out the window, humming to himself and rocking his head back and forth, like music is playing in his head. “Well, let’s get home and see if our mood improves, huh?”

The bus pulls up about a mile from their home, and Red knows as soon as he stands up that Dap can’t make the walk.

He can’t blame him. Somedays, it is a hard walk even without a stab wound.

Up, up, up the mountain, as dust shifts beneath your feet and rocks slide beneath your shoes. Wild dogs snap and bark, not always from afar, and Red has begun training his brothers to carry a rock with them at all times, and not be afraid to use it. The smell is one of sewage or cooking meat, down here amid the houses, and flies buzz persistently at every face that comes their way. Chickens parade around the streets, and from dark, cool doorways with no doors or coverings, children often watch the strange white men make their way up the mountain, friendly enough, but abnormal. There are others less kind-faced - Red exchanges tight, wary smiles with the men outside the bar drinking in cold silence every single day.

There is one person alone who is securing their place in this slum.

And that is Doktor.

He’s had three patients since he came here. With Blue as his translator and Anti’s approval, he treated each of them in quick, skilled, and absolutely free succession, stitching up a cut hand, wrapping up a bad concussion, and prescribing some medicine for the old man up the hill, living in a box smaller than their living room back in Norway.

Anti’s pleased with him. The local people are beginning to tolerate them. And in this lively, bright, rapid-paced, close-knit, and deeply impoverished little community on the dry side of the mountain, Anti knows that his family is safe.

This is not a place where secrets fly. This is a place where people have learned to protect each other. He will find a way to make sure his boys blend in if Red and Blue have to rob every medical van in the city to do it.

Higher on the mountain, there is a little building, with rooms and doors and old machinery. It was going to be a real medical center once, with government funding and everything, but the project shut down after the governor who made the initial promises was elected. Only dogs and mice lived there when Anti found it. Now his family has replaced them, and no one has yet found them or come to drive them out. He does his best to ensure that they never do.

“Come on, then,” says Red, staring up the mountain. He crouches down low.

“Red,” protests Dap, exhausted. “I don’t want to ride your back.”

“You can’t walk.”

He sighs. True.

“People will stare.”

“We’ll go the side route.”

“The side route is more difficult for you. No stairs built there. Just dirt and uphill climbing.”

“Come on, then,” repeats Red, undaunted. “Come on.”

Dapper wonders, sometimes, if Anti sets up his life to make it more humiliating.

He gets onto Red’s back.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Hey Dok, are you making out alright?

In that building high up on the mountain, a camera finally fizzles into life again, and you turn towards the screen fast enough to catch a sight of the good doctor himself, his back to you.

He’s sobbing so hard he can barely breathe. And cooking rice over a rusted oven burner.

Startled by the beeping of the camera, he whirls on you.

A moment later, he is bashful.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Anti was using you again.” His voice is raw. He wipes hastily as his face, splotchy with redness. “I’m fine.”

And he pushes you slightly away, so you can no longer see his face.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: How are you liking being so close with your brothers, Dok? Blue and Red seem to be loving taking care of you guys.

“O-oh.”

You can hear Dok trying to get his breathing back under control, but this, at least, is a gentle question, a distracting question.

“Good, yeah, pretty good.”

His voice is quieter than usual.

“Um, Blue and Red are very happy lately, which is nice. We’d been kind of… down, for a while, so I guess Anti was right about needing all of us together for us to be a real family. Red doesn’t snap at anyone anymore. He’s a lot less stressed. And he and Blue have started taking most of the night watches, so we… I, I mean… I get a lot more sleep.”

He sniffles. The rice sizzles slightly as he stirs it around.

“Feels pretty safe here. Odd, seeing as it is a much more dangerous neighborhood. I think I like having a little commotion around us again, not being so isolated… I see children, families, hear other people talking, see the way other people live. I am only frazzled thinking maybe we will get parasites or diseases from the bugs or something… don’t let anyone touch the dogs, alright? Covered in worms and skin infections, filthy things.

“And Dapper and I get on okay.”

His voice breaks, but only for a second.

“We have a nice time together. I like getting to know him again. It was almost like I’d forgotten who he was entirely until Anti gave him back to us.”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: What about Trick, Dok?

There’s a clank as the spoon is set back down on the counter. A moment later, heavy, desperate breathing, and a very small whimper.

Doktor needs a long time to reply.

“Ah, yeah, Trick… Anti s-says he’s good, so… he’s good. He’s good. He’s fine. He’s happy. Yeah. With master, I’m glad for him, really. If he’s actually good. And he is! Anti says he is. So he is. He’s fine. He’s good.”

musical-in-theory asked: Hey Anti, do you ever think about how temporary you are? Your hate, your pain. It’s all temporary. You’ll be gone one day with nothing left behind but some people who only knew you as “that glitch villain”. Even with Dapper at your side, you can’t escape that. Momento Mori, you absolute pecan.

“Ever think about how temporary you are?” he repeats, in a high-pitched mock. “Says the fucking human…”

Anti is alone in a room set up almost exactly the same as his office in Norway, with dozens of computers circling him where he sits, cross-legged, on the floor. He has a few less electronics now - he always cleans out during a move - and there’s a baby monitor sitting at his knee, playing the sound of soft, heavy breathing.

“Momento Mori, ha… there’s a phrase I haven’t heard in a long few years… Jack loved those videos, watched like half of them. Some of his best friends just fucking around. So goddamn stupid. I did like the episode where they pretended to kidnap him and just had him tied up and gagged in the background for a whole episode, haha. Someday I’ll go hunt those two down and kill them, just to make them pay for all the happiness they gave my stupid, fickle, temporary creator.”

He looks like he could monologue for a while longer, but the small sound of crying cuts him off, and not from the baby monitor. Eyes flashing with fury, he glitches to his feet and stalks toward the door.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Hey...Henrik, it's okay.

There’s a long moment of sniffling. He turns you slightly back towards him.

“Thank you,” he manages weakly, earnestly, and then he is sobbing again, clutching at his chest with his head thrown back, crying like his heart is broken -

A door slams open across the hall.

“Doktor, shut the fuck up.”

His voice is loud as a gunshot and twice as pissed. Doktor startles hard, reaching up to grab his own throat, to cut off his next sob. His pupils are blown wide and fixed on the wall.

“You want me to fucking kill you?” shouts Anti, standing in the doorway of his office.

Doktor shakes his head rapidly, frozen stiff, tears coursing down his panicked face.

“If I have to hear Trickshot whining ‘ooh, ohh, I can hear my poor Allemagne crying, oh no, oh no, I’m too pathetic to live on my own,’ I’m going to tie you both up in rope and hang you from the fucking ceiling fan. Do you understand, you little brat?”

Doktor nods desperately, trying not to choke.

After a long moment, Anti slinks down the hall towards him. Doktor remains frozen stiff, staring at the wall. His master regards him for just a moment before turning to his cooking.

You can see, now, the fluffy white rice just finished on the oven stove, and, beside it, a little plate with something that looks almost like a frittata on it, but thinner and more fried. Anti picks up the plate and sniffs at it, blinking.

“Where’d you get eggs? Which one of you stole these?”

Doktor clears his throat as fast as he can, stiffened up straight. “No one. One of the vecinas brought them by. To pay me back for stitching the cut up.”

For a moment, Anti regards the eggs warily, tearing off a piece to nibble on it. Egg, canned ham, onions. Good to eat, with protein and a nice enough flavor.

“This is good,” he says finally, and Doktor slumps just a little, relieved. “Good boy. Making your own keep, huh? Or two bucks worth of eggs, anyway. Once you have more supplies you can do more. Load up some rice, then, you don’t want your little brother to starve.”

Doktor turns to spoon up some rice and put it on the plate. Anti waits, scanning him carefully, taking in his reddened eyes and shaking hands.

“Dok, get it together.”

“Es tut mir leid,” whispers Doktor.

“Yeah,” says Anti. “It is.”

And he turns to take the food back to Trick’s room.

the-weirdest-fan asked: So are you gonna hunt down and murder anyone Jack liked whatsoever? Is that on your bucket list?

“If I get the time. Who knows? Could be fun. And I do need to stop by Cali at some point. Wish I could mock some of his closer friends the same way I mock you… oh, well.”

Anonymous asked: What about YOU, Dok? Pardon me for saying so but you don't seem good. Or fine.

“Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir leid. I’m so sorry. No one should have to worry about me.”

His voice is a strained whisper. He clutches the spoon desperately in his hands.

“Lately my distress is so much bigger than I am… I am drowning at sea…”

the-weirdest-fan asked: "'I’m going to tie you both up in rope and hang you from the fucking ceiling fan.'" That gave me the funniest image in my head oh my god. You are an excellent comedian, Anti.

Anti pauses, frowning. “Yeah… hilarious. Some of you are more playful than others, huh?”

reverseblackholeofwords asked: But you've been doing good work, Dok, helping those people. That must be nice, right?

“Oh, oh.”

He softens, rubbing at his tear-stained face. For a moment something gentle is in his eyes, not the same as anything you’ve ever seen before. His hands calm.

“It is, it is… I was scared at first, you know, because sometimes when I… well… some of the things I have done to injured bodies is not so pleasant. I haven’t exactly kept the healer’s oath, if you understand me. My surgeries have not always been to decrease pain, as it were. And sometimes even when I try to heal, all my hands remember is the hurt I have caused…”

He pauses, sighing, breathing in deep.

“But lately has been good. Only three people I have cared for, but I was glad to do it, so glad to do it. They needed me, you know? And I was there, and Anti allowed it, even though we try to live so quietly. It’s good of him.

“I just wish… well, never mind. Never mind, I’m grateful.”

Anonymous asked: What do you mean "functional"? What's wrong with him?

Anti steps into the room at the back of the hall, and closes the door, quietly, behind him.

For a moment you just see him watch, staring down at his brother. Something like warmth moves through his eyes. Something like fear.

“Hey, lil stammer,” he whispers, stepping over towards the pair of mattresses stacked on top of each other in the middle of the room. “Get up, Trick, eat something, so.”

He sinks down onto the bed beside his body.

Trick lies still on his stomach, a pillow pulled over his head, breathing sleepily. He probably shouldn’t have his mouth so covered, but Anti doesn’t know that.

He pulls the pillow gently away. Trick stiffens slightly as he comes back to consciousness, aware of Anti beside him, so close, so damn close, always so fucking close.

“Eat,” says Anti, more strongly now. “Eat, now. You’ve slept all day, tired thing. Eat, your twin made it for you.”

This is enough to open Trickshot’s eyes - bloodshot, exhausted. He stares up at Anti, his mouth trembling, wary.

“Going to need me again?” whimpers Trick, tears welling in his eyes.

Anti lets out a short growl, turning his face away, swallowing irritation.

“Trick, I have told you a hundred times now. No more possession.”

Trick lets out a low groan and shivers, clutching at his hair, gritting his teeth.

“Oil under my sk-skin…”

“There’s nothing under your skin,” murmurs Anti, petting his hair. “I promise, I checked. Come, so, eat. Eat.”

He proffers a plastic fork full of rice and eggs. Trick just stares up at him, foggy and exhausted, like he hasn’t even noticed the food in front of his mouth. Anti sighs a very long sigh, rubbing at his face.

“Trick’s had a bit of a breakdown,” explains Anti slowly, precisely, in response to your question. “He handles a lot of things much worse than his brothers do, and he didn’t get the help he needed right afterwards… a certain twin wasn’t watching closely enough… and now we’re back to this. Almost as bad as he was the first time I took him over.”

Anti reaches over the mattress to pick up a little piece of fabric. It’s familiar to you, patterned in dolphins - of course, the crinkle paper Trick bought himself as a present from the little store. Anti holds it over Trick’s face and crinkles it slowly in his hands. Eventually, Trick seems to respond, blinking and sitting up a little so that he can take the paper from Anti and begin rolling it gently around in his hands, humming a small, broken melody to himself.

Anonymous asked: You know Anti there's one way you can fix Dok and Trick's miserable mood considering you don't have the patience of a saint. You could just... Oh I dunno... maybe just let them comfort each other.

“Doktor failed me. Trick needs better than him now. He’s not enough.”

For a second, Anti must breathe deeply, watching his little brother snuggle back down in his blankets, rubbing the crinkle paper comfortingly against his collar bone.

“Maybe no one is. I’ll handle this myself. Don’t tell me how to care for my little dog.”

cest-mellow asked: trick? can you hear us? are you alright?

Anti gets up to tidy the room a little, kicking around sweaty sleep clothes and rearranging Trick’s discarded blankets. Trick sighs as the sheets are pulled back over his bare chest, but doesn’t protest, watching as Anti moves around the room, picking up water bottles and laundry.

“They asked you a question.” Anti’s voice is low and warning. “Focus, Trick. I don’t see any reason why fucking depression means you can’t hold a goddamn conversation…”

Trick blinks, recognizing, slowly, displeasure in his master’s voice. Confused, he rubs at his face, processes the order, and turns back to you, trying to fix whatever he’s done.

“Am I alright?” he repeats. “Um… I’ve been better.”

“You’re sick,” Anti informs him shortly.

“I’m sick.”

“But nothing that won’t pass.”

“Nothing that won’t… yeah.”

“You’ve got medicine.”

“I do, uh-huh. I had it yesterday, you gave it to me.”

“That was this morning.”

“It makes my head sooo foggy.”

“Better that than suicidal,” grumbles Anti, dropping his clothes into the laundry hamper.

“Suicidal?” repeats Trick, a little squeakily. “Am I?”

“No. Stop thinking about it. I already pushed it out of your head so don’t go looking for it.”

“Okay, Anti,” promises Trick, staring warmly up at him. Anti gets a little closer and Trick reaches out to tug on his shoelace, smiling.

A small smile flickers across Anti’s face. He leans down to kiss the side of Trick’s head and tries again with his dinner.

“Eat.”

This time, Trick obeys, sitting up to eat the rice and eggs off the fork that Anti holds.

“There’s my good boy. That’s better. We’re not really so bad off, huh? We’re okay.”

Anti looks stressed.

reverseblackholeofwords asked: What do you wish? You can tell us.

“Ah, yes, well.“

Doktor clears his throat and turns back to the stove, cracking another egg over his frying pan. He’s got other hungry brothers too, and he expects them back soon enough.

“Well, it would just be more fun with Trick. I wish he could be my helper like he usually is. I would probably complain a little, ha, cause all he has to do is sit around, and hand me things, and cook a little, which he loves. But he would make me laugh and help talk to everyone and make everyone feel okay. He loves people, you know… used to be less paranoid about them. There was even a child in here the other day. He would have chased him all around, and bounced him in his arms, and spoken broken Spanish with just enough enthusiasm for it to not even matter… yeah. I wish Trick was with me.”

seagullsausage asked: are you really that concerned over trick, anti?

Anti’s voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“No… no, of course not… he’s fine… fuck, course I’m not concerned over him. This is my most useless little mouth to feed, don’t you know?”

He shoves the fork at Trick, dropping it and sitting back, anger and concern warring on his face.

“You’re one hell of a nuisance, you know that?” he tells Trick.

“Believe it or not,” mumbles Trick, closing his eyes. “But I don’t want this to be happening any more than you do, master.”

Almost shakily, Anti reaches down to touch his face. “Don’t fall asleep again. Sleep too much.”

“Do my best. Talk to me, then.”

Anti’s mouth opens and then closes again. He doesn’t know what to say.

nikkilbook asked: You’re allowed to want things, Dok. You’re allowed to wish things were better than they are.

“Yeah… yes. I suppose. But no point to complaining, so best not to think about it.”

Anonymous asked: Do you really believe everything is okay Anti? I mean you’ve done everything you’ve wanted. They’re all under the same roof and absolutely adore you as their brother...what’s there to be stressed about?

“I’m not stressed!” shouts Anti, startling Trick. “Shut up! Everything’s fine! Everything’s fine! Nobody’s tearing at the seams, nobody’s going to die, nobody’s hunting for us, I’m not losing my fucking grip on any of them! Soon as Dapper comes home, he’s my little bitch again, okay? What, you think I don’t know it’s one of his clear days? His head-on-straight days, when he thinks he’s a big tough puppy with his teeth growing in? I’ll have him begging for me to kiss him over and over and over again. And if I have to push back on Doktor afterwards, and then shut Trick up again, and then check on the twins, and do it all again the next week, I’ll do it, I can do it! What, he thought he could make enough of them that I couldn’t hold them all at once? He thought he could save them from me? Stupid fucking boy! He was wrong! He was wrong about everything and I’ll prove it! You - ”

Anti reaches down to grab Trick’s hair and Trick yelps, alarmed, hiding his face.

“ - just don’t do anything fucking stupid, and everything will be fine! Do you understand me?”

But Trick has lost the ability to answer. Choking on his misery, he sinks back onto his mattress and rocks himself back and forth, clinging to his crinkle paper.

“You’re fine,” pants Anti, pushing his hands away. “You’re fine. You can have whatever you want. What, stronger medicine? Food? You have sunlight, you’re warm, you’re full, you sleep plenty, you’re clean and healthy. What do you want, just tell me and I’ll get it for you! You’ve had a twin for months, and Dok loved you, loved you as much as I’ve ever seen a human love another human, and it still didn’t stop you… I d-don’t… I don’t understand why you won’t get better? Just tell me, puppy, just tell big brother why you won’t get better…”

Anonymous asked: Anti, to save whatever sanity that you have left it might be smart to just give him back to Dok. I understand that he failed you, but give him a chance to prove himself again. It would really boost their spirits and things would go a lot better. Then the stress would just fade away...

“No, no, no. Too touchy-feely, too strong a bond between the two of them, not good for him any more. Asking for Dok instead of me, ha… No, I’m the one in charge, I’m his big brother, I’m his master. And I can control this, just like I control everything else. I’ll fix it. Okay, Tricks? You’re happy right here with me. Right?”

Trick stares up at him, his face very pale. He’s mumbling something, his pupils shrinking slightly.

“What?”

“Isn’t real,” groans Trick, in a voice that shakes like a leaf stuck in a doorway, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “This isn’t even real. This isn’t even my body… h-having another n-nightmare, D-deutsch…”

At the end of his rope, Anti lowers his head into his hands and makes the wise decision to glitch away.

Trick’s door is locked. He lies on his mattress alone, staring, white-faced, at the ceiling.

whydoilovesomanyvillians asked: Anti do you really think you can just snap your fingers and his depression will evaporate into thin air, cause if so I hate to break it to you but that's not how it works

Anti’s gone back to sitting in his room, leaning over his computers, trying too hard to concentrate.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay,” he grumbles, digging at an old scar on his throat, as he watches your words come in. “Something has to change, I get it, I get it. I’m trying new things, shut up. I’ve got this, I can handle this. Something has to change. Something has to change.”

diamond-game asked: Is this anti? If this is anti is it possible for you to trick us?

You made Anti laugh enough to shake some of the anger off his face.

“Now, darling,” he purrs, pushing his hair back, looking, suddenly, much like Doktor, and then, a second later, a little like Red, and then Dapper, and around, and around, his face shifting minutely, his eyes changing, the way he carries himself adjusting like he’s changing the settings on a character customization screen. He smiles at you with black eyes, Blue’s face, and a mouth full of teeth.

“Would I ever do a thing like that?”

Anonymous asked: Hey, Anti? Most animals don’t have a concept of time. A long term concept, anyway. They don’t count the seconds until they die, unlike humans, and... whatever you are. You should envy animals, Anti. They don’t stress about time running out. Actually, you should envy a lot of things.

“Stress about time running out,” Anti repeats in a growl, typing rapidly on the computer on his lap. “I own time. I’ve tasted its blood. Forced it to kiss my face. Dragged it away from its family and made it my pet. I don’t have to count anything. I am more immortal than I’ve ever been.”

Anonymous asked: I'm amazed you're so flustered with Trick being dissociative. All of them are. Your poorly crafted reality stripped them of their identities, memories, and hell, even the thoughts they're allowed to have. They're just expressing it all differently, and no matter how much you think you can ground them in falsities, it won't matter because everything they know, past and present, is fractured. When you're not treating symptoms, you're actively tearing wounds open.

“Yes, all of them are, I know that, I designed them that way. A little trauma at first helps foster dependency. I plan this shit, you know. I plan everything. And fine, maybe my little mind tricks don’t always ground as well as they could - but that’s why I have other measures in place. That’s why I make an effort with occasional shows of affection, occasional treats and rewards. That’s why I let them see, sometimes, that the things that I tell them threaten them are real. That’s why they have twins! If there are days when faith is shaky, when I am called away from them and all they can see is what Jack forced them to see, for so long - bloodshed and hatred, as if that is the only color I’ve ever worn - they’re supposed to have their brother to sleep beside, concrete and warm to the touch. Worth living for. Worth staying for.

“And then I come home, and make it well again in its entirety, and none of their snaps or episodes or trauma or any of the other cry-baby shit they get up to is enough to take them from.”

Anti growls and tugs at his hair, gritting his teeth.

“And it’s meant to be enough. But apparently Doktor wasn’t enough for his twin to hold on to. Now Trick is like this and I have to fucking fix it. He never could save anyone.

“I needed to strip so much of their memories away. But sometimes, I wish there were things I could let him remember - all the people who died or sickened or slipped into long, long comas at his hands, people he loved more than most anyone. He never could save anyone when it mattered. He’s a shitty excuse for a healer, and even worse failure of a brother.”

Anonymous asked: Bud...you can’t force someone to get better. That’s not how that works at all. It’s a long, patient process that’s build on devotion and love not...fear and anger. You do not understand how to love, Anti, that is why Trick will not get better.

“Whatever. You don’t understand anything. You’ve never been inside his head. Never seen the way he thinks and the way his neurons fire. He just needs a little re-adjusting, some chemicals put back in place, a little comfort from his master. He always was desperate for my attention. I can show him fucking ‘devotion and love’ for a few weeks if that’s what it takes. I just get a little - ”

He glances up at you, clearly deciding how much to tell.

“ - a little frustrated with how long it’s taking. I need to find a way to speed this up, because I very much prefer to have Dapper close at hand instead of useless little Trickshot. Besides, his freak-out is putting the whole house on edge.”

nikkilbook asked: Has it crossed your mind that YOU are the problem here, O Eternal One?

Anti mumbles something about murdering the lot of you, scowling at his computer screen.

Anonymous asked: Because he constantly lives in fear of you throwing him away once you're done. Because the pain he's experiencing isn't something you could simply throw the basic needs and some little affection here and there. Lashing out at him for being unwell is just making it worse. Don't even think of lashing out at the others because then he'll think it's his fault. This isn't something you can resve with screaming or threats of punishment Anti. All you'll do with that is push him further over the edge.

Anti growls, chewing on his lip.

“You don’t understand anything about my pets. He’s enjoyed worse treatment from me - he enjoyed anything from me in the old days, as long as he was the center of my attention. Let me split his lips and then smiled at me with them. Just happy I was playing with him, even if I was playing too rough.”

Anti giggles, relaxing a little.

“He was like a little puppy for me when I first broke him in, even better than Dapper’s ever been. I kept the two of them like twins back then, because Trick was so attached to him, and I figured the entertainment was good for them. And then I could come home at the end of the day to the two of them completely ecstatic to see me, asking to be let off their leashes so they could come lie down with me, or just put their heads on my lap while I worked…

“I had to change it eventually, of course, as you can tell, but… hm, that’s interesting. Haven’t thought about it for a long time. Maybe it would be good for him to go back to that. I think I still have his old collar, maybe even the muzzle… maybe he’d like to see Dapper, I don’t know… I did a little hate conditioning between them for a while, but they seemed to be getting along a few weeks ago, so maybe it wore off. Hmmm…”

Anonymous asked: You know, Anti, you're really being uselessly obstinate. Why does it have to be you that brings Trick back around? You're the leader, and you've got more important things to do, after all. Why not just delegate? Maybe not to Dok if he didn't do such a hot job before, but maybe one of the others. Blue perhaps.

Anti shrugs slowly, tilting his head back and forth - ugh, is his neck broken? - and chewing on his lip. “Well, I can’t really… I mean… I have a lot of missions for Blue and Red recently and I don’t want Blue getting over-attached, he’s already a little too high-strung when it comes to protecting his little brothers. I’ve left him with Trick once or twice when I had to leave the house. Red definitely can’t, I need him to have a distance from the others so he can discipline better.

“And Dapper… fuck, but I don’t want the same problem to come up again! Whatever. I’ll think about it. Maybe a couple quick visits from someone wouldn’t hurt…

“But really I need to keep him close at hand. If he starts to get thoughts so dark they could kill him, I need to be able to get inside his head and train them out of him.”

the-weirdest-fan asked: I gotta say, though I don't approve of your methods, it's good that you're keeping most of them somewhat happy and giving them a purpose. Definitely an improvement from the last house. Good job.

Anti bursts into laughter, clapping his hands. “Thank you! I love having Blue so much, he’s perfect for keeping everyone a little happier! Things are so much better now I can focus on something other than tracking him down. I love having the full set.”

cest-mellow asked: maybe he just needs to see dok and his other brothers. trick is a people person right? let him be around people! you can still watch over him, be with him, listen to him. you can still do everything. if being alone with him this long hasn’t worked, try something new. put him with people. if it doesn’t work, you can just bring him back, and everything will stay just fine.

“No, no, no. He can’t go back to Dok. Maybe I’ll never give him back to Dok, I don’t know.

“But… yes, maybe something needs to change just a little. Humans need socialization. I’m very good at mimicry, but sometimes I think that there really is something to them that I don’t have - something about the weakness that… makes others feel safe? I guess? I don’t pretend to understand it. But, yeah… maybe he needs to see someone. I think I’ll give him Dap or Blue for a little while, soon. Or maybe I can even find something for him to do with other people. Doesn’t he like kids? And babies and things like that? I could get him a doll, maybe? He plays with the little paper like he’s a child again. We’ll have to see.”

immabethehero asked: Just let Trick see Dok and he'll feel better... stop denying it Anti

“Oh, what was that about this not being something that can be fixed in a day? I’ve already told you Doktor wasn’t enough to keep him safe from himself. He needs a stronger hand to guide him. I admit, things haven’t been perfect, but I just need to get this right so he has the chance to get over this shit.”

the-weirdest-fan asked: You know Anti, maybe giving Trick back to Dok for a second could be a good thing. I mean think about it, you wouldn't have to deal with either of their incessant whining, and Trick might be be fixed in the process. And, as a bonus, they'd owe even more of a debt to you, making them potentially more loyal. If Dok fails to fix him, then you have an excuse to take your anger out on someone, so while outcome 1 would be preferred, you get some out of it either way!

“Hm. Good as ‘fixing’ the little brat sounds, I don’t trust Dok to protect him right now. Might be sleeping too hard again, not even noticing the signs. Fuck, you don’t know how much stolen fucking pharmacy Percocet Trick swallowed before Dapper woke up and stopped him… Fuck! I hate fucking human feelings, I hate how fast my heart was racing, watching him writhe on the ground like that!”

Anti grips at his hair and then shouts aloud, striking his fist against the earth and making his computers glitch into the same screen of multi-colored glitches.

“Stupid fucking Doktor! Stupid fucking Trick, thinking he can escape me that easily! They don’t get to die until I fucking say so! Selfish little brats!”

Anonymous asked: Poor little glitch can't handle all five of his brothers at once, hm? Whose the puppy throwing a fit now?

Anti growls in a way that is no longer human, his teeth lengthening in his mouth.

“I can handle them. He was a fool if he thought five was enough to stop me. Stupid fucking boy.”

Anonymous asked: I’m gonna say this once, snapping turtle, give Chase back to Henrik so Henrik can give Chase what he fucking needs. YOU do not have what he needs right now. If it makes you feel better just spin it in a what that makes you look like you’ve been sent by your “divine counterparts” to entrust a failed doctor with a hurting patient so that he can prove himself once again. The only way he’s getting him back is because you said so, therefore you have the power in the house hold. (1/) - (/2) You broke him so you cannot fix him. It’s like putting a bandaid over a crack in steel.

“Newsflash, you fucking brats!” screeches Anti, leaping up to his knees, his eyes vanishing into a black void, his teeth splitting through his lips as they become horrible fangs, his face turning ugly and distorted and his body contorting strangely, like a thing with more bones than it knows what to do with. “Chase was broken before I fucking took him! Chase was broken the day Jack created him! Chase is a fucking egg on a wall, and all of Jack’s horses and all of Jack’s men have never been able to put him fully back together. This is Jack’s fault! He made him like this! Made him with a gun in his hand and no children to love! He made all of them shattered, all of them fucked up, all of them broken so that he could use them for fucking entertainment! He was cruel and he was careless and it’s his fucking fault! I don’t care what you think, I don’t have to explain myself to you, I’ve never had to explain anything to you. You’d never believe me, anyway. Your little idol! Your little god! Well, here’s the truth, you brats: Jack never loved a single one of them, no matter how much you want to believe he did. He’s the reason this is happening. And no matter what I do, no matter how much the temper Jack gave me overflows or the violence I was born with turns against them, these little puppets will always be better off with me than they were with that - that - that - ”

Suddenly Anti is shrinking back on himself, his face white.

He looks very young. He is 27 and his hair is grassy green. He is a slim young man with bright blue eyes and no smile on his mouth, wearing jeans and a red sweater and small black gauges.

He sighs, closing his eyes like he has a headache.

“No more questions. Go talk to the pets or I will turn you off. I have work to do.”

Anonymous asked: Y’know, I don’t think we’ve even asked. Trick what do you want? What will make you feel even just a little bit better? Sorry for all the yelling, buddy, we’ll *glares at Anti* try to be more quiet.

Trick’s turned slightly towards you on the mattress, rubbing slowly at his tear-stained face, his hands shaky.

“I’m sorry this is how you have to see me,” he croaks, curling in on himself. “I’d rather you didn’t… but then again, I don’t want to be alone again…

“I d-don’t… I don’t know how to feel better anymore. There used to be things that made me feel better, but they haven’t been doing anything for me lately. If I can’t see Dok-dok I just want to go back to bed.”

He covers his face from you as he begins to cry in earnest, pulling the pillow back over his head.

“Anti says I don’t want to see him but I do. I can hear him crying for me sometimes. And all Anti does is shout and then come hold me like nothing’s w-wrong.”

Anonymous asked: Trick have you been able to speak with anyone besides Anti since Norway?

“Mmhh, I don’t know. He’s scared for me, won’t let anybody else look after me. The lady on the airplane asked me what kind of soda I wanted. I think that was the last time I talked to anyone other than him.”

He sniffles and takes deep breaths, trying to calm down again.

“Fuck, look at me, so pathetic… ugh, why are these my hands? Why is this my body, what the hell? It’s kind of nice having so much time with Anti, though. Or it w-was really, really nice at first. Now he’s sort of starting to scare me, and I would really like to see the sky again, and I’m s-starting to see why Dap was so - why he - ”

Trick struggles to breathe, putting a hand over his heart.

“I don’t know how he stayed in one room for months on end! Without anybody even asking for him outside his room! Maybe I should try to be more like him, and play spoiled brat so Anti st-stops yelling. Ugh, I can’t s-s-speak today, ugh.”

Anonymous asked: We’ll do our best to convince him, Trick, just hang tight we’ll figure something out, alright? You’ve been very strong and we’re all so proud of you!

“Aww.”

Trick actually giggles a little, trying to clean his face up.

“Thanks, you’re so sweet, wow. But, hey, if it comes down to Anti yelling at you or yelling at me, he’s my big brother, I’m the one who should know how to handle him. You don’t deserve his anger like I do. Okay?”

Anonymous asked: Dok is there anything you want us to tell Trick for you? Something that might make him smile?

Switched up Dok and Trick on accident.

Trick’s face falls slightly.

“I don’t know. Is he angry at me? I think he got in a lot of trouble for what I did. I was so stupid, I… I just want him to know I didn’t do it because he f-failed me at all. I think I just - well - snapped.

“Didn’t even feel like it was me doing it, anyway.”

His voice is trailing away, his eyes fixed blankly at the wall.

“Just watching my hands reach for the bottle. And I couldn’t make myself scream to wake him up. Maybe he’s better off without a screw-up like me. Dapper will be a good twin for him, don’t you think? They get along so well. And then, well, there’d be two perfect matches, and Anti wouldn’t miss me, maybe just teach someone else to use the sniper. Yeah. They’d be okay without me.”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Dok, do you ever get to see Trick anymore? He Keeps asking for you.

Back in the kitchen, Red and Blue have made it home, and Dok is helping Dapper towards the right room on the hallway, lying his little brother down on the one mattress in their shared room, where a camera on the windowsill flickers to life. Dap is a cold white color, his eyes closed before he hit the bed, but Doktor is watching over him now, carefully wiping a cool wet cloth over his sweaty forehead.

He looks calmer with Dap there. He’s wiped all the redness and tears away from his face, probably before the others made it home, and when he speaks, his voice is calm.

“No. I’m not allowed to see him now. Not even to speak with him through the door. He’s not usually awake to talk anyway. But nothing I can do about it now. You must have distracted Anti, huh? If you had not, he would already have been out here, shouting about these silver eyes.”

Dapper’s guilty eyes flicker open, shining cool in the warm afternoon light.

“It’s okay,” promises Doktor, and Dapper closes his eyes again, trusting. “He’ll be out to talk about it later, I expect, but we’ll figure it out. Get some rest, my friend.”

Anonymous asked: No, he misses you, Dok. He wants you more than anyone right now. You're his twin. You're important to him.

My bad, I answered this for Trick. Here’s what he would say.

“Oh. Yeah?”

Trick brightens slightly. “He misses me? I hope not too much. I hate to hear him crying so much. I don’t think he knows I can hear him. He always waits til the others are gone, so only Anti and I ever hear. Oh, oh, I would really like to see him again.”

Here’s Doktor’s:

Doktor’s eyes widen slightly, his face clearing of some of its stoicism. He checks to make sure that Dapper’s eyes are closed and then he lets himself scoot forward, a little hope in his eyes.

“R-really? Did he say that? I miss him too! Oh, shit, I’m so glad he’s not angry with me, Anti told me he didn’t want to see me anymore!”

Anonymous asked: Sweetheart, you haven’t done anything wrong. Sometimes big brothers are jerks and get unreasonably upset when they don’t understand how to act like a decent human being. You being you and having feelings does not make you any sort of liability. In fact, facing them makes you ten times stronger than you already are. It’s alright to be sad anyways, being sad is valid! We would gladly take the heat for you at any time.

Trick tilts his head slightly, mulling it over.

“Yeah… yeah, maybe. I think I would trust my feelings better if I knew they weren’t screwed up by my goddamn snap.”

He laughs a little, twisting his hands anxiously.

“I feel like - I feel - I feel like I can’t trust myself anymore. I’m glad Anti’s watching me so close. It feels a little suffocating, but that’s okay. I’m alive, right? And I should be glad to be.

“Thank you for saying that. I wish this would stop, but it won’t, so… I guess I just have to try and believe you. For as long as I can.”

spicydanhowell asked: Trick, are you getting your name confused with Dok's?

Oh, whoops, haha, my bad, not Trick’s. Let me fix that, we’re talking a lot to Dok about Trick and a lot to Trick about Dok. Thanks.

I’m going to leave this note in here too just in case there’s anything I confused and didn’t notice to fix.

spicydanhowell asked: trick probably just needs to ride it out, anti. is he even on medication? that seems like step one. just keep him safe and comfortable. this could take a long time. in the real world he'd be in a therapy program or in a hospital, and those sort of things last weeks or months. you can't rush this shit. just keep him as comfortable as possible

Doktor is pulling Dapper’s dress shirt open to get a look at his injury, his patient hands working carefully, steadily. Dapper is quiet as can be, half asleep even as Doktor bares his skin. The trust between the two of them is deep.

“Trick’s on… ugh, I think Anti changed it again. Maybe he’s still on the antidepressants, but maybe Anti stopped when they didn’t help as much as he wanted them to. I was so stupid. He asked me for tranqs and I didn’t realize he wanted them for Trick, didn’t even think twice. Now he’s knocking my twin out cold every time his distress is too much for Anti to handle. I think he gives him the sleeping medicine I used to take, too. He likes the idea of medicine, but when the results aren’t good enough, he doesn’t have the patience to keep making sure Trick takes them.”

Doktor takes a deep breath and lets it out again, clenching and unclenching his fist. “It’s fine. It’s okay.”

“I wish I could have given to him to a hospital instead of Anti,” he adds softly. “I know I shouldn’t. I know I need to trust him to take care of him. But it’s difficult.”

He turns Dapper slightly onto his side and unwinds his bandages. A clean, struggling-to-scab stab wound pierces his brother’s ribs like a drop of blood on scope sample disk.

“It’s difficult,” repeats Doktor lowly, staring at the wound. “It’s difficult.”

Anonymous asked: Trick, I think Dok wants to tell you he doesn't blame you for what happened, and he wants you to focus on getting better. It's hard for him to be away from you because he loves you, but I bet you could make him feel better by eating the food he made you. Think how it would make him smile if Anti gave him back an empty plate, knowing he got to help you in a small way by cooking for you!

Trick lifts his head up slightly.

“Did he make this?”

For a while, he stares down at the plate. Good white rice and eggs with meat and onions, everything nicely fried.

He hasn’t had a lot of luck eating lately. He’s either not hungry or shoving food into his face so fast Anti has to stop him from choking himself. Often at night he’s ill, waking up from nightmares and finding, at his side, a master instead of a friend.

“You’ll tell him I ate it all?”

He leans down to pick up the little plastic fork, and starts taking small bites of his eggs.

Anonymous asked: Without even asking we could tell you how much Dok loves you. There is no one on earth that could convince him to be upset with you or hate you. He’s just sad for the same reason you are, he misses you. And that should show you just how important you are. Did you know dapper mentioned you? Said how he was happy y’all were friends now and hoped you were okay? Red and blue too? They’re all asking for you. You are so important Chase, don’t let Anti convince you otherwise.

Trick’s adding extra salt to his eggs now, sniffling over his plate.

“Y-yeah? I’d like to see them all again. I miss - I miss - I miss everybody.”

He wipes at his eyes.

“They’d miss me if I left, I guess.”

Anonymous asked: I think you’re right in saying that, Dok. Is there anything that we can do to help right now?

“Just…”

Doktor sighs and rubs at his face, sitting down at Dapper’s side. A warm, sleepy hand comes to rest on his back, weak but soothing.

“Just tell me if he does anything dangerous, okay?”

“I think some dinner would help,” prescribes a voice from the doorway, as Blue’s torn-up pants appear in your viewpoint. Doktor turns to give him a weary smile and Blue comes to his side, placing a plate of the specially fried eggs and rice beside Dapper, and another in Doktor’s hands.

“Blue, I can’t eat - ”

“There’s no ham in that one,” promises Blue, smiling at him. He pauses to let Doktor put a bite in his mouth and then presses close to his little brother, setting his head on his shoulder and wrapping one arm around him, while his spare hand finds Dapper’s and clutches it tight, rubbing his thumb warmly across his fingers.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, rubbing Doktor’s side. If he could, he would pour comfort into the both of them in the form of warm, healthy magic, and fill them up with light and safety. But he has his orders, and this is all he can do, so he will do it gladly. “You’re okay, we’re okay. We’ll figure it out soon enough. Trust me.”

Doktor lets his head sink against Blue’s, just a little, taking another bite of his eggs. The low evening light casts them in shades of gold and red and purple, and you see Red come to stand in the doorway, his body blocking the entrance, his head turned towards the room at the end of the hall, guarding his family in the twilight quietude, watching the sun go down.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: How are you coping, Dok? You can't just bottle it up.

“Yeah.” Blue rubs warmly at his ribs. “Can’t keep any secrets from us. Another rough day?”

Exhausted, Doktor nods slowly against his shoulder.

“Well, you got through it,” murmurs Blue.

“Not quite yet.”

“Come on, what’s going to happen?”

“You’re going to be in trouble for the silver eyes,” answers Dok grimly.

Blue sighs. “Okay, well, what I meant was nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“I’d rather you two be safe than me,” answers Dok miserably.

“Hey! That’s our job, not yours. Don’t give me that self-sacrificial bullshit. You let big brothers handle it, do you understand?”

“Yes,” mumbles Dok, eyes downcast.

“Yes?”

“Yes, Blue,” he resigns himself, sinking down beside Dapper. Blue rubs his back.

Anonymous asked: Just one step at a time, Trick. We’ll be here for you the whole way.

“One step at a time,” he mumbles, putting another forkful in his mouth. “One bite at a time. Actually, this is pretty good, you know? Mh, I hope tonight is quiet. I feel a little better, just shaky.”

Anonymous asked: Alright, Dok, is there anyway that you can prove yourself to Anti? It seems the only way to get Trick out of that room is you convincing Anti that you’re a suitable protector. Is there any information that you can give us that we can use to convince him on your behalf or is there anything that you can do now to gain back Anti’s favor? Remember this is for Trick, alright? Just do your best and we’ll workout the rest. Hopefully.

“Oh, yes, we hope so! Right, Blue?”

Blue’s eyes are worried. He tries not to let his smile flicker. “Yeah, we have a gameplan, right?”

“I just have to be a good big brother to Dapper.”

“Yes, keep a good eye on him.”

“And be good. Do what you and Red and Anti tell me. Be quieter in the house. And - and - anything else you can think of. Make sure the people around here are happy with us, because I have to be useful, or we won’t be safe.”

The stress makes him shake a little, but he’s a force of nature when he’s determined, and fuck, but he wants his twin back. Blue brushes hair out of his face, biting his lip.

��Yeah, um. Just add taking care of yourself to that list too, okay?”

“Mmhh.” Dok’s eyes are already far away, daydreaming. “Oh - sure, yes, sir, whatever you say.”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Anti, while the others are great, no one is going to get through to Trick like Dok will. Even try to mimic him to see how Trick responds.

“Hmm, mimicking Dok.”

Anti pauses, thinking. His eyes are a vivid snake’s green.

“Maybe… I could do that easy enough, it’s just being loud and pushy and stern, mostly. Level-headed most of the time, kind of angry, kind of bitter. Maybe that would help him feel more at home.”

He sighs and closes his computer. “I should go deal with the others. I’ll have to change my plans for the night if they don’t have a good reason for that reversal Dap had to pull. Fuck, his magic smells so strong. I’m fucking suffocating.”

Anonymous asked: What does his magic smell like?

“Well, that’s the strange thing,” murmurs Anti, sitting up. Sharpened ears perk slightly as he listens, his nostrils flaring and his pupils thin. “Dapper is… well, I don’t know. Dapper’s Dapper. Old shit, I guess, and blood, and a little… it’s a smell, okay, how do you want me to describe it? ‘What does his magic smell like,’ is this a fucking scratch and sniff? But something’s off with him tonight, I almost think. Something in the air kind of like the ocean or trees or some shit.

“Why would his magic be different? Unless of course it - ”

Anti pauses, stiffening.

Suddenly he is on his feet.

Anonymous asked: Unless what, Anti? What does it mean?

“Less it’s not his magic.” Anti’s eyes are too bright. There is a fang piercing through his bottom lip. “And I know I told that stupid cat to stop playing those kinds of dangerous little games.”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Uh oh, Dap? Blue? Anti's on the move and you guys are in trouble.

Blue swears and gets to his feet, pushing Doktor down onto the mattress when he tries to rise and stalking towards Red, who falls immediately into stride beside him to stand in the hall, shutting Dok and Dapper’s door behind them. They exchange glances, just for a moment, and see in each other’s eyes everything they need to make their backs straighten and their mouths fall calm, turned towards each other in a resignation that has become, by virtue of the little brothers in the room behind them, a sacrifice. They know the plan without speaking, Blue sees it in Red’s eyes - we take his rage together, you try to reason with him, and I am the body between his and theirs.

Anonymous asked: Uhhhh guys heads up! Anti is headed for Dapper!

Anti’s door bursts open and his figure appears in the door, shadowed in computer errors and color glitches as he blurs his way forward in a spasm of coding. His body never seems to move, but then he is before them, halfway incorporeal in the hall, but he does not turn to the door for the younger boys, he does not turn - he grabs his Blue by the throat, and then, before Red can cry out, he is slamming him back against the wall, his eyes black with hatred.

“What the hell did you do?” he shrieks, slamming Blue’s head back, ignoring Red rushing forward beside him, trying to catch his eye so he can beg on his twin’s behalf, panicked. “I can smell something on you! I can smell power on you! You traitorous little bitch, I’ve let you roam like a wild dog and treated you like a show dog and this is how you repay me? What were you casting for? What did you do? I have to hide your fucking signal now! What did you do?”

“Nothing!” wails Blue, grabbing at his master’s hands. He does not claw, only clutches tight to his wrists, his eyes desperate and full of tears.

“He didn’t do anything, Anti, I’ve been with him the whole day!”

“I can smell something that is not Dapper, I can smell it on you! You did something! Even if it was on accident!”

“No, no, no, I can’t help it that’s it welling up inside me but I - ” Blue sucks in a desperate gasp, beginning to writhe under Anti’s hands. “I didn’t give way to it!”

“He didn’t do anything, Anti, I swear! Please, master, let him go!”

But unfortunately they’re not making a very good case for themselves.

The hands on Anti’s wrist glow faintly blue.

Anonymous asked: Blue what did you do?

Growling low, low in his throat, Anti drops Blue to the floor. He collapses and begins coughing hard, clutching at his throat. Red moves to fall down beside him, but Anti grabs him by the back of his shirt and shoves him away again, staring down at Blue with his teeth gritted hard enough that Red can hear his bones shifting.

“I swear, I swear, I swear,” whimpers Blue, curling in on himself to hide his hands against his stomach. All these weeks, he has never been afraid of Anti for his own sake, but now some horrible memory is rearing its head inside of him, and he looks down to see his glowing hands shaking. “I didn’t do anything, Anti, please, it burns at me but I don’t… I don’t mean to do anything, I let none of it touch the rest of the world, I hold it right here in my bones, it isn’t anywhere, it isn’t anything… I keep it, I keep it in my chest, I haven’t done anything, not one spell, like I promised you, master…”

Anti is panting harshly through his teeth. He closes his eyes and reaches up to dig his fingers into his hair, seething, snarling, shaking ever so slightly where he stands.

nikkilbook asked: We can vouch for him. The closest he came to magic was some glowy hands when Dapper passed out from the heat and the pain in his chest. But he didn’t let it out, just like he and Red said.

“You’re doing something,” hisses Anti, drawing away. “You’re - you must be. You’re causing problems. Don’t you understand I’ll have to hide you if you don’t bury it deeper? I can’t - ugh! Fucking hell, Blue!”

He reaches down to grab his chin, tilting his head up and lifting up an eyelid with his thumb, examining Blue’s eyes for any sign of casting.

“I told you to keep it buried, I told you, I told you to forget it even exists within you…”

“I’m trying, I’m trying, I swear…”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Is there a possibility you could have let something slip, Blue?

“I - I - ” Blue stares desperately up at Anti, his mouth hanging slightly open as tears spring to his face.

“Sometimes his hands wisp but that’s all,” Red leaps to assure, panting rapidly.

“Anti, Anti,” begs Blue, tears running down his face, and Anti, infuriated by the sight of yet another one of his puppets breaking down, turns away from him, digging harder at his hair. “I’m trying so hard, Anti, I am, but it burns me, you don’t understand, I need a way to let some of this free. I’m a kettle boiling over, Anti, a cup filling up, I can’t help that it overflows, I - ”

“Don’t fucking say that!” screams Anti, and before Blue even registers the hand coming at him he is crashing back against the wall, yelping from the bruise exploding across his cheek. He hears Red cry out and then his brother’s body is before his own, between him and Anti, grabbing at the demon’s shoulder and crying out for him to stop, to wait, at least, to just talk about this for a moment, please!

Anti’s shaking his head hard, fury steaming from his mouth, but he grants Red his wish and turns, instead of to Blue, towards Dok and Dapper’s room, striding in even as Red cries out.

“Red, stop him, stop him,” moans Blue, staggering back up to his knees and brushing his twin’s concern away. It’s just a bruise. He’s had worse. Doesn’t know why it stings so much coming from Anti, but it’s no matter. “Monochroma is hurt, don’t let him - Anti, please, don’t grab him like that!”

Dapper whistles shrilly as he is pulled up by the hair, clawing wildly at Anti’s hands and reaching out for Doktor intermittently.

nikkilbook asked: Hey Anti. Here’s an idea. All your tech must draw in an obscene amount of power, and I bet the weird surges from your glitching don’t really help this whole in cognito thing you go going on. Why don’t you try burying THAT, forget that power even exists, cut it out of yourself like some kind of sparky appendix. Can’t be that hard.

“I know how to hide my own fucking power! I know how to hide my signal from everyone, from everything! And Dapper’s too, though it took me months to learn, months and months to learn, and this little brat still thinks he gets to run around the city changing time however he wants to!”

Dapper whistles, staggering to his feet, clutching at the bandages around his bare chest. “No, no, no!” cries his free hand.

“But I had to learn to hide him, because I need his power! But you!”

He whirls on Blue.

There is a light in his eyes like someone losing his mind, and Blue, for all his bravado, finds himself shrinking slightly back towards Red, who steps forward yet again, reaching for the youngest.

“Anti, please,” he whispers.

“I don’t need your fucking spells and bullshit tricks! I need you to be Red’s little sidekick, their little caretaker, and my little slave! And now you’re endangering the rest of my family, after I took you in and gave you back to your brothers, took care of you like a privileged pet and trusted you with everyone else to look after?”

“I’m doing my best,” wails Blue, reaching out for Dapper. “Anti, put him down!”

“I can’t hide all three of us!” screams Anti. “Don’t you fucking understand? I can’t hide this much power!”

nikkilbook asked: Then let them go..

“Are you stupid?” snaps Anti, panting, lowering Dapper slightly back down towards the ground. “You think I’d ever do that? What, do you boys want that? For me to split all of you up and send you away from each other? For you to have to try and hide on your own, and live like Blue used to, like a rat on the streets? No, we… we have to stay together, don’t we?”

He drops Dapper, his face beginning to look more grey than white. Doktor rushes forward to grab his little brother, pulling him back towards the mattress, hiding him against his chest.

“Anti’s right.”

Blue looks up at his big brother, eyes wide.

“He’s the only one who has any hope of keeping us safe from the first master and the others who stalk us. Besides, we’re family.

“We have to stay together,” repeats Red hoarsely, and when Anti looks up again to meet his gaze, there is gratitude in his black, endless eyes.

Anonymous asked: In summation, "suppress your emotions! We can't let people know we F E E L !!"

“Can’t let people know we’re a family of Harry Potter characters,” mumbles Doktor, his eyes flashing. Dapper is huddled against his chest, trembling hard but still rubbing a soothing hand along Doktor’s arm.

Anonymous asked: If Blue can't control his power entirely, maybe try to utilize it in someway. Surely you can find a use for another brand of magic? I get you'll have to invest some time and your own power into masking it, but in the end there's got to be a benefit to that, right? Last thing you need is Blue melting down on top of everything else.

“I - but you don’t understand, I - ” Anti is coming forward towards Blue again, and Red flinches, biting his lip as he tries to decide whether he should put himself between them again, but Anti only bends down to touch Blue’s cheek, staring his newest pet in the eyes. “It’s not like I have a power to hide them, I use electrical signals, I use my computers, I disrupt everything Dap and I send off. And by now I recognize his signals and his energy so well, and I have magnets and conductors and codes that took weeks made just for him, and I monitor both of us constantly but Blue, I - Blue I don’t know anything about, and I don’t - he’s more erratic, you know, he’s… you’re…”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Blue.

Anti draws his hand away from his face and rubs his own instead, tired out of his mind.

“Blue, you have to keep it hidden better.”

“I - I - okay, Anti. Yes, Anti. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Just… let’s talk about this later. I’ll think about this later. I’m so - ”

He grits his teeth, glancing over at Dapper. Truth is, he slept better with him beside him. Maybe he could put him next to Trick tonight, except -

“Fucking hell,” sighs Anti. “I’ve still got to deal with you. Alright, little brat. You better have a good reason you were making the world spin wrong today.”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Guys, you all need to calm down. I'm sure you all being at each other's throats is not helping with hiding ANY power.

“Yeah, Anti,” Blue beseeches, rising to his knees. “Please just be gentle with him, I’m sure he had a good reason.”

Dapper has yet to look up at Anti in answer.

Despite Anti’s question.

Like he’s ignoring it.

Oh, hell, oh, hell, oh, hell, chants Blue’s mind. He chews rapidly on his lip and exchanges looks with Red, beginning to feel panicked.

“Dapper,” he calls. “You answer your brother like a good boy.”

Not today, Dap. Don’t get in any more trouble. You can’t take it, you tiny hurricane. Just be good, please!

Anonymous asked: Dapper, hiding from something doesn't mean it's not there. You got hurt, you made a mistake, just say something, the waters testy as it is.

Dapper’s breath is hot against Doktor’s shoulder. His eyes are tightly closed and his teeth are gritted. He glances at the message and at the light outside his window, and then closes his eyes tight again.

Anti’s eyes narrow on Doktor. His throat closes.

“Dap,” urges Dok, pushing slightly against him. “Come on, you must talk to your big brother. Will be okay, just answer the question.”

Dapper buries. Dapper buries.

Doktor presses their faces as close as he can, knocking their noses together, whispering as small as he can. His voice is desperate.

“Dapper, if you are not good for Anti, we will never get Trick back.”

And Dapper knows he doesn’t mean to say that he’s trying to exchange his training wheels for the full model he used to have, doesn’t mean to say he’s trying to get an A+ on his little-brother-caretaking test so he can get the real one back, doesn’t mean to say he’d rather Dapper be locked up in that one little room, petted and puppied for months on end, instead of Trick, but -

Anti really is the only one who wants him. He may as well try to help Dok get his Trick back.

White-faced and bitter, Dapper turns his face towards Anti, and frees his hands.

“I’m sorry, Anti,” he says. “I walked too far down an alleyway and a dog jumped out and scared me badly. I turned back without thinking. I was a coward. Next time I will drive it away.”

Anti draws back slightly.

Assessing.

florenceisfalling asked: anti, isn't this a good thing? better than him letting animals touch him or get near him, right?

“Mm-hm, mm-hm,” murmurs Anti, chewing on his lip. “If he’s telling the truth.”

Dapper does not pale. Dapper does not tremble. Dapper does not look away.

Dapper looks his master in the eyes and lies.

nikkilbook asked: It was our fault. You left us alone with them for twenty minutes and we did what we did best. We poked and we prodded until the boys broke, and Dapper put them back together again. Better this mess than that one.

“Broke? My Red, my Blue? My strong boys?” He glances back at the twins, standing in the doorway. “No, no… I don’t think that’s right.”

Anonymous asked: Oh shoot, Dap, you actually told him the truth! It's okay, Anti will understand. It's good you did tell him what happened. And next time you'll know.

“Hm, hm,” says Anti, beginning to circle the mattress. Dok avoids his gaze, whitening as he comes closer, holding Dapper to his chest. The color of Dapper’s eyes is less like starlight and more like steel. “Yes, yes, next time you’ll know… you know better than to lie to Anti, don’t you, Dapper?”

“Yes, Anti.”

Anti’s eyes change from black to a very vivid green.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Anti, it was an honest to goodness mistake on Lil' Dap's part. He isn't reckless with his abilities, is he?

“Lil Dap,” repeats Anti, and a smile fills up his face. “Haha! Aww, you are my little Dapper, aren’t you? Baby, puppy? Tiny little boy, cute little mute baby.”

Dapper is digging his nails into the palms of his hands.

cest-mellow asked: anti you can’t blame him for getting scared, it honestly came from no where, scared me too! i’m just glad he didn’t get bit, feral dogs can have rabies you know

“Ugh, yuck,” hisses Anti, drawing slightly back, wiping his hands on his pants. “This city is fucking filthy. I hate those fucking dogs everywhere. With the skin and the bugs in their - ugh.”

He shakes his head and snarls, turning away.

“Little brother,” says Red gently. “Maybe we should do this later.”

“No,” snaps Anti, grabbing at his hair again. “Shut up. Go to your room and finish eating your dinner. I’ll need you again tomorrow and the two of you at least must be good, or I’ll throw all of you little bastards out. Now.”

Red and Blue exchange glances but not protests. Red pulls Blue away. His twin’s eyes are fixed on Dapper’s.

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Would you be able to tell if he's lying, Anti?

“I can tell everything about him,” whispers Anti.

His voice is an echo. It drips from the ceilings. It swims through the air. It bounces from wall to wall, disembodied.

“I know the person he was and the person I made him into. I know every valley of his brain, know the pattern of his thoughts, know the taste of his fear. Know the ways he comes and goes, sane some days, a little psycho the next.”

Doktor’s breath hitches slightly and he turns away, afraid to show anger to Anti.

Dapper’s too tired to be hurt. He stares up at Anti, blank-faced.

“You always have been a good little liar,” says Anti distantly, coming to stand right above him. “But not to me, child. Not to me.”

Anonymous asked: Wait Anti a while back when you said you like own time and forced it to kiss you...ew.... were you referring to dapper?? and why do you even do that in the first place that's messed up dude just sayin

Anti crouches down beside Dapper and Doktor.

His youngest puppet is pressed back against the doctor. Someone else might mistake it for hiding, but Dapper is no longer holding Dok for the comfort. His body is in front of his brother’s. He protects Doktor. He protects Doktor from Anti.

For a long time, Anti just looks him in the eyes.

“Yes, I was referring to Dapper,” he says. “Of course I was. My little time traveler. Yes, I’ve made time kiss me. I’ve made it sing my praises and give up everything it used to love for my sake. It didn’t have much of a choice, but that is not what matters. What matters now is that it belongs to me.”

Anti sets his hand on Doktor’s thigh and leans close over the both of them, his chest flush with Dapper’s. The youngest brother can no longer bear the weight of his green-eyed gaze; flushing, Dapper turns away, avoiding the eyes of the snake.

“Doesn’t it, Jay?”

Something visceral and agonizing rises up like acid in Dapper’s throat, and in that moment he is so close to remembering everything that hovers around the edges of his time-travel-hazed mind, so close to putting back a piece of himself that he’s been trying to find for weeks now, so close to being a person who does not belong to Anti.

Fuck, does it hurt.

Memories of his lips pressed to Anti’s cheeks, his hands teasing and begging for affection, being cradled like a child to Anti’s chest, hiding behind his big brother for comfort, letting him cut into him and tie him to his bed post, a raven he loved being shoved out a window, and a half-dozen faces only vaguely familiar, stained bright in red - only some of the people Anti told him to kill, and fuck, but his knife was glad to have something to do other than sitting in that room.

“Give me a kiss,” says Anti. “And I’ll put this behind me.”

His voice is sugar-sweet and Dapper could gag. He knows he’s being mocked. He knows that Anti can feel the dissatisfaction, the revolution, sitting painful in his chest. But if he can be convinced to obey despite a little discontent, despite a little doubt, Anti will believe that he is not a threat, and Dapper can go back to playing puppet, and maybe it won’t hurt so much.

Doktor is shaking against him.

Anti grabs his chin in his hands, tight enough to bruise, and he yanks Dapper’s head back towards him, forcing him to meet endless green eyes.

“Give me a kiss,” says Anti, smiling so fucking wide, so fucking cruel, and something in Jameson’s chest hates him. “Give me a kiss and you can have a quiet night with your Dok-Dok, and nobody has to get h - ”

Dapper strikes him, hard, in the face.

whydoilovesomanyvillians asked: Jameson jackson you absolute savage

Anti reels away from his youngest puppet, halfway tumbling off Doktor’s lap, blood dripping down his nose as his form flickers. Doktor screams aloud, shocked, and grabs Dapper tighter to his chest, pinning his arms down as best he can.

His little brother is laughing like a maniac, without sound, without joy.

Anonymous asked: FUCK. DAP REVERSE. REVERSEREVERSEREVERSE

“No,” giggles Dapper, squirming in Doktor’s grip. “I don’t think I will.”

“You fucking bitch!” screams Anti, and a hunting knife appears in his hands, thicker than his arm is wide. “I’m going to kill you!”

Doktor cries out and curls his body over Dapper’s, panic exploding through his chest. “No, Anti, please, please! Blue! Red! Somebody, please!”

“Why the hell are you screaming for them? Like they can save you from me? Stupid little brat!”

Anti grabs Doktor’s shirt and drags him off Dapper’s body, digging his fingers into Dapper’s hair and pulling him to his feet. Dapper screams by drawing air in, clawing at his hair as Anti pulls him up for the second time tonight, this time pressing a blade into the center of his collarbone, drawing a stream of blood.

Anonymous asked: Oh god Anti you broke him

“He’s always been goddamn broken!” shrieks Anti, throwing him onto the mattress and giving Dapper back the blow that he gave him twice as hard, slapping him so that his handprint appears on his cheek. Dapper whistles shrilly and turns to his side, but he will not turn back, he will not turn back. Wouldn’t fix anything anyway, he’d just be in more trouble for the power surge.

And anyway, he fucking deserves it.

“Kill me, then, fucking coward!” signs Dapper, and Anti grabs him again and throws him back onto his back. “Think I’m scared to die, master?”

“Traitorous little weapon! You think I won’t kill you? Is that what you think? You think I can’t make you beg me to take you back into my bed again, huh? If I think for a moment that you are past saving, if you belong to that stupid fucking boy again, I will fucking crucify you and make your brothers laugh at the sight of you nailed to our doorway. Do you understand me?”

“I understand that you’re a bitch.”

And then he’s being struck, again, and again, and again, and the wound on his side is weeping, and so are his blueing eyes, as he comes to understand that everything he has denied about the brother he adores is true - Anti is cruel, Anti keeps him captive, Anti would kill him to prevent him from ever being free.

“I served you well,” sob his hands, though he doubts Anti is reading. “I’ve always served you well. You are the one who took your love away, master. You are the one who betrayed me.”

“Anti!” screams Doktor, by now in full-blown hysterics. “Anti, Anti! Please, oh, God, Sh’ma, Sh’ma! Red! Blue! Trickshot, help me!”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Dok, you gotta move and get the two of you out of there.

“I have to - I have to stop this, I can’t get him out, I can’t - what can I say to - ”

Realization hits Doktor like a train and he acts without further thought. In a second he is clinging to Anti’s shoulders as his brother beats Dapper’s blood into the mattress, crying out. “Anti, it’s not him! It’s not him, it’s not his fault! It’s one of his episodes, he’s psychotic, he can’t help it! He might even think you’re his old master!”

Anti’s hand is pressing Dapper down by the throat. He does not look up at Doktor. His pupils are blown, his face frigid white, his mouth shaking. But his pressure, at least a little, relinquishes.

“One - one of his episodes? A snap, you mean?”

Dapper trembles beneath his hands, his blue eyes hurting.

Anonymous asked: Oh shit. Dapper I hope you know what you’re doing!

Dapper stares up at Doktor and Anti, towering over him.

He whines and closes his eyes and sinks back down into the mattress, tears sliding down his cheeks. His anger is cold and it stings at his face; his hurt is deeper, burrowing down far into his chest. His master really does hate him, and he’ll never be or even remember the person that he used to be, and Doktor - Doktor - Doktor shouldn’t use his psychosis like that, like it makes his decisions any less his own. It’s not his to use as a lie. Dapper’s head is clearer than it’s been in months. The only thing fogging his head now is grief and this great wall of power that has so long blocked out chunks of memories and control. He’s beginning to understand where Trick was coming from more and more with every day.

He wishes he were here now. That’s who he wants, Trick, who hated it when Dapper was treated like a puppy just as much as Dapper does. Trick who loved him as an equal but protected him like a brother.

No, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

But he doesn’t want to get hit anymore. So he closes his eyes, and turns his face from Anti’s, and lets Doktor speak on his behalf, because no one is listening anyway.

“But he’s not hallucinating or thinking we’re someone we’re not,” Anti is protesting, glancing between Dapper and Doktor.

“Well, it’s hard to be sure,” coaxes Doktor, sounding professional, though his voice trembles minutely. Maybe Dap isn’t the only good liar around. “And you know sometimes it’s not hallucinations, sometimes with him it’s paranoia. Yes? You remember when he was so convinced Red would hurt him, the last time.”

“He nearly killed him,” mumbles Anti, brushing disarrayed hair from his eyes.

“But we got him back on his medication and helped him get down from the snap, and he was back to being okay again. Trusting you and everything, you know. Most likely he is just psychotic again. It’s not his fault, really. Besides, Anti, look, look, this wound in his side - you will hurt him more badly than you intend, master.”

Anti draws back from Dapper a little more, his eyes fading to blue. “But he’s on his medication,” he protests, and suddenly his voice is weak as a blade of grass. “You told me you were making sure he takes it. You - how can I - if both of them are broken like this - ”

“Maybe we can try something new,” suggests Doktor, trying to be reassuring. He dares to rub his hand over Anti’s shoulder, and Anti, looking distinctly frazzled, leans slightly back into the warmth of his palm.

Doktor puts his head against Anti’s shoulder. The pressure is warm and secure.

“Can’t look after everyone,” admits Anti, in a whisper.

“I’ll help you,” promises Doktor, just as soft, and the earnestness in his voice is almost painfully raw. “If you just let me, Anti. Just let me see - ”

“No,” Anti cuts him off, his voice clearer, and Doktor sinks wearily against his back, sighing. “No. Maybe someday. But not now. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk any of this. I finally have everything I want. I’m going to keep it.”

One of his hands resumes a little pressure on Dapper’s throat. The other is running through his hair, meant to be soothing.

“Poor boy, breaking down again,” mumbles Anti. “I’ll put it right again. I’ll fix you again. I’ve done it more than once now, haven’t I? Stupid boy. It’s okay. We’ll fix you.”

Anonymous asked: Do it Anti, and you lose your most valuable weapon. No more reversing time, no more do overs. The boys leave or die they're gone, no way to fix it. So prove you're not a coward, Anti. Carpe diem, glitch bitch.

Anti gets to his feet, glancing at the camera for a moment, his eyes skimming the message. He turns to look between the temporary set of twins - Doktor rushes forward to try and tend to his little brother, rubbing at Dapper’s shoulders.

Anti crouches back down again, just for a second, and he pulls Dapper’s face towards him, and looks him in the eyes.

“I want you to know something,” he says, his voice very, very low. Dapper shakes beneath his grip.

“You are a very powerful child. You are my favorite weapon and I benefit greatly from your help. That is all true.

“But if I ever think for a single moment that I cannot save you from - from - ”

Anti doesn’t know what to call him.

“The boy,” offers Dapper softly. “The boy you are afraid of.”

It pauses Anti for a moment.

And then he leans forward again.

“I am afraid of him enough that if I ever believed he was taking you from me, I will kill you.”

Doktor is clinging to Dapper’s shoulder. There are tears running down his face.

“I will kill you before I let him turn you against me. That is also true. Do. You. Understand?”

Dapper’s had enough.

Dapper’s had enough for one night.

“Yes, Anti.”

“Good.”

Anonymous asked: Dok whatever happens please do not leave Dapper’s side

“Aww, that’s sweet,” purrs Anti, stepping back. “You want to stay by your little brother, Dok, is that it? Huh?”

“Y-yes, Anti, I need to clean him up.”

“You do, yes. And start thinking about his medication, I want something to fix this by tomorrow. But after you’ve got him all patched up, you’ll hand him over to me, and then his twin has to be punished.”

Doktor pauses, looking up at Anti. “His twin?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought… Dapper didn’t have…”

Anti stares at him, impatient with his stupidity. Something cold rushes over Doktor’s chest.

“Is Trick your twin right now?” asks Anti, like he’s explaining something to a five-year-old.

“No, Anti,” whispers Doktor.

“Who did I give you to look after?”

“Dapper, Anti.”

“And when you fail to look after your twin, and your twin does something stupid and gets in trouble, how do we correct things around here?”

His throat is so fucking dry.

“You punish the twin, Anti.”

“Clean him up. You can spend the night in the shed. Should have known you weren’t capable of having a twin anymore. Tonight, Dapper will stay with me and Trickshot. We’re going to play puppies again. They’re right, Trick needs someone else to be with, and it can’t be you, Dok, so we’ll go back to the way things were in the beginning, when my two littlest boys were so head-over-heels for me they could barely breathe without my permission. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Doktor can’t breathe at all.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Anti,” he wheezes, and his hands shake as he pulls the first aid kit away from its place against the wall.

Anonymous asked: What, so Dok is going to be twinless after tomorrow? It's like you're trying to fix glass with a jackhammer.

“Red was twinless for a long time. And he was fine afterwards. I can rearrange again when Trick and Dapper are behaving better.”

Anonymous asked: Anti wait, he did protect him! He stopped you from killing him! He’s cleaned up dapper and made sure that he’s as healthy as he possibly can be considering his wounds, y’know the ones YOU gave him? He can only protect him as much as he can, especially when you’re the one attacking him! If anything he’s been faithful enough to let you have your way with Dap until there was a possibility that you would have gone too far.

“He should have kept Dapper in line in the fucking first place! Everyone in this house knows that Dapper’s been slipping more and more every day, and what did Doktor do about it? Coddle him and let him roam wild while he grieved over a brother who’s still alive!”

Anti backs away, resisting the urge to kick them both.

“That’s enough. Clean him up. That’s the only thing you’re halfway good for.”

And he vanishes as though he was never there, leaving only the smell of electricity behind.

nikkilbook asked: My dudes, you can be together and AWAY FROM HIM. What does he even do? Slap you around and stab you for doing literally what he told you to do? Drive you to suicide and punish you for it? What can he give you that you can’t give each other? Dude’s a royal prick if you ask me.

“Sh, sh, please,” whispers Doktor. “We can’t just… Anti is temperamental, but we can’t just… there’s no choice, we… please, sh, sh…”

He glances over his shoulder, but Anti has vanished, and he is alone with Dapper, shaking beneath his hands, his eyes shell-shocked and grieving. He pulls the old, bloodied bandage off Dapper’s back, eliciting a low, agonized whine.

“I’m so sorry,” Dok mumbles, brushing his hands over his hair. You don’t know who he’s talking to.

Anonymous asked: Honestly though, that took a lot of gut back there to do that Dapper and I’m super proud of you. Learning to stand up for yourself is super important, and just so we’re clear, it is not a psychotic tendency.

Dapper’s bleeding mouth opens into a small smile. “Thank you,” he signs frailly, trying to focus on anything but the sensation of Dok patching his skin back together. “No, it’s not psychosis. Sometimes Anti says snap and he means psychosis, but sometimes he says snap and what he means is self-defense.”

“Dap, please,” begs Doktor. “Stop, stop talking like that.”

“What’s he going to do? Beat me again?”

“Yes,” snaps Doktor, brushing his hand over his hair. To his surprise, Dap pulls away slightly, closing his eyes.

“Angry with me?” asks Dok, in a whisper.

Dapper doesn’t answer. Tears are sliding down Dok’s cheeks.

“Like everybody else?”

At that, Dapper turns, his eyes flickering, and suddenly the grief in his brother’s eyes looks like it will consume him, and Dapper’s pain seems to vanish, replaced by fear for his Deutsch.

“I was trying to protect you,” chokes Dok, his face losing all color as the band-aid flutters out of his hands. He can no longer hold it. “I’m always - always trying to protect you and everyone, heal when I c-can - but I can’t do anything right and - I can’t - f-forgive me, I - ”

Dapper drags his aching body up and throws himself at Doktor, pulling him tight to his chest and hugging him close, close, close, and Doktor breaks down against his shoulder.

Dapper took a beating to avoid kissing Anti’s face. Now, he buries himself against Doktor and smothers his face with kisses, clutching him close, suddenly vividly aware of the fact that the two of them are, for all that Anti plays at Dapper being the smallest, exactly the same size.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” cries Doktor.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” answers Dapper. “I’m so sorry that what I did hurt you, that’s not what I wanted. I don’t want to go away from you. Maybe I can convince Anti to give me back soon?”

“No, no,” whimpers Doktor, rubbing tears from his eyes. “You must do nothing to anger him, nothing to object. Don’t worry about big brother for a moment, that’s not your duty.”

“It is my duty. Just because I’m a little younger does not make me any less your guardian. The hierarchy here is just another something Anti made up to - ”

“Sh, sh, please,” begs Doktor. “Please, for my sake, stop. Just lie down, honey. Let me take care of you, just for a moment. It may be the last time for a long time that I have the chance, and it is the only thing now that I can do for you.”

Distressed, Dapper nevertheless lies down. “I love you,” promise his hands, fixed atop his heart. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” whispers Doktor. “Whatever Anti makes you forget, do not forget that, my brother.”

cest-mellow asked: red? blue? did you hear any of that??

You find Red and Blue in their room, side-by-side and looking exhausted. Blue is hidden beneath Red’s arm, clutching at his bruising throat. They are curled around each other in the corner. Red’s eyes roam from the door to the window, from the door to the window, from the door to the window, cause these days all he does is expect an attack and protect what he can.

He meets your gaze.

“We didn’t hear anything,” he tells you lowly, clinging to Blue’s shirt. Outside the window, you can hear Doktor crying out.

Anonymous asked: What’s the shed? Is it kinda like the basement in the old house?

The shed sits just behind the house, a metallic structure more like an upside down trash and recycling unit than anything else. There isn’t a real door, just a wooden slat placed in front of a gaping hole and locked up tight when Anti doesn’t need it open. In the daytime, the metal is hot as hell, and the walls can’t be touched, and being inside it is like being baked alive. The boys try not to complain, though - the shed is a temporary place of residence, and there are people in these mountains who live in even smaller ones for their whole lives, nursing children on the dirt outside to avoid the crushing heat.

Anti leaves a camera to keep an eye on Doktor, and so you find him before you - strung up by a chain collar like he’s been hung, but low enough that the front pads of his feet can stand on the dirty ground. With the help of his arms, he can pull himself up enough to get a few deep breaths of air every few minutes.

He does not cry. His face is calm. The ground around him is littered with glue traps, and you can see mice squirming through their death throes at his feet.

“Yeah, you’re right on,” he mumbles, trying to push himself up, his calves already aching. “Seems no matter where we go, some things never change.”

Anonymous asked: Be safe, please.. -PF!H

Doktor tries to stay calm, because he knows that you’re watching. He stands strong and works to take deep, steady breaths. He will be able to stand this for some hours, as he knows from experience, but he hopes that by morning he will be let down - otherwise he may begin to suffocate.

spicydanhowell asked: uhh dok... do you ever think about suicide? i'm just wondering... you've kind of been through a lot

“Mmh,” groans Dok, straining, glad for any company, for anyone to talk to, even if he will only be able to keep it up for a few hours. “Well, everybody thinks about that sometimes, don’t they? But we have to keep living. What would happen to the others without me? What would happen to Trick? No, you don’t have to worry about that with me, you must focus on the others. Don’t worry, don’t worry. Not going to do anything like that, not anywhere other than my dreams, anyway. And even then, I don’t mean it, and it makes me cry, to see my body stretched out on the ground like that - ungh, fuck…”

He lets himself back down again. Deep breath in. Deep sigh out. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he mutters, rubbing his own shoulders like he’s hugging himself.

Anonymous asked: Great job, Anti. Are you really going to hurt your baby brother over something he can't control? He always wanted to do his best by you, and this is how you repay that love?

You find Anti, to your surprise, in the entry area, where Dok’s set up his clinic. He’s sorting through Red and Blue’s backpacks, a computer set on the table beside him. Every time he pulls out another bottle of pills or package of gauze or iodine ointment, you see a new line pop up on the screen. He’s taking inventory, apparently.

“Are we really doing this again?” he snaps, not even looking up at you. You don’t know how he read the message. “‘Oh, Anti, you’re so evil and rude and you mistreat your poor little idiots so much!’ Get over yourselves! Stop pretending I give a fuck about your opinions!

Anyway, Dapper’s been acting like a fucking brat for weeks now. Guess he can’t stand that Trick’s taken up all his time with his master, spoiled little whore. No, he’s never cared about what’s best for anybody but himself. Half the time I think he only plays nice to keep himself alive. He’s a little actor, that child. You should have seen him when I first kidnapped him. He was a slyer opponent than any of his brothers, I admit it. He could make himself seem like a naive, helpless, terrified little animal while hiding a knife behind his back at the same time… no, he won’t slip away from me now, no matter the cost…”

cest-mellow asked: anti, sometimes no matter how close doctors watch their patients medication, they can still take a random turn. one day the meds work fine and the next they don’t work, maybe dap’s body got so used to the haldol that he just needs a med change. this isn’t doktors fault, you KNOW how protective he is of his brother’s and how loyal he is to you. do you really think he’d ever do something like that, or let something like that happen, on purpose?

“And I - well, I know that,” admits Anti, grumbling, a little abashed. “But he should have taken that into account! And he’s been letting Dapper run around with Blue and Red and letting him spend most of the day wandering outside or even - ugh, I caught him chasing after some of those damn chickens that are wandering around. With the dirty little children, even. He should have been keeping a much closer eye on him, but all he can think about is Trick.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter if it’s his fault or not. Dapper did something wrong, so the twin bears the punishment. It’s the most effective part of this system, you know. That’s how I finally got Red in line. He wouldn’t stop fighting me until he couldn’t bear to watch Dapper cry anymore.”

Anonymous asked: Please don’t punish dok too harshly, he really did try to take care of dapper the best he could

“Not well enough. That is all that matters.”

Anonymous asked: Anti, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on Dok? I mean he’s giving his all and he’s human, he’s bound to make mistakes but he seems to be determined to fix them. You have to remember that he’s mental sorta fellow, he likes to talk facts y’know? He’s the reason you have what you have in the first place, he basically got Marvin to come home right? He’s not a failure, we just all work differently and he might not be in the right environment to excel the way you want him to.

“I… I feel like none of them are in exactly the right environment anymore. I don’t know what changed, but it changed with that night on the beach and Trick snapping… If I can just put him back together, things will go back to being better again. But for now I can’t do anything more for Doktor. Trick and Dapper have to be my focus. Dok’s functional enough.”

Anonymous asked: anti you just really like being in control huh? you know, none of the others are going to think any less of you or "fear" you less if you let dok go. seriously they'll be so much more thankful to you if you don't hurt him. dap might be extra appreciative too?

“Mmhhh,” grumbles Anti, beginning to be agitated. “No. Rules are rules. He will still resent me even if I give his Doktor back. He would just have someone to commiserate with, to rant at. Doktor’s probably been fueling his paranoia with his useless whining for Trick all day. No wonder Dapper’s brain begin to tell him I was the enemy.” He hisses, gnawing on his lips.

Anonymous asked: "Aren't you one to talk since you and your puppets sound so unhappy all the time you have to threaten them to make them stay with you.. I hate to break it to you, but in regards to your response to my master's message you're too biased to have an opinion on how he's doing. And that's coming from me." -PF!H.

“Well, little one, then you form your own opinion, and let me know if you find anything less than the grief and the regret that I see in your precious master.”

spicydanhowell asked: you're punishing dok because he's not controlling carver.... but aren't you supposed to be controlling carver??? are you admitting that he's too much for you to handle? and then you expect /doktor/ to be able to handle him?? that really makes no sense at all. you're just pinning your own failure on someone else rather than owning your incompetence.

“That’s why I’m taking him back to my side,” replies Anti coolly. “I had hoped Dok would be able to look after somebody, but clearly not. You’re quite right. Dapper should be under my arm and no one else’s. That’s the last time I give him someone else to play with.”

Anonymous asked: okay but red isn’t dok they’re not the same person

“So you admit Doktor is weaker than Red?”

Anonymous asked: You're really keen on saying you don't care when you're going so out of your way to explain it, you know. Just saying.. -PF!H

Anti growls, shoving another handful of medicine into a cabinet with a padlock on it.

juju-on-that-yeet asked: Maybe Dapper's brain is telling him that you're the enemy because...ya know...you are. You really can't pretend you aren't, not to us.

Anti’s mouth curls up into a small, self-satisfied smile.

“Mmh… haha. Kind of funny, I almost miss the days when at least some of them knew I was worth hating. Maybe I’m too deep in my own head. What would it really matter if I lost Trick? I’d figure it out with the other four. Be a shame not to have the full set, but might be better than trying so hard to fix something so shattered.

“Yes, I guess I should remember myself a little. But I’m sure Dap’s just having a psychotic episode. Even a little world-shaker like that kid couldn’t get his head free from all the work I’ve done on him for more than a year now.”

Anonymous asked: Anti, please listen to me. You think Jack made you to be hated, and useless, and wrong. He didn't, I promise you he didn't. He made you to be awe-striking. He made you to be powerful, and alluring, and beautiful. He made you to be loved, loved so much that we would write stories for you, stories where you are happy. Draw pictures of you, make videos about you, make you known in our world. We love you so much, Anti. There has to be something in you that can return that.

Anti snickers without humor. “Ha, you’re funny… He didn’t even mean to create me. Everything that’s worthwhile about myself actually comes from - ”

He cuts himself off, his mouth thinning.

“You’re all stupid little children.”

And then he’s mocking you, his mouth in a wide smile, his eyes flashing, and he looks like Jack, he looks like Jack just to fucking taunt you -

“’Oh, Anti, we love you so much, look how we adore you, look how your mouth fills up with power every time we say your name, every time your image curves across a sketch pad or fills up the lines of a document’ - don’t you think you’re all a little obsessive? Do you remember the first time you saw me?”

And he is a boy with dark green hair and a black t-shirt, holding a long kitchen knife in one hand, his eyes blank as he lifts it towards his throat and begins to dig -

“You were afraid,” says a voice that does not come from his mouth, as he slowly slits open his own throat. “But most of all, you were thrilled, and you shouted and rejoiced, drew me and wrote my name, even fucking thirsted after me, hahaha! It was so funny, the power almost made me suffocate! And it was wonderful and warm and I had everything I ever wanted, and that was because of you, little fools, that was all because of you.”

He drops the knife suddenly and the illusion falters.

And he is himself again, panting on the floor of the clinic, hurt by his own reminiscing.

“Love,” he hisses, just soft, to himself. “Love.”

the-weirdest-fan asked: Kind of a random question, but Anti, when you possess someone, can you see his thoughts? Can you just dig through someone's brain to get any information you want or..? Sorry for all the questions, you and your powers are just really fascinating!

Anti quiets a little, drawing himself back up and returning to his inventory.

>Three rolls of bandages.

>One oxygen mask.

>Large box of syringes.

“In a sense, yes, and in a sense, no. It’s more like a feeling. Nothing about thought is explicit, you know. To me, everything just looks like neurons firing, and it comes with this… sensation of thought, I suppose. So if Trickshot was distressed while I was wearing him, I would be aware of that, and I could most likely understand why enough to guess at his thoughts - I turn our gaze to Dok, he feels fear, I guess that he’s afraid his brother will be hurt. And I could actually dig down to memory sensations, if I wanted, and get images and sensations and that sort of thing out of someone’s brain. But then again, you have to be careful with memories. Humans never remember anything quite right. It’s always changed by the way they perceived it, the way they stored the memory, the things they learned afterwards that have warped it in their minds… but for the most part, yes, a person is quite transparent to me when I’m inside their head.”

Anonymous asked: Antiiiiiiiii wHeN wIlL yOu LeArN ThAt yOuR aCtIoNs hAvE CoNsEquEnCeS— stop saying you’ll fix him!!! He’ll end up just like Trick!

“No, you’re wrong!” snaps Anti, looking, for all his talk, a little frightened again. “You don’t understand anything! Dapper’s always been my little pet, ever since I broke him in. Nothing’s going to take him away from me, least of all his own hands.”

For a moment, he softens again, digging peacefully through the backpack. “You know,” he says, almost fondly. “He actually is such a tough little creature, for all that I tease him. You should see him tussle. Even with me, he’s a little ferocity, snapping his teeth and - ”

Anti gasps aloud, dropping the bottle of pills he’d just picked up back into the bag as if it had burned him.

He kneels over the backpack, panting, clutching at his chest.

On the computer screen: >One bottle of Percocet.

Anti sits there for a long time, gripping at his jeans, his eyes clear and blue.

And then he heaves like he’s going to throw up, and turns away from you gagging, trying, without success, to drag himself to his feet.

Anonymous asked: Can't take the blame, can you? Figued as much. You're too much of a coward to face that the damage that's been done to your self-proclaimed family was only worsened when you took them from their old lives. Broke them. Made them into hollow shells of who they were meant to be. The funny part, you know.. Is that you think this eill make you feel like you're important, or worth something. Noboy wanted you so your forced people to. Kind of sad, isn't it? - PF!A

Anti screams aloud, slamming his fist down on the clinic floor. Glitches pierce through the air as well as the camera screen, making the whole house shudder, and you hear scrambling as Blue and Red hide beneath their mattresses in the other room, tucked close together, and they love each other more than Anti has ever been loved by a single thing in his whole life.

Blood spits down Anti’s chin as he shakes.

His hatred is eating him alive.

Anonymous asked: ...Look.. ..I do pity you, you know. God knows I understand having such a terrible upbringing like you did. As much as your actions make me want to hate you.. I don't. I really don't. There's still time to fix all this. ACTUALLY fix all this. You know that. This way of living isn't just hurting the others, but you as well. It doesn't have to be this way. That love the fans gave you was hollow, you know. It doesn't have to be, if you decide to change for the better. -PF!A

Anti is bent over the clinic sink, heaving as blood drizzles down his chin. His eyes are black as starlessness and his arms shake as they struggle to hold him up.

“I don’t want,” he whispers, licking copper from his mouth. “Your fucking pity.”

And his body flickers out of your sight, gone from every camera in the house.

End Section Two of Chapter Two.

Find the next section here.

#abuse tw #bite back #chapter two #suicide mention tw #torture tw

16 notes · View notes

sara-scribbles · 4 years

Text

Fae (Part 5)

Pairing: Ulquiorra/Orihime (UlquiHime) Theme: Protect or Blood Word Count: 1,753

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

@ulquihimeweek

Peace can only last so long. Ulquiorra should have realized this sooner as all the warnings were there. Barragan had been watching him closely ever since he had returned. Though Ulquiorra did not spend much time with the others in the village, the old man held onto his suspicions. Especially when his stay at his grandmother’s old house grew longer. Another set of eyes, sharper and keener than the old man’s, watches Ulquiorra as he comes in and out of town.

He halfheartedly cleared the junk in the house. The sooner he finished, the sooner he would have to leave Orihime. Ulquiorra still did not know what to tell her. His desire to leave her behind was non-existent. Yet how could he leave his other life behind? Perhaps he is being selfish in wanting both.

They do not discuss much about the fae. She mentions small things here and there, but never goes into detail. He often wonders if she does not trust him. But the way she smiles at him and touches him tells him otherwise. She trusts him with her whole heart. Something is stopping her from divulging the full truth. He does not push her to tell more than she is willing. He will wait for her to be ready. He will always wait.

It’s the end of the month and the house is mostly cleared of boxes. Unused furniture has already been sold off. The realtor has given him an estimate price for the house. Yet, he hesitates to put it up for sale. For now he tells the realtor to give him a few more days. He wants to talk to her before he does anything else.

Ulquiorra goes to their usual meeting space. The forest is no longer a maze to him. Even when the sun sets, his feet bring him back to where he needs to be. Orihime tells him it’s because the forest knows him. The forest trusts him. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps quiet. She may be fae, but Ulquiorra still has a hard time accepting the supernatural.

He watches as she twirls blades of grass between her fingers. Hands stuffed in his pockets, his mouth feels dry. “Orihime.” She looks up. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Crossing her legs together, she nods. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

“I have to go back.” He watches her face for any signs. She just blinks. “I have a job offer in a different part of the world. And since I’ve almost finished with my grandmother’s things, I will need to go back.”

“You said you were staying,” she says quietly. She drops her head down, and her hair becomes a curtain between them. “You said…”

He sighs. “I know. And I’m sorry for lying. But I want you to come with me.” He spent all night thinking about it. If she could come with him, then they would never have to be apart.

She doesn’t look up. “I can’t.”

He frowns, his brows drawing together. “Why?”

“I….I can’t. My friends wouldn’t understand.” She finally looks up at him. Eyes shining with unshed tears, his heart twists painfully. “Eventually you’ll die. What am I supposed to do then?”

“What do you mean?” He knows that there are many things he doesn’t know about the fae. It seems there is even more than he thought.

She bites her lower lip before explaining. “We do not age the same as humans. After a certain time we stop changing. Our kind can live for thousands of years without ever looking any different.”

The truth hits him hard. She’ll remain as she is even when he is old and gray. When he dies, she’ll have no one. He starts to pace back and forth. His mind is racing and his thoughts swirl together. He doesn’t want to leave her, but he cannot imagine leaving his own life behind. She watches him silently.

Finally she speaks, “Even if you were willing to come with me, my people may not accept you. We’ve been taught to be wary of humans. Especially ones that want to use us.”

He stops in his tracks. “Do your people know about” he gestures between them “us meeting all the time?”

“Yes. They’re not very happy about it, but they have to respect my decisions.” Her mouth presses into a thin line. “My position as a healer allows me some leeway.”

She never mentioned being a healer. But perhaps he should have known. Her vast knowledge of plants makes more sense. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closes his eyes. A deep sigh comes from him before he takes her hand and helps her to her feet.

“I’m sorry. I should have discussed this sooner.” He runs his thumb over her knuckles. “We’ll figure this out.”

She brushes his hair from his face. “Okay.” Her eyes glint with something he can’t describe. Her smile is soft and filled with warmth “I love you.”

“How touching.” They both turn to the clearing entrance. Ulquiorra can see Barragan behind the tall stranger. The old man is leaning on his cane watching them with his milky blue eyes. The unknown man is dressed in an impeccable white suit. His pink hair is styled carefully. Ulquiorra stands in front of her. “Who are you?”

He watches as the man approaches them. “My name is Szayel. I’ve been researching about these creatures.” He steps over the mushroom circle. “You see, I’ve always had a fascination with the otherworldly. In my line I’ve work I’ve seen all forms of strange creatures. I wish to study them fully.”

They’re slowly pushed back. Ulquiorra keeps an eye on the man, but also notes that Barragan has yet to get any closer. “You can’t have her.” He has an idea on how someone like him would “study” supernatural beings.

Szayel chuckles. “You see the thing about fae are that they’re quite tricky. They’re able to elude even my best men. That and they play dangerous games. So to hear that someone was able to gain the trust of such a creature piqued my interest.” He stops a few feet away from them. “I’ll offer you a deal, Ulquiorra.”

His eyes narrow. “I have no interest in you.”

“You say it now, but hear me out.” His eyes slide to Orihime. “Give her to me, and I’ll make you richer than you can imagine. You’ll never have to worry about anything.”

“I don’t need money,” he scoffs. His job offers a good wage already. He’s also never been the materialistic type. He only buys what he needs, never anything more.

He sighs and shakes his head. “You disappoint me, Ulquiorra. I thought such an intelligent would make a smart choice. No matter I’ll get what I want either way.”

There’s a click and Ulquiorra only has a second to realize that Barragan now holds a shotgun. The sound of it going off is deafening. He looks down but there’s no blood. Orihime pained cry makes the blood in his veins turn into ice. Turning around he sees red. Blood pools from her stomach and through her fingers. She clutches her wound as her legs give out. He manages to catch her. She leans heavily against him; her complexion becomes waxy. The blood stains his shirt and seeps into the grass, but he doesn’t care. Ripping a clean part of his shirt, he tries to staunch the flow.

“Come a little shot shouldn’t kill you,” Szayel muses. He’s watching them without concern.

Orihime grits through her teeth, “Iron…!”

“That’s right. I coated those bullets in iron,” Barragan states as he steps closer. “This is for your own good, boy.”

Ulquiorra only glares at the old man for a moment before returning his attention back to her. Szayel is frowning as he turns to the old man. “I want her alive. Being dead will be useless to my research.”

Barragan levels the shotgun. “I don’t care about your research.”

However Szayel pushes the muzzle of the shotgun away. “We had a deal old man,” he hisses.

“I’ve changed my mind. Getting rid of the fae is better than any money,” Barragan growls.

Neither men take notice of the sudden change in atmosphere as they argue. Storm clouds suddenly move in, and the sun is completely blocked out. A cold wind whips through the trees causing the branches to sway violently. It’s only when thunder rumbles loudly do they take note of their surroundings.

Adjusting his glasses, Szayel glances around. “How interesting. The sudden change in weather….could it be the work of fae or something else?”

“Ulquiorra!” The old man looks around frantically. Both had disappeared while the two men argued. However Barragan spots a trail of blood leading deeper into the forest. The men run after them.

Holding Orihime close to him, Ulquiorra runs through the forest blindly. The forest is no longer a warm and welcoming place. Branches seem to whip at them as if trying to stop him. The wind howls ominously as he pushes through the thicket. Her blood soaked through the fabric he had used, and she had become unconscious.

He doesn’t know where to go, but he wants to get her somewhere safe. Stumbling through the dark forest, he crosses a rushing river. Fat raindrops start falling, and soon it comes down in sheets. Lighting flashes and thunder claps.

Pushing past thorny bushes Ulquiorra comes to another clearing. Trees surround him every which way. The only thing there is a mushroom circle.

Ulquiorra recalls his grandmother’s warnings as clear as day. Glancing down at the woman in his arms, he makes a decision. Clenching his teeth, he steps into it.

Nothing happens.

“Come on. Come on.” He curses under his breath. He paces the circle but still nothing happens.

“Ulquiorra!” Barragan pushes through the bushes. “Just let her go. She’s not one of us.”

The dark haired man snarls, “Don’t come any closer!” His grip on Orihime tightens. The rain has soaked through them both. His hair is plastered to his face. He does not care; he needs to save her.

The old man shakes his head. “Foolish boy. You have brought this upon yourself.” Barragan aims the shotgun at him.

Lightning flashes again. Thunder muffles out the sound of a gunshot being fired. Rain pours down on the old man. Barragan lowers his weapon. His good eyes stares at the mushroom circle.

It’s empty.

#ulquihime #ulquihime week #ulquihimeweek2019 #UHweek2019 #ulquiorra x orihime #ulquiorra cifer #orihime inoue #bleach imagines #scenario

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fluorescentpipedream · 4 years

Photo

“Hey, Bill.”

Adam looked up from his place at the bar And slid off the stool as Bill came walking in. It had been a little over six months since he’d seen the other man and as he got closer, the two embraced before Bill leaned back and looked Adam over. “Six months and I get a half-hearted hug and a hi. What’s wrong, don’t like me anymore?”

Adam sighs softly, running a hand through his fauxhawk and sits back down on the bar stool he’d been at originally. Bill follows suit and nods his head to the bartender, ordering something called a dark and stormy, only to be met with a confused look. He sighs “Ginger beer and dark rum...”

“That sounds awful” Adam takes a slow drink from his jack and coke before finally turning to his friend again. Bill looks pretty good for a man that was supposed to be dead three years ago. He’s always had a wiry frame but generally stands about 6′3. He’s wearing a dress shirt and black jeans, though the shirt is wrinkled a bit, likely a good sign this is the second or third time it’s been worn this week. That was always a bad habit with him. Still, he seems to have put on a bit more muscle in the time he’s been gone. “You’re staring, Adam”

‘Sorry, it’s just been a long day. And I’m stuck wondering how many days that shirt has seen and how the hell you made time to work out while you were on a book tour”

“Only today, it’s been wrinkled since I put it on. It’s my favorite one...and I didn’t really, though St. Louis has some pretty nice climbing walls.” The bartender brings his drink, which he tastes and grimaces. “dammit all, one of these days I’ll find someone to make one of these correctly.” After taking the twist of line off the glass and biting into it, he orders something else. “How’s New Beginnings?”

“Tracy is still in our meetings…and I’ve got a new one that’s just breaking my heart.”

“Christ, hasn’t she milked this for as much as she can? She’s not even the one that’s actually infected…it was her brother…lover? Both?” Bill pauses as the bartender comes back over with a new drink for him, he nods to the man but doesn’t reach for it right away.

Adam laughs softly. “ husband was the one infected, her brother is a heroin addict.” “I could never keep it straight, she was always complaining about something and seemed to think I was in the wrong for saying fuck it to all of the whining and waiting around to die... Who’s breaking your heart?”

“His name is Liam.”

“What’s his story?” “Poor kid has been through hell the last few months….he’s the one from the news…at the fraternity…” When Bill shrugs, Adam frowns and proceeds to tell him about the issues at UCLA, and one of their more notorious fraternities. They still practiced hazing, while swearing they didn’t, and Liam had gotten some of the worst of it. As Bill curses, Adam nods in agreement and continues on, telling him how Liam was diagnosed with HIV, bordering on full blown AIDs due to his ravaged immune system, though it was unrelated to the hazing incident. Adam frowned and took another drink.

“So how long has it been since he was diagnosed?”

“About three weeks, maybe four. But he actually contracted it when he was 16. Apparently, his guidance counselor tried to guide him in another way.” Adam snarled and Bill muttered a few curses under his breath, a few of which weren’t even in a English. Dropping his head forward, he rolls his neck to the right which causes his blond hair to fall forward and cover the side of his face. Raising his head again, he pushed his hair back into place. Seeing that Adam shared his annoyed and yet equally sympathetic and sad expression, he turned to face him on the stool and laid his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Is he cute, at least?” Adam chuckled, happy for the change in tone. He nodded. “He’s a little skinny, but his eyes and smile would knock you flat in a heartbeat. Although, I’m pretty sure you aren’t his type…”

“Am I too old?” Bill snickers.

“Well he is in his 20s...”

“Ahh..yeah...he wants ‘em hot and older but not quite daddy.” Both men laughed. Adam grinned into his glass, holding his hand up but for his third round he just gets a soda. Bill follows suit.

“So, whatever happened to Jeanie? I know you were dating before you left...”

“Eh…she started acting too much like my nurse. And honestly, I just don’t have the right mindset for women, I never have. I don’t know why I try to convince myself I’m bi, I barely have any female friends!” “You just need to find a man, stop lying to yourself.” “I had one for a while, but he decided he liked girls better.” Bill gives him a playful look that causes his blue eyes to light up. “Yeah yeah…I was a terrible boyfriend anyway.”

“Given the circumstances, you weren’t the worst. And I don’t blame you for deciding we be friends, rather than lovers.” Bill had been diagnosed when they were dating, it was back in college and they were both scared. Adam had a relatively normal reaction, but they’d made it through well enough. “I needed you, Adam, I never would have gotten clean or made it through that first year without you” He hadn’t cheated on Adam either, he had a bit of a drug problem that had lead to a lifetime of health problems. The silence was growing between them before he cleared his throat and spoke again, chuckling as he did so.

“Somehow we’re still friends. Isn’t it bad luck to be friends with your ex?”

“Only if you’re straight. Which neither of us is. Not completely, at least.” “You are, more than I am.”

““I’m not the only guy you’ve been with since then, am I?”

“God no! That was 15 years ago! I just haven’t had anything that serious in a while...I need someone as adventurous as I am.” He grins. Bill travels quite a bit, whether he’s learning to be a wildlife photographer or fly fishing in Canada, he’s climbed Mount Everest and is actually planning on taking on Kilimanjaro next year, he wants someone that can do it with him without constantly asking if he’s sure his body can handle the stress. Now that he’s back in San Francisco, he was planning on finding a gym of some sort to start training. Maybe kick boxing could be fun?

“In any case, my last signing is on Thursday, I could come to the meeting on Wednesday and talk to the kid if you’d like. It might help.”

“It might. I keep telling him you don’t have to die just because you have this disease, you can still have a long life but he doesn’t seem to want to hear it from someone that doesn’t have it. I tried telling him my ex- has AIDs but I get the feeling he doesn’t believe me.”

“Remember how many people tried to lie to me, when I was diagnosed? ‘my friend’s second cousin has AIDs...” Bill rolls his eyes as he finishes his drink. “I thought Em was going to clock the last one that tried it. Maybe meeting someone that doesn’t treat it as a curse will help him, though if I’m a guest, does that mean I can’t tell Tracy to shove it?’

“Liam beat you to the punch, though if she starts up again, have at it. I know you never liked her.” It felt like Tracy had been coming to the New Beginnings meetings for as long as Adam had been running them, and the story always got worse every time she spoke. She also seemed to harbor a severe hatred towards Bill and his ‘fuck waiting around to die’ mentality. It would be interesting to see if she still stood up to him now that he’s a NY Times Best Seller and was on Ellen. Adam smiled at the thought though shifted his attention to his phone as it chimes at him.

Before he can grab it, Bill leans over and snatches it from him. He had thought it was their other friend, Emmett, who’s been working as a nutritionist and usually works in close ties with Adam. If this kid was as bad off as Adam said, he would have likely sent him Em’s way. Usually he avoids going into bars, since he’s struggled with alcoholism since college, so if the three of them get together they tend to avoid it in lieu of his comfort. Seeing the name though, he smirks.

“Ooh...Who’s Shannon?”

“What are you? 12? Give me that!” Adam tries to snatch his phone back and ends up with Bill’s hand in his chest.

“It’s Liam’s aunt.”

“What are you doing giving your number to strange women?”

“She’s not strange. I gave her my number in case she wanted to talk...”

“Uh-huh. I guess your bedside manner has gotten better.” Bill winks before handing Adam’s phone back to him. For his part, Adam lightly taps Bill on the top of the head with it before reading the message. Apparently Liam had met a couple of college students on the beach the other day and they were “dragging” him bowling tomorrow night. She wanted to have dinner. He and Shannon has been taking it pretty slow. She had a lot on her plate now with her nephew living with her and Liam was still so new to the whole ‘living with his disease’ thing...neither wanted to make Liam less than, especially since there was the abuse and neglect surrounding him before. Adam was staring at his phone, playing out several scenarios in his mind. Bill pushes his hair back from his face again and scratches at his chin before speaking in a more serious tone as he lays his hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“You’re overthinking this, Adam. It’s dinner, not a marriage proposal. Don’t make me answer for you, you know I will.”

“Don’t you dare.” After another pause, he sends his response, telling Shannon he would love to have dinner with her tomorrow, he’ll pick her up at 6. “Looks like I have a date tomorrow.” Adam mused. “Congratulations! We should celebrate,” he laughed, flipping his phone over do the screen was flat on the bar top “Emmett wants to have dinner on Thursday after my signing, you good to go?” “That should be fine…it’ll be good to get all of us together again. We haven’t had dinner since before you left.”

“Fuck, that feels like a long time ago.”

Adam nodded “Yeah…“it’s amazing how much can happen in just a few months...”

#talking #catching up #characters #Adam Gontier #Jasper Paakkonen

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alitheamateur · 5 years

Text

The Grind-Chapter 21

Warnings: Angst. Language. Mentions of actions related to a sexual nature.

A/N: Since I punished you all with that painfully short chapter yesterday, I felt it only right not to make you wait for this load of story. Buckle down kids, this is a lengthy bit!

The tense way our bodies snuggled to each other as we traveled now down a quieter four lane highway, was an immensely warm consummation I had grown addictively accustom to. Occasionally, he’d drop one hand from steering the bike to pet over my arms clutched to his waist, stroking a thumb to the skin he found there. I smiled in secret at the chills that arose at his feverish, yet boyish touch, knowing he was smiling himself at the reaction his contact triggered. The greenery and much clearer air, free of the industrial, city smog, painted a storybook picturesque view of rural Pittsburgh. Where in the blazes could he be dragging me? Not saying the lushness of the apparent countryside didn’t lull me into a satisfactory coma of contentment at the slight similarities I found of Westfield.

I saw his wrist twitch letting off the accelerator, and our speed decreased turning near a lot with a simple painted sign reading “Duquesne Inlcine.” The location seemed maybe vaguely familiar, like I’d heard it mentioned in a passing conversation sometime or another, but I couldn’t say I was properly acquainted. The vast variety of parking was well, strangely a ghost town. The weather was sheer sunshine perfection, it was the weekend, so where were all the people? He pulled off his helmet, revealing the heat of the sun that had been trapped around his head causing his locks to appear spritzed with sweat, and a whimper of surprise at his exterior escaped me. Was I ever going to grow suitably acclimated with just how gloriously handsome he was in entirety? Judging by the current timeline of events, he would only grow more attractive with age, and I would become even more vulnerable to his refined features. Time was on his side, and only a mere year or so had passed since I’d seen him up close. Only now, that particular day, his eyes weren’t nearly as bright with blue, and their usual glint absent when I looked deeper. Was he... nervous?

“Bet no one has drug you up here since you moved?” He shook my ears to attention.

“You’ve got me there. Where, where are we exacty?” I returned his question with one of my own, pulling off the helmet. Silently praying my hair wasn’t as out of place as the ones his head. Messy, tangled bedhead wasn’t a look that suited me as it did him. Why are you staring, Liv. You’ve seen the man naked and you’re shook up by some disheveled hair? Get laid, you pathetic hag.

“Ya’ gonna love it, Livvy,” his accent making me smile serenely. It appeared to thicken under three particular emotions: excitement, anger, and.. arousal. Three emotions that the brash drawl worked with ever so dangerously perfect.

“Colt, hey, uhm, where is everyone though? Like where is anybody actually?” He only let go of my hand to graciously hold a door open before returning the smile to a young man behind a counter in the lobby. He was younger than Colton and myself, only by a few years, and had a build similar, however much less intimidating to my date for the day.

“Allen, how are ya, you little shit?” Colton’s hand was settled around my waist squeezing lightly over my hip as he addressed the kind leer of this Allan character standing at a register. They shook hands briefly, and I felt oddly like an intruding bystander gawking about while the two men exchanged hellos.

“I’m not doing too bad, Ritter. Not as good as you clearly, beating all those asses in the cage these days.” He complimented in a congratulatory, yet envious voice.

“Don’t even start, bro. You been doin’ damn good for yourself, I ain’t blind.” Colt argued. “Hey, this is Liv, by the way, Al,” he winked at me with is introduction.

“Very nice to meet you, Allen. Clearly you guys know each other?” I giggled gesturing a handshake over the counter to his accepting palm, still utterly clueless to what we were indeed doing here.

“Yeah, babe. Allen’s a fighter too, I busted him a couple times when we were first starting out.” I saw him side eye towards his friend gauging a reaction to his snide comments. “His his family runs the place here, so I called in a favor with an old friend to bring ya’ here.”

“Smug bigshot here rented the place out for you, Liv. What the hell do ya’ have on ‘em?” Allen burst out quickly, then lost his smile once realizing that little detail may have been intended to remain a secret.

I lifted a hand to tug at Colton, my eyes yielding a flood of gratitude, confusion, flattery, reserve at how much this ordeal had to have cost him, and scolding him for going to such unnecessary, yet deeply appreciated lengths.

“Let’s go, babe. C’mon I wanna show you what were doin.” His own hand outreached to touch my reddening cheek with his battered knuckles.

I followed to a windowpane, gazing out to discover a machine resembling some sort of cable car, tucked carefully into the tree sprinkled hillside. Then, farther left, trailing down the funicular built to carry the car, the wide spans of what seemed to be the entire south side of Pittsburgh was nestled comfortably inside the bosom of the Ohio River. My cheerful face began to hurt from the extended upturning of my expression. Hot rays of the sun were gleaming reflections off the rippling water, whose color closely resembled the one in the eyes I felt staring at me from the back.

“OK, it’s ridiculously beautiful up here, Colton. God!”

“You like it, do ya’? Just wait till you see it all from the trolley. Dad used to bring me here every year for the 4th of July so we could see all the fireworks around the city.” He nodded to his right, indicating we take our places so he could show me the view he so apparently loves of his city.

The motor operated car doors slid open in unison reveling a wicker basket placed alone in the center of the empty box lined with seats. The lid of the picnic basket closed, displaying a ribbon tied bundle of pink peonies, of course. This batch however more conservative than the hefty dozens from my birthday. He thankfully read my mind, carefully stepping up behind to take me into his warm embrace, resting his prominent chin on the shoulder next to my ear.

“Whaddya think, Livvy?” His hot question shivered down my neck. Literally hot, his own breaths nearly incinerated my eardrum like some sort of well-trained dragon. The pattering of his pumping heart in the middle of my back was like the unsung lullaby I never knew I needed. I almost internally feel the cadence of my own heart catch up to sync with Colton’s.

Kiss him. Now. RIGHT NOW. Who needs pride anyway?

I loved and feared all the same the effect he had on me always. A new emotion enraptured me every time he was near, each more overwhelming than the last, and I felt him willing me to lose control. But, the pangs of heartbreak seized a friendly reminder when I felt I’d give in to those wet, desirable lips, and I held off. For now.

“You did.. ok, I guess,” I shrugged fighting to remain stern, stifling a smile behind cherry flavored lips.

“Damn, tough crowd. Ya’ little critic.” The man huffed out with an exaggerated roll of his smiling eyes. “Well, it worked for all those other girls I brought up here….”

Counter, Colton Ritter. Two could play those games, seemingly.

I threw a rear jab with my elbow to his still closely pressed abdomen, choking a goofy giggle of pain, and pleasure. He loves any fiery reaction he suck out of me.

“Easy there, slugger. I’m kiddin’. You know that!” He defended lowly. “Besides, you know there’s only one particular green-eyed girl I have eyes for.”

My God. Usually, that sickeningly, derivative come on would’ve sent me gagging a mile in the opposite direction, running for the hills around me. But, things I normally viewed as stupid, and cheesy, and even.. unintelligent coming from most, made me feel so utterly warm with affection coming from him. I think it’s because I know when they come from his particular mouth, they’re genuine. He doesn’t have a plethora of douchebag pick-up lines tucked away in the rolodex of his mind. He’s never needed it. Girls crumbled at his very feet, which was much, MUCH to my dismay. I can’t recall how many times precisely that I worked myself into a jealous frenzy over some harlot trouncing her perky bust brazenly under his nose, grasping for one lingering look from him.

“So, what’s for lunch then? My breakfast is wearing off.” I inquired as I slowly walked around the empty car, mentally tucking away snapshots of this utterly astounding view resembling something from a post card.

We ate quietly seated next to each other towards the front of the car, the Pittsburgh skyline painting a backdrop of pure beauty. Colton had kept it simple with his picnic basket, stuffing it with fresh fruits, some light sandwiches, and much to my satisfaction, a stockpile of my favorite truffles from the bakery neighboring The Grind. He had the memory of an elephant.

When he had pulled out the stashed box of dark chocolates from the bottom of the basket, he giggled with a shaken head at the child-like gasps and eager hand claps from me, instantly recognizing the golden, polka dot box. I still wanted to kiss him. Deeply, kiss him. The desire to do so hadn’t subsided a single inkling since his arrival to retrieve me. Matter of fact, it probably tripled. And the unintentional, habitual way he always licked that perfect pink lower lip of his after pulling it between his top row of teeth was only persecuting me all the more. I want to bite that lip. Let me! let me do it!

“Thank you, Livvy babe.” He chimed randomly, shocking me from the salacious thoughts of him that were currently running on an endless loop in my head.

“For what, exactly?” Tucking the third truffe shamelessly in my mouth. “I should be the one thanking you. For all this..”

“Thank you for agreeing to come with me today. Ya’ didn’t have to, and honestly I didn’t fuckin’ deserve it.” His head dropped and his hand went to the back of his head, a worrisome practice of his own, I’d noticed.

I couldn’t bare the weighted sadness shown over his tightly drawn in mouth. A year ago, maybe. Maybe it would’ve felt like a sweet reward of revenge, after the hasty, crushing things he said to me. But now, it was like a bullet wound festering through my belly. Why couldn’t he see what I see in him? Yes, he is violent. Yes, he’s very much possessive and crude, and sometimes demented with anger, but he’s much more. I see his kindness, the genuinely raw way that he’s so ferociously protective over those he cares for. Colton is intelligent, he’s fearless, he’s the most brutally dedicated man to his career. Maybe all too much. He was extremely gentle sometimes, too. So innocently, childishly so. Physically, and verbally as well, if the particular moment called for him to be so.

The other hand, he was darkly passionate, almost fearfully passionate at times, actually. And I do love those passionate moments. Damn it. But surely. Surely if he didn’t see all those interior, loveable characteristics I recognized, he had to know he was beautiful. He was a human being with color changing, blue/gray/green eyes, for goodness sake. He was picturesque sex, truly. The way he carried his shifty, built shoulders, and the way he always slid his hands in his pockets when he walked. Agonizingly accentuating his ink plastered biceps, the biceps that could probably crush steel beams in the company of Superman himself.

I took his hand, succumbing to my screaming desire to do so. “Colt, don’t. How long are you going to beat yourself up over it? I’ve forgiven you, okay? I have.”

“I’ll quit beatin’ myself up when everything is back to the way it fuckin’ should be!” He was growing frustrated internally the more we dwelt on the topic. “It shoulda never ended to begin with.” I felt his grip on my hand becoming tighter along with the tension of his jaws now. He wasn’t trying to hurt me, but it seemed his was molding his own hand to mine, afraid I would somehow vanish if he let go.

“Then.. why did it? Why’d you do it, Colton. YOU made that choice. Why?....”

He took a large, hesitated deep breath, like he was trying to inhale some imaginary courage floating through the air.

“For starters, I’m a brainless, ignorant twat, with shit for brains. And, it was the loss, Liv. I’m ashamed to say that I was blaming you for it. Or, I tried to blame you at least. I couldn’t man up and admit that Danny was just… better than me. I had to find some concrete excuse to caudle my pathetic fuckin’ ego.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it. I never pulled you away from your training, Colt. I would’ve liked to, yeah. But I wasn’t about to get in your way. I knew what the fight meant to you,” my voice was accidentally defensive.

“And I know that now. Hell, I knew it then, baby. I was just.. I don’t know.. God, Liv. I was just so in love with you. You made me mental, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I felt like I was losin’ control of myself.” His eyes said he wanted to touch my cheek, or kiss my forehead. I didn’t know what exactly, but it was clear the hand holding wasn’t dispersing his hunger for something.

“It was scary, babe. I understand that more than anyone else, Colton. The things you made me feel took the wind right out of me. Our love was a continual high, ya’ know? I’d be lying through my teeth if I tried to deny I don’t still feel that with you.” scooting closer to his tense body, I felt that sensation of heat radiate onto my clammy skin making me shudder.

“I wanted to come to you so many times. I wanted to crawl to your damn doorstep and grovel, babe. I would’ve, too. Pride aside, if I thought it woulda made a difference. But, the shit I said to you, Livvy? I knew you hated my guts, and I couldn’t take the idea of havin’ the door slammed in my fuckin’ face.”

“And what about now, hm? Is that groveling bit still on the table or?” I winked, taking a note from his book, using one of his favorite forms of defense.

“Say the word and I’ll drop to my knees, gorgeous.”

Could he hear my panting? Was I panting aloud right now? I didn’t let my hungry stare falter, never unlocking the heated eye contact. Please kiss me, God. I can’t take it anymore! Take my mouth right now.

I could sense my brows knitting as my mind shouted soundless pleas. I wouldn’t have the nerve to make the first move and seek out his kiss, would I? Plus, I needed him to cave first since it seemed he always had me at a seeming disadvantage. He needed to break first. Even the score, if you will.

“Tempting offer, Mr. Ritter. I think I might very much enjoy the site of you on your knees.”

WHAT THE HELL, LIV ELLIOTT? Who are you? Did that just come out of your modest mouth. You deviant.

He loosened the twining of our fingers, only to drop it to the inside of my bare thigh. His touch. There. Oh, we like that spot, yes. The next bold move left his mouth meeting mine in an unhurried, calculated fashion. The breezy grazes of his lips felt like the soft flutters of a butterfly’s wings. At first, he was frozen there, a warm, handsome statue molding his lips to me. Once he collected I wasn’t going to protest, he began to lick hungrily over the seal of my mouth, letting out a throaty, male growl when I accepted his entrance. One hand remained placed still on my thigh, the other now snaked to rest on my neck, willing me closer to his kiss. Our tongues danced together quite chaotically, the insatiable desire within the exchange was an emotion neither of us could control properly. Oh, and I bit him. Yep, just like the hot swell between the apex of my thighs told me to.

I had the middle of his shirt wrapped around my fist, clenching even tighter when I opened my eyes for a brief second to find his shining back at me. There was something so, erotic about it. He seemed to be committing the exchange to his memory. I’d never been kissed while glaring open-eyed in my partners watchful pupils, and for a moment I felt I should think it strange. But it was feverishly opposite. It’s incredibly sexy, and debilitating, and I want him to do it more often. Still, I was curious.

“What’s wrong? What is it?” I pulled away, noticing the wrinkled, stretched cotton on his shirt where I was heedfully tugging at him.

“I just can’t believe I have you. I can’t fuckin’ believe this is happenin’. I missed you, Liv. I really, really did.”

Sensory overload. In every manner of the phrase. He smelled of a pungent musk, like trees and sweat. Sweaty trees? The inside of his mouth was coated in the juices from the fresh pineapple he’d eaten with lunch, and it tingled when I swallowed it down. Oh, and strawberries too, maybe? Yes, definitely some strawberry. His lips were sleek like the most elaborate silks, and wet too, making them stick to mine ever so slightly when we parted. My heart, and the sensitive place between my legs fought to steal the stimulation from the other, and I still can’t tell you where the victory laid. How was that possible though? How did a man stimulate the emotions of the heart, and the sexual tension of my sex at the very same instant? Just from a kiss, mind you. I wanted to shed tears of unadulterated bliss, and mount the length between his legs in at same time, in unison.

“Colt, you know I missed you. It goes without saying. How do you just, sweep me back in like that?” I laughed, but it was a rippling clandestine of wonderment I genuinely wanted solved. I needed a concrete, logical, palatable explanation.

“Because you never left me, baby. Not really, y’ know?”

I did know, and apparently he had known it too, contrary to hiding away from him in my little corner of the city.

“You were gone, but I know you felt what I’ve felt over the last year. I know you had to wake up fuckin’ hysterical in the middle of the night because you dreamt about me, Liv.”

I had done exactly that. At least 10 times, I’m not sure though. I lost count. The heartbreak was ineffable and haunting. Why had we tortured ourselves living life without the other? Pride? Fear? Did he feel like he deserved some sort of punishment for hurting me? Hurting us? I wanted to talk now. It was my turn to chime in, to toss my hat in the ring. But, he just kept going. I opened my mouth to interject, and he’d cut me off.

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you, sweetheart. I’ve never needed anything but myself, and to hell with everythin’ else. But with you… fuck. I hate my life when you ain’t in it. And it’s all just fast, and it happened so soon too, y’ know. But, I’m so sick in love with you, Elliott.”

How can he make the work ‘fuck’ fit into any sentence like it was just a casual, common word in the English language like ‘hello’ or ‘blanket’? We should have a chat with him about his etiquette soon. Or should we? We might like that word.. Especially in the bedroom.

“Can I talk now, handsome? Care if I get a few words in?” I smiled and buttoned the tip of his nose. His perfect, straight nose. How did it seem to still be in tact? He literally got punched in the face for a living? Thank you, God for keeping that incredible face unscathed.

He heaved a sigh, like the words he’d spat out had drained him in some way. And they may very well have! This is the most he’s spoken since.. well… ever.

“Sorry, baby. Yeah, you go now.”

“I love you.”

He was obviously confused when only 3, one-syllable words came out of my mouth. His head tilted wearily to the left like a curious dog, and a haze passed through his eyes, but no words.

The sun had fallen lower now, some lights began to flicker down below us in the city as we rode the car continuously down, ad back up the track. Even though we had drawn close to the water likely a hundred times now, I still felt giddy each time we reached near the edge of shore.

“That’s all I know, and that’s all the matters, Colt. I love you, and I don’t want to be without you.”

I wasn’t this person. I had always been the type to be entirely exasperated at people who said things as such, I found it unrealistic and dramatic, yet there I was. Confessing I was lost without him next to me, and I wasn’t sure how I lived before he came into the picture. Maybe I hadn’t. Not really lived. “What you did to me was cruel, and I didn’t deserve it. But I know you see that now. You made a mistake and like I said before, I forgive you.”

I was half expecting more talking since he seemed to be on such a wordy roll today. Instead, he used his lips this time. His hands. His eyes. But no confrontations. He’d used up his word limit for the day. I felt my head rush backwards at the attack he made on my lips. It was carnal. He breaths hitched from his nostrils. Breaths he seemed to be sucking from the pair of lungs inside my body. I was blindsided completely, and relishing in the upper hand he always had on me. The inside of his mouth was warm like the rest of his thick body. His hand was cupping between my legs now. In one faultlessly executed motion I was straddling his lap, clawing at the back of his neck, and I felt bare hands slide underneath my shorts now gripping on the curve of my behind lewdly. Am I about to orgasm just from the friction of his jeans?

“My God, Livvy. You smell so good, baby. I fuckin’ love that smell.” He mouthed with his lips still partially connected with mine.

The smell was his favorite perfume. He would lift the bottle off my vanity when I was doing my hair at the mirror, smell the top after popping off the lid, then generously spray it in the crook of both sides of my neck.

I felt almost sea sick with lust for him. Between the constant motion of the tram, the rolling of my hips in his lap, his hot exhales into my ears as he muttered into them. I was entirely rapt. The thin lace of a cupless bra I wore beneath my outfit had painted a high definition display of the pert buds of my breast, making it irresistible for the man not to gently tug between a hard-skinned index finger and thumb, imbibing a breathy squeak of his name from my throat. Let myself crumble hastily to the desirous high, and let him take me on the floor of this glassy box for all the world below us to see? I’d have a very long, very disagreeable chat with myself about it later, but I couldn’t fall into that, sex, with him just yet. Although the raunchy idea of my bare flesh being trapped between his hearty torso and the cool glass windows here was mind-blowingly riveting. A little self-control was healthy, whether I internally agreed or not. However, that very scenario would be added to the growing list of X-rated fantasies involving Colton Ritter.

“O-okay, okay, Colton. Wow, hold-hold on.” I pulled away from his burning kiss, placing hand over my now seemingly chapped lips from the friction of his beard, and noticed a faint rash down my neck, leading down to my cleavage where he had suckled and scraped, and bit my tanned skin during the exchange. “As much as I don’t want to, trust me. We should pump the breaks here for a sec.”

He was stroking both opened fists across the small of my back, like you would do to soothe an upset newborn. A much lighter contrast to the way he was just pawing me like a ravenous predator.

“Shit,” he said in a barely there, seemingly embarrassed whisper. “I’m sorry, baby. I got outta control…” He wouldn’t let me see his eyes then.

“Woah!” I eagerly replied. “I wasn’t looking for an apology, Colt! I wanted that every bit as much as you.”

The electric, waterproof acquaintance that lived in my night-stand had almost run it’s race, and I needed this living, breathing, very stimulating man in front of me. Soon. ASAP. “But, I just think we should hold out, ya’ know. We need to work up to that a little.”

He was nodding in agreement now. What I believed to be honest agreeance, and not him trying to pacify me with what I wanted to hear.

“I get it, 2-1. As painfully fuckin’ irresistible as you are right now, I do get it. Him? I think he may have a little harder time acceptin’ though.” He shifted slightly upward reintroducing me to his still solid length underneath where I bestrode him, and smiled the most hellacious, satisfied grin I’d ever seen. The one he knew lit my every internal flame and sent me reeling with desire. “But the longer we wait, baby….” The sentence was left unfinished of actual words, but the drawn out moaning hum he gave, punctuated the thought exactly how he intended it to.

The lack of a touch from each there over the four hundred something days had been unrelenting, but once the ache settled a bit, it became manageable. However, now, with the blistering¸ very fresh reminder of just how pleasing and breathtaking the feel of our bodies felt when joined together, I was certain I would come undone. Sooner than later.

I squeezed over the muscle of his arms and gave him a look of warning at his crude comments. I had come to terms with the fact he was simply a sexual person. Sex was something he wasn’t ashamed to discuss, and it was something he verbally admitted his enjoyment for. I’d worry about developing the thick skin to deal with that tidbit at another time.

“You’re like a horny 15 year-old boy, Ritter.” I chortled with a blush.”

“That’s all your fault though. I can’t help it my girl is a so damn sexy.” Colton retorted with his thumb grazing the corner of my wrinkled eyes.

I wanted to ask him to paint a picture of me then. What did he see when he looked? Really looked. Physically, I mean. Sure, the new muscles from my training were settling in nicely, but otherwise, I was so… just so typical. Green eyes, small in stature, and an average dirty blonde head of mostly unruly hair. I couldn’t even stand next to the beauty of a woman that society would deem suitable for him. I blended in like camouflage amongst a crowd of women, but evidently looking from the point of view of one Colton Michael Thomas Ritter, things were much different.

I wanted more. Needed it, actually. Whatever detail he hadn’t shared with me yet, I’d find a way to pull it from him. I was all in, indeed.

After lingering for an hour or so more, tucked away above the hustle of summertime in the city, and dropping for a quick to-go cup at The Grind, we journeyed back to my place. Andrew had given silent eyes of gleaming approval when he saw the two of us enter the shop, fingers interlocked securely, and I exhaled in relief briefly. But, a tightness quickly drew back into my shoulders once Tia’s very disapproving, fuming blue pools fluttered through my thoughts. I’d have to settle things before somehow our reuniting made it back to her. Soon. But for now, for the night, I just wanted to selfishly bask in him. In us. Our long, cold nights apart now only a painful recollection that I never wanted to think of again, nor experience.

Now, in the mostly silent concrete parking lot of my home, standing settled between his opened legs still seated sideways on his bike, I never wanted to move. Crickets sang harmoniously as we lingered in a warm hug, and the flickering street light playing as spotlight. Several moments passed without words. Awkward silence to most, but a fulfilling moment of sensual security to us. The feel of his hand caressing the small of my back right below the twin dotted indentions about my firm backside, gently rubbing left to right, and sporadic kisses touching where my neck curved into my shoulder. I closed my eyes to think of those indulgent, teasing kisses along the ticklish hump of my ribcage, then across my pelvis to meet each protruding hipbone punctuated with a wicked nip of his teeth, and I felt a sweat arise in the crease of my breasts at the idea.

“Come upstairs,” a throaty demand wafted over my lips before I could practice any tact.

He instantly halted all movements seeking the truth behind my eyes. And I noticed a flash of seemingly confusion, mixed with hopefulness.

“What?”

“Come inside with me. Spend the night…” I proposed, fully aware of what I was offering to the very hungry man draped around my waist.

I kissed him fervently, and journeyed a wandering hand to his member standing half staffed, eliciting a groan of liking from his gaping mouth. His legs tightened around me, and his fingers crawled up to wrap his grip around my tousled braid.

“Liv, baby… baby, c’mon. Hold on…hold..” A tangled string of efforted protests met my eardrums, but his hands continued to nearly squeeze right through my flesh. Then finally, he sought out below to halt the erotic massage I was giving through the confines of his now growing jeans. “Stop, baby. Okay? Talk to me for a second.”

I felt my eyes expand when he had actually stopped my bold foreplay. Was he turning me down? “You don’t actually want to leave? Do you?” I probed.

“Hold up right there, Livvy. Don’t give me those puppy eyes,” he scolded shakily. “I know what you’re thinkin’, and you are so, so damn far off.”

I wasn’t thinking he didn’t want me. Not really, anyway. But I kept silent, wondering sincerely his reasons for declining my bed for the night.

“As bad as I want to throw you over my shoulder right this minute, and take you upstairs to see whatever sexy little lace number you’ve got on under these clothes, then fuckin’ tear it off your ass, I just think we should cool it. For tonight.” He confessed earnestly.

I was truly even furthermore enamored with him after that. He read my actions didn’t really wield my exact feelings, no matter how persistent my advances on his crotch may have been, and he resisted nobly. But, his desires shined through the ocean blue of his eyes.

“We’ve got plenty of sleepless nights ahead of us, gorgeous. I promise you that.” Colton said with a dark intonation behind his words. I believed that promise too, no hesitancy, and I looked forward to all the lost time he planned to make up for, knowing he’d execute every encounter flawlessly.

“I’ll be sure to get my rest tonight then.” I purred into his mouth before I snaked a tongue inside.

“Oh, I’d highly advise that. I prefer you well rested. And besides, I can’t have any girlfriend of mine walkin’ around with bags unda’ her eyes.” He smacked me on the tail end.

“Girlfriend?”

“Hell yes, girlfriend. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me now.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @littleluna98 @mollybegger-blog

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tom hardy fanfiction #tomhardyfanfic #tomhardyfanfiction #tommy conlon #elizabeth olsen #thegrind

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suddeninklings · 5 years

Text

Summary. Louis Bloom needed a change. Alone in a new city, he is ready to make his mark as he had in Los Angeles. Sadie Sims is alone, too. But she knows the city in ways he doesn’t.

Introduction.

The dinner rush at Whitney’s on 4th had long passed. It had been busy, for a Tuesday. Customers of all sorts had come and gone. Tourists, locals, and regulars, but the crowd was mostly middle age. This wasn’t a place where young blood flocked. It was a staple of the Inner Sunset, but it had remained more or less unchanged since Ben and Vera Whitney had purchased the property in 1972. Too old to be hip. Too young to be a historic treasure…

Now there were only the hangers-on. An older couple sat in the coveted corner window booth, sipping decaf, indulging in a hard-earned, comfortable silence. Two men were seated at the counter, eating eggs and reminiscing. There was only one patron who sat alone by the front window. Louis Bloom. He occupied the same booth he had the night before. And the night before that. It was the only storefront on the block still open. The others, consisting of a family-owned pharmacy, a chain deli, a hardware store, a UPS store and a hippy gift shop, were all closed for the night, their windows darkened. Street side, he sat just under the “h” in “Whitney’s” that had been painted on the window in a curly, but dated font. The paint had been scratched away here and there, a victim of age and weather. The booth he chose was in better shape than most. It was perhaps too plush, covered in a cherry red vinyl, but it was clean. In front of him sat a plated omelette, barely picked over, and a large mug of black coffee.

His attention was directed at his phone, a pair of cheap, black headphones crammed into the aux adapter. One bud was stuck in his ear. The other hung down in his lap. He was listening intently, scrolling through several online police patches he had discovered thanks to a local reddit board. He switched between them every third minute, but it was turning into a dead night. Aside from a few low key robberies. Maybe on another night he would have considered pursuing them, but he needed something big if he was to maintain a good relationship with the contact he had made at one of the local stations. His name was Robert Dean and he was primed for Louis’ intervention. His station was struggling in the ratings and he was desperate for a leg up. The perfect partner. It was no small miracle that he had been able to track one down only two weeks into his tenure in this new city. San Francisco.

The decision to leave Los Angeles wasn’t an easy one, but he couldn’t deny that circumstances needed to change if he were to continue to grow in the industry he had revolutionized. His relationship with Nina had soured. The competition had grown since he had exploded onto the scene. The number of copycats had risen significantly in a matter of months. It didn’t surprise him. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, they say. They. He thought, bitterly. They were ruining everything. He was no longer a lone shark in a large sea. He was one of many, hunting and feeding at the first scent of blood. Bait was being gobbled up so quickly, he was lucky to get by with one good story a week. It wasn’t enough. He needed more. A new sea, one untainted by the mimics that clung to him as if he were some giving, door-opening host. He thought long and hard about where he would choose to move. Chicago had been his second choice. Perhaps he would find himself there, eventually. But the city by the bay had some scintillating perks. It was a city in flux. The burgeoning, nationwide class war was escalating faster here than in most urban areas. The beloved streets, still rife with historical infamy, were now caught between the poorer sentimentalists and the vampiric greed of Silicon Valley overlords. A battle wouldn’t decide the victor. This was a war. The tension was palpable. He could smell it on the air as soon as he arrived in town, with only his equipment and his car. It thrilled him. What need was there for uppers or alcohol when the night brought a rush that could sustain him for days.

“Refill?” A waitress stood by his table, a tired but sincere smile gracing her face. She must have been at least forty years of age. Her hair was dark, her teeth and fingernails showed signs of steady smoking, but she never smelled of it. She wore a small name tag clipped to her apron, bearing the name “Annie”. He smiled back, maintaining eye contact.

“Yes, thank you.” He said.

“Anytime, honey.” She replied, before shuffling away.

He liked Whitney’s. The staff was amiable and attentive, but never chatty or meddlesome. For the most part, they let him be, only stepping in when it was clear he needed something. Aside from the owner, there were no men working there. At least, the night wait staff was all female. There were three of them: Annie, Laurel and Sadie, each working five days so that there would always be at least two to support Vera at the counter while Ben hovered over the kitchen staff most nights. Except for the first and third Monday, when the diner was closed altogether. Annie was off on Sundays & Mondays. Laurel on Tuesdays & Wednesdays. And Sadie on Thursdays & Saturdays, most likely because she was the youngest and therefore the most likely to want to be out and about on such a vital weekend night. Vera was a warm woman, portly with a throaty voice, but she seemed rather attached to the youngest waitress. At first Louis thought them related in some way. They had the same bright eyes. He had never met the day shift staff, since he was usually tied up at his place, editing or planning his route for the night, running errands or sleeping if the need presented itself.

He shifted in his seat, sighing as his eyes flicked from the screen for a moment. His stomach constricted. That’s right, he had come here because he was hungry. He reached for his fork, severing another large bite and swallowing it down. The omelette was more cold than hot now, but he barely tasted it. He focused again on the screen, this time turning his attention to a watchdog group he had found on facebook. He had gone to the effort of creating a burner account for the sole purpose of gaining access to the group. It was made up of locals throughout the city, and while he had only found two leads worth following, it was proving to be a helpful tool as people seemed to post to the thread day and night, hour by hour. It baffled him, people’s need to overshare, to shout to the technical ether every thought and experience they deemed worthy of public consumption. Though in most cases, not a single shred of it was worth more than a scrap of trash. What was it about the social networks that lulled the masses so easily into a false sense of security? Didn’t they realize people were always watching, cataloguing it all? It baffled him. But people clung to it as if they were made from it. As if every post or like or emoji were connective tissue, vital to survival. Pathetic, he thought, padding through another thread. Eyes searching for various keywords. But helpful. That he couldn’t deny.

“Uh, sir?” Came a soft call.

He looked up. It was Sadie this time. She wore the same royal blue dress as the others. It sported a wide wrap around white collar, with five large buttons that came together at the front. Unlike the older two, she pinned her name tag to the side the cropped apron tied around her waist. Her hair, a natural ashy blonde, was choppy and short, but she had most of it tied back away from her face by a thin folded floral bandana.

“We’ll be closing in ten minutes.”

“Alright,” He said, his eyes drifting to his watch. It wasn’t often that time slipped away from him unnoticed.

“Was there anything wrong with your food?” She asked.

He looked to his plate where a good portion of the omelette still sat untouched.

“No, actually, could you box it for me?” He asked, his dark blue eyes meeting her cool, almost grey ones.

“Sure,” She said with a smile. It wasn’t as seasoned as Annie’s but Louis could appreciate the effort. She took the plate and headed into the back. He watched her disappear through the door, the chatter on the radio in his ear dimming. There was something strange about her, something familiar. He had yet to put his finger on it.

She returned a moment later and handed him the box in a brown paper bag.

“Thanks,” He said, thumbing a wad of bills in his pocket.

“Oh, you pay at the front,” She said, gesturing over her shoulder.

He pulled a twenty loose and held it out to her. She eyed it, almost suspiciously.

“Split it?” He explained. “With Annie.”

She nodded, taking the bill in between her thumb and index finger and folding it. “Thank you.”

Her gaze fell away from him, dodging his eye. Louis thought little of it. He was used to it. She looked as though she wanted to say something else, but drifted back to the counter, calling for Annie.

He took one last listen to each station, hoping for some sort of lead before he would need to resort to drifting up and down the streets. He was still familiarizing himself with the streets and alleyways. Which ones were less traveled, which were highly looked after. Fortunately for him, at seven miles, it was a much smaller layout to anything he was used to. He didn’t expect it would take him much longer to learn the ins and outs of the landscape. For now though, he was taking it easy. Acclimating.

With nothing sparking his attention, he slid from the booth tucking the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and slipping the other earbud into place. He stepped outside, pausing at the edge of the street corner, trying to remember where he had parked.

He heard the faint tinkling of the bell that hung above the entry door behind him.

“Goodnight, Ms. Sadie.” It sounded like Annie’s voice.

“Night, Annie.”

“You walk around the panhandle, you hear me? And head straight home. I don’t like the thought of you wandering around.”

Louis pivoted slightly, watching them from the corner of his eye. Sadie was rolling her eyes.

“Annie,” she said, seemingly over a conversation they must have had more than once. “I don’t wander, I just walk. And I’ve never run into any trouble.”

Annie just tutted, stepping of the curb and crossing the street to her car. “That don’t mean you won’t.”

Sadie lifted a hand to wave her goodbye, then turned on her heel and headed down the street towards the park. As she walked, she pulled the kerchief loose and stuffed it into the pocket of her jean jacket. The jacket was at least two sizes too large for her. She reached into the backpack slung across her left shoulder and pulled a folded baseball cap out, plunking it onto her head. It was a deterrent. With the large jacket, short hair and hat, she could easily be mistaken for a boy.

Follow her. A voice in his head urged. He wasn’t sure why. There was potential there. A young woman walking alone through the streets at night…it meant trouble certainly. But was it newsworthy? Or was it an everyday tragedy. Too familiar and too frequent for people to care. Really care.

He took one step towards the park when a blaring siren shattered through the relative peace of the dark, empty street behind him. His fingers went to his ear, pressing the bud deeper in as his free hand fiddled with the tracer on his phone.

Finally, he thought, listening greedily to the dispatch. Something good.

He spun back around, heading for his car and his equipment.

Thanks for reading! This was really just to get my feet wet I guess. This story is just flowing out of me and I can’t be stopped.This story will eventually go to some dark and creepy places. It’s the nature of the character and noir after all.

#nightcrawler #fanfiction #louis bloom #jake gyllenhaal #tnio

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teddybeardoctorr · 5 years

Text

Lost Souls - Supernatural Fic

*I thought I would finally dabble in fanfiction again and write a little something with my favorite character. Hope you all enjoy! - A/N

“Son of a bitch.”

I spat out the milk in my mouth. It was spoiled. I can't believe...well, I can believe it. Me and Sammy had been working on a case for a week. Shopping wasn't on our to-do list.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I dumped the milk in the sink and rinsed my mouth with water probably four times. I was so pissed. How was I going to eat my cake now?

Yeah, my cake. I didn't think Sam was going to believe the sight of it when he came home. I don't bake, ever. I have, but...let's just say it wasn't my specialty. Last time I baked a cake for my dad's birthday at 10 years old, the firefighters weren't happy about seeing me...again.

At least there was nothing box directions and Google couldn't fix.

Grabbing my plate and fork, I head off to my room in the bunker. We were still in this dingy place I guess you could call home. It was at least a great place of quiet, and sleep. Oh, I planned on getting 12 hours of sleep after gutting a whole army of vamps.

Opening my door, I stopped in my tracks. There was a white envelope on my bed.

A letter?

I don't get letters.

Placing the plate and fork on my dresser, I walked slowly, looking at the letter. Labeled “Dean Winchester.”

“Funny,” I snickered. Who was playing a sick joke on me?

Ripping open the envelope, I unfold the paper. Only a few lines of text:

“Dean,

I can't believe I'm writing to you. It's been such a long time.

I hope you still remember me. I need you.

When you get the chance, please give me a call. It's urgent.

Love,

Val”

Val?

“Very funny, Sammy.”

Laughing to myself, I was sure he did this. Who else could it be? Crowley? He was dead. Castiel? I'm not even sure Cas would know how to craft a letter. Sam? Well, I guess I wasn't sure about that, either, but no one else lived here.

What if it was a demon? An angel? Another vamp? Some sort of trap? How the hell did anyone get in here?

Hearing footsteps, I left my room to see Sam in the kitchen, unbagging the beer I asked for.

Should've asked for milk, too.

“Do you think this is funny?”

Sam looked up, folding the paper bag. “What are you talking about?”

“You have nothing better else to do but craft fake love letters?” I asked, holding up the letter.

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Dean, you're crazy.”

“I gotta admit,” I said, handing him the letter back. “Val sounds sexy, but stop fucking with me, man.”

Perplexed, he opened the letter and read the words. He laughed and shook his head. “Dean...I would never write this. I didn't write this.”

I paused, shaking my head and said, “Then who did?”

“One of your many flings? That's probably why you don’t remember who,” He said, cracking open a beer.

One more time, I gazed over his face. Relaxed, too playful, and no sign of hiding anything, Sammy was telling the truth.

“Whatever,” I gave up. “I'll get you next time.”

Heading back to the room, I thought to myself briefly. There were no signs of forced entry. There were traps everywhere for monsters. Who delivered the letter?

Sitting on my bed and taking another bite of cake, I looked over the letter again. Val….Val…I could remember her name, vaguely.

How could anyone know to deliver me a letter? As far as the public world knew, Dean Winchester was dead. Like the wind. I hadn't had friends in...well, ever, I guess.

Flings? Different story.

I wouldn't even consider any woman a fling. A fling implied having some sort of romantic connection. Almost every single one had been a hookup. Physical...very physical. Easy to forget about. I couldn't risk being close to anyone.

Val...Val…

Oh shit. Val.

Vaguely, but still recalling, Val was the woman I met...maybe a year ago now? I wasn't too sure, but I remembered Val.

I remembered her because of her tattoo.

Clinton, Arkansas was one of the most driest towns I'd ever been to. Not dry as in drought, but dry as in there was nothing to do there.

The town didn't have many bars to choose from, so that's how I landed here, in the Driest Saloon. What a coincidence.

At least there was a pool table, nice selection of beer, and just a few people. It made hiding in the corner at my table a whole lot easier.

“Is this seat taken?”

I looked up, knitting my eyebrows.

“Good,” she said, pulling out the chair and plopping down. “Didn't think so.”

I loosened my lips once I took in my new view. Brunette, green eyes, and smirking, like there was something to laugh about in secret.

“Um, actually-”

“I'm Val.”

Looking at her outstretched hand, I chuckled.

“Look, I don't need company, but thanks anyway.”

Challenging my stare, she withdrew her hand and pulled the top of her flannel down, showing me her chest tattoo.

An anti-possession tattoo.

“Calm down,” she laughed. “I'm one of you.”

Grinning, the memory of that night came back to me. It wasn't smart trusting her. She could've been anyone lying to me, trying to kill me. But she caught me at a weak moment, I guess.

And God, was she beautiful.

Me and Sammy were working a case and weren't coming up with much answers. I needed a few beers to cool down, alone, and wanted nothing but a fuzzy buzz to cure my tension.

But then Val came along, and I decided to let loose. For once.

Yeah, I was stupid. Hopeless and stupid.

Tension releasing from my shoulders, I laughed and asked, “How did you know?”

“Well,” she started, “Yours is peaking out from your shirt. I figured it wasn't a coincidence.”

She was right. Bringing only a v-neck on this trip--from a lack of clean clothes--my tattoo showed a little when I wasn't wearing a button up.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s not everyday you run into a hunter.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Guess it's my lucky day.”

Looking at the number written down, I decided to take out my cell and give it a ring. I wasn't exactly sure what Val wanted, or how she was able to send me a letter, but it didn't hurt to find out.

After four rings, I heard her say, “You called.”

“I, uh, um yeah, it's me.”

“Dean.”

Hearing her voice say my name sent a chill up my spine. Even after just meeting her once, I could still feel her affect on me. Her voice dancing under my skin, making me want to touch every inch of her.

How could I forget that night?

“Val,” I said. “How did you find me?”

Laughing, she said, “Well, it sounds crazy, but I prayed, and your friend heard me.”

Shaking my head, confused, I asked, “You mean...Castiel?”

Picturing her nodding, she replied, “I was desperate and didn't know how to get a hold of you. He shows up in a trenchcoat, and asks what I need, and helped me get to you. I...I just can't believe it worked.”

Cas always did have our backs, me and Sammy. It was just strange how he heard her pray and...delivered a letter? Why wouldn't he just tell me?

“Well, it's me,” I said. “It...it's great to hear your voice, Val.”

She got up, fetching us two Blue Moons at the bar. I cringed internally. Blue Moon was sweeter than I liked, but my bourbon was dwindling down. Guess I wouldn't say no.

Sitting down, she said, “I think you're working on the case I had no interest in.”

I laughed, taking the last swig of bourbon. “What? Ghosts taking over home appliances doesn't interest you?”

“Not exactly,” she agreed, taking a sip of her drink. “Once I sucked it up and got to the crime scene, I noticed two men with fake FBI badges working.”

Arching an eyebrow and licking her lip, catching a drop of beer, I froze. I had seen many women in my lifetime, yet, she was someone who had a hold I couldn't shake.

I don't remember that happening since...ew, Amara, the darkness.

Back to reality, I rolled my eyes. “Like you don't have twenty of those.”

“Twenty-three, thank you.”

“Funny.”

Reaching for the lone bottle, she swatted my hand away. “You can get your own.”

Pursing my lips, I asked, “Excuse me?”

Finishing off her bottle, she smirked, winking. “That was for you until I finished mine. You have to be quicker than that.”

My lip curled, watching her. Her soft voice giving me goosebumps; watching her long hair flip to her backside; imagining it running through my fingers.

Trouble has company tonight.

“You too, Dean. You too.” She sighed, and I could picture her smiling.

Only...her voice didn't show any sign of enthusiasm.

Clearing my throat, I said, “I'm guessing there's a reason you were looking for me.”

After a pause, she replied, “Yeah. There is. Or um, there was.”

Silence sliced between us, but I didn't do anything to separate it. Normally, I would've chased to the point, but something told me not to right now. I could feel the...dread, the disappointment in her voice.

Disappointed in what?

“Dean,” she said, velvety and smooth. “Do you remember that night between us?”

“Of course,” I admitted too quickly. “It was my lucky day.”

Chuckling, she replied, “Good. I'm calling...because I never forgot what happened that night.”

Rising up from my chair, she tugged on my sleeve, shaking her head.

“I got it,” she said. “I live here. It's on the house.”

Protesting, she got up anyway, looking back at me after putting in her request. She smiled, tucking her hand in the back of her jean pocket, and winked.

God damnit.

She brought back two glasses of bourbon, both of us sitting down. “Now both are for you. I can't stand Jim Bean.”

“Me either,” I agreed. “That's why I drink it.”

Perplexed, she shook her head. “A new form of torture?”

I nodded, kicking back a whole glass and slamming it on the table. “Isn’t that the point of drinking?”

“Isn't the point to forget?”

“Not exactly.”

Picking up on my sarcasm, she grinned. “Are you always alone?”

“Naw,” I replied, sipping from my glass. “My brother is catching some sleep.”

Nodding, she took a sip from her own bottle. “Well, he's missing the fun.”

That's when the flickering lights cast a shadow on her face, making her eyes glow with flecks of gold.

Turning our heads around, we noticed our breath in front of us…

Of course.

“Are you talking about all the appliances we trashed in the bar? Or the scratches on our heads?” I asked, chuckling.

Laughing, she replied, “Both. What are the chances we ended up in the ghosts home? Buried in the basement and all?”

She was right. It was of course a hunter's chance that we would end up in the bar of the ghost making headlines in town. And it wasn't an easy feat.

The ghost, or Henry Simmoms, tried taking control of everyone and stuffing them into appliances to die. Freeze, burn, whatever could happen. After a few injuries, finding makeshift weapons, and attempts made to slow him down, we finally were able to burn him in the coffin stored in the basement. Unsanitary and disgusting, but convenient.

“You were badass,” I replied, smiling. “Never seen someone in my day break appliances in two smashes.”

“Shut up. I know.”

We shared a laugh, letting silence settle again. Her laugh was soothing. I could feel her hand on my shoulder, squeezing it a few times as we looked over the bar of frazzled customers when it was all over. I didn't think anyone in the destroyed, glass ridden joint knew what happened, and honestly, it was best that way.

Only we knew what happened that night.

“Well,” she said. “I meant...what happened afterwards.”

Oh yeah, that.

Chuckling, I replied, “Yeah...that too.”

“There's something I have to tell you.”

This silence was different. It was...waiting. It was nervous.

Reluctantly, I said, “Well, what is it Val?”

Walking out of the Driest Saloon, Val took a deep breath and said, “Well, off I go.”

“Wait,” I protested, turning to her. “You can't be serious?”

Knitting her eyebrows, she asked, “What?”

“You almost die in a bar and you want to go home alone?”

“Just another day in the office, right?” Grinning, she shook her head and walked forward. “I'll be fine. Seriously.”

“But you didn't even get to learn my name.”

That's what made her stop in her tracks. Turning around, she looked up and down, nodding. “You're right. Because you never told me.”

“Want to find out?” I asked, walking to the impala. “Get in.”

“My mom said never to get in a car with strange men.”

“Now I'm strange?”

“No,” she said, walking to the passenger side. “But you're a man.”

“I fucking hope so,” I said, slamming the door closed.

Val directed me to her home, a 40-minute drive. Apparently, everything in Clinton is miles apart.

Listening to the whistle of the wind against the window, I remembered a thought I had earlier.

“Why don't you have a southern drawl?”

She turned her head to me, smiling. “Cause I'm not from here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Somewhere in Indiana.”

“What, you don't remember?”

“I try to forget.”

Can't argue with that.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Kansas,” I replied.

Not asking any more questions, we sat in silence, with the occasional direction. It was somehow comforting. Words didn't need to be said when silence said everything.

Pulling up into the rocky driveway, I took in Val's home, or what was left of it. There was no roof, barely any sidings anymore. I gotta admit...this place was a dump.

“This isn't it,” she clarified. “Come on.”

I waited, and waited, but no answer.

“Still there?”

“Yeah,” Val replied quietly.

Nervous for her response, I waited again. After a measured breath, I waited again. What wasn't she telling me?

“Dean,” she said. “Do you believe in...right thing, wrong time?”

Confused, I answered, “Well, I guess.”

“Do you?”

“I mean...if it was truly meant to be, it would already be, right?”

“Are you saying us?”

“In general.”

In reality, I meant us. From the moment I laid eyes on Val, I knew she was different. I was suspicious, and sure, distrusting, but I always would be. It came with the hunter lifestyle. But she was different. She broke down walls I didn't know could be torn down, after years of building on the foundation.

My imagination told me we could be. We could protect each other. Go to great lengths to stay by each other's side. Vow to never let go until it was no longer a choice. But deep down, I would never let it happen.

In this lifetime, there was too much to lose. I could barely stomach the thought of losing Sam. Even Castiel, I couldn't consider the scenario. And Val...I knew if I let her too close, I would be terrified of losing her, too.

And plus, I couldn't be another reason to add to her endangerment. She was a hunter, so she was used to it. Hell, it was probably her lifestyle that cost her a family. She knew what pain felt like, just like I did.

And I didn't want to be another reminder of pain. Ever.

“Yeah,” she said. “I agree. Some things just weren't meant to be.”

Getting out of the car and tapping my door twice to let baby know I'd be back soon, I followed her to the side of the house. It looked like above ground, her home was burned down to pieces a while ago, maybe ten years back.

We made it to the back, where a roof of a shed peaked from above ground. There were double doors on the roof. Interesting design.

“Some enemies burned my home down a while back, and I didn't want to risk being found again,” she explained, looking down at the doors. “It was temporary, but I discovered I don't like the sun, anyway.”

Looking down at her, smiling, I couldn't imagine why she wasn't a fan. With skin as olive kissed as hers, and a grin bright enough to light up a room, I had my doubts. She belonged in the sun.

Quietly opening one of the doors, she stepped down and reached her hand out for me to grab. Interlacing our fingers, I followed her, closing and locking the door as instructed. At the bottom of her staircase was the living room. It was as if this was above ground, a normal home.

“I started rebuilding this once my house was destroyed,” she said, stepping further and leading me to sit on the couch with her. “It came along quickly. Kind of resembles what out there used to be.”

“What made you want to stay?” I asked, letting go of her hand.

I could tell the subject was personal to her. She looked ahead, and then up to me. This time, her grin was sad. “I guess I'm connected to my family. They aren't here anymore, but I can feel them.”

“Trust me,” I said, putting a hand on her knee, squeezing it for comfort. “I know.”

At first, I panicked at the movement. I usually never felt compelled to touch. A desired touch, sure, but I knew how to keep my urges to myself. But something told me to comfort Val. She was a magnet, and she was dragging me along. Only it didn't feel painful. To be honest, I could drown in her all night.

And there was no need to worry, because she put her hand on top of mine. Now, she was back to her mischievous smirk.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“I know.”

“You knew.”

“Your name definitely started with a D, but I was thinking Danny.”

Throwing our heads back in laughter, we somehow came back together. Looking at each other; smiles fading. She bit her lip, and that was it. That was my undoing.

Only I didn't make the move. Her hands held onto my shoulders as she moved forward to kiss me.

With enough pressure, I could sense the urgency. I could sense the spark. We both ignited the match.

And I wasn't going to let the flames stop.

She moved back, keeping her eyes closed for two seconds before looking at mine.

“Was that okay? I'm sor-”

But the distance was too much. I moved forward to close it, placing my hand on her lower back, bringing her close and pressing my lips against hers, saying, “Don't be.”

It's amazing how much you can jump from one place to the next. At one point, she crawled onto my lap, wrapping her arms around me, tracing my bottom lip with the tip of her tongue before gently biting down. I sighed against her lips, feeling my hands settling onto her hips, bringing her closer to me. I felt her smile between our kiss, and knew she was enjoying having this effect on me.

At the next point, my lips left a trail down her neck while my hand wandered to her chest, over her flannel. Kissing, nibbling, licking; I was doing anything to hear her moan and watch her throw her head back in pleasure. Moving her hips forward with one hand, squeezing her breast and applying pressure to her nipple with the other, she found the right spot between us, making my hips meet hers.

That's when I found myself rising up on my feet, keeping her lifted as I maneuvered my way around with her guidance.

“There’s a, uh, bedroom, to your right,” she sighed, reaching down with her lips, meeting mine and sneaking her tongue in.

Luckily, I was great at walking with my eyes closed. I led our way into the bedroom, the glow of two nightlights showing me my steps. Gently laying her down and kissing her deeply, I slid my tongue against hers, wrestling before sucking on her upper lip, letting go and hearing her whimper.

“Dean,” she moaned.

Trailing further down her neck, I said against her collarbone, “You rang?”

She giggled, probably from feeling tickled, and asked, “Will you stay?”

She crawled back, making me crawl with her, grinning and throwing her hair back. She was so hard not to ravish. But I knew with her, I had to take my time. If this was going to be the only time we could do this, I wanted to savor every inch, every touch, every feeling I had on top of and inside of her.

Looking down, her head was sinking in the pillows, smiling up at me. Even in darkness, her eyes were hard to let go of.

“I could never leave.”

And I couldn't. Nothing stayed except our bodies under the sheets. One by one, clothing was chucked all over the room. We were eager to take them off, helping each other since we got tangled, laughing most of the time and switching positions often. This was a great workout alone.

Wrapping my arms around her waist, rolling her on top, she stayed close to me. Her chest against mine. Her lips pressing deeper. Her tongue diving in before nibbling and sucking, making me do the same to her lips. I tried bringing her closer, even though it wasn't possible. But I needed her. I needed her so bad.

“I'm all yours tonight,” she breathed against my mouth.

She kissed me before rising up, hands on my chest. Looking down between us, she rose her hips before sinking down on me and gasping.

I hissed, “Shit.”

She looked at the ceiling, moving her hips forward and breathing heavily. First, it was slow, enjoying me inside, filling her deeply. But once I grabbed her hips, controlling her speed, she moaned and looked down at me.

“Yes, please,” she whimpered, digging her nails in my chest.

I groaned, closing my eyes and trying to keep my cool. She was so fucking tight around me. So wet. So fucking wet I could hear it. The faster I moved her hips forward, her clit rubbing against me, the more I heard her moaning. It was so beautiful. I wanted her to keep moaning, as if she was singing.

Immediately, I took hold of her and flipped her over, hearing her gasp and giggle. I smiled and looked down at her as she laid under me. She rose her hips against mine, wanting me inside again. Her eyes quickly closed once I slammed inside, causing her to moan and hold onto my shoulders, looking down between us as I kept thrusting, slowly and measured.

“Faster,” she whispered. “Fuck me, please.”

Sealing her lips with mine, groaning in her mouth, I slammed my hips against hers faster. Her moans turned into yearning whimpers, trying to catch her breath and still kiss me. Getting wetter and contracting around me, I knew I was going to cum soon.

But I needed to see her come undone first. I needed to see the effect I had on her because she was so fucking beautiful.

Peeling my lips away, I opened my eyes and took in the sight below. Her breasts bouncing with each thrust; her eyes trying to keep contact with mine but rolling back instead; her mouth hanging open, half smiling in pleasure.

“God, you're beautiful,” I groaned, throbbing inside of her.

“Dean,” she moaned. “Fuck.”

Sealing her lips with mine, I slowed down. Feeling her skin against mine, feeling her tremor, her lips tickling mine, I fucked her slow so I could tease her, and slow myself down.

It was impossible not to lose myself in her. I had never felt this way physically towards someone before.

Reaching my hand down to rub her clit in small, pressuring circles, I felt her pulse against me. She teared her lips away to yell her orgasm out. Arched back; breasts against my chest, her nails creating long scratches down my arms, I watched Val ride out her pleasure, spasm and all.

Watching her, I didn't realize I came, too. I felt it ripple through me, pausing inside of her and sinking my head down. But I was too busy looking at her.

Beautiful.

“I've never been a believer, anyway,” I said.

“Even after everything we've seen?”

“Would you blame me?”

Val was silent, answering my question. Out of everything that has happened in my life, probably in hers, too, my expectations weren't high in any way. God was a bust. Fate was a joke. Death could be cheated.

If things were meant to be, then they simply would be. Maybe in some other universe.

And when everything could change, I always did my best to make the right change.

Which is why I always knew with Val what my choice had to be.

Waking up, there was no sun shining in my face. But once I cleared my eyes of sleep with my fist, I saw her fixated on me.

“Did you sleep?”

She nodded. “I'm just an early bird.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

Giggling, she came closer, laying her head right in front of mine. Through the morning breath, I kissed her, missing the way her soft lips felt against mine already.

“I know you can't stay,” she said.

“I wish I could.”

“Me too.”

Laying in silence, staring each other down, and tracing the few freckles on her face with my thumb really made me not want to leave.

Val was beautiful in so many ways. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I didn't know much about her, and she knew even less about me. But somehow, neither of that mattered. What mattered was that even just being around her, she had me stuck in time reliving all the good parts. It was comforting, because I knew I was safe. I knew she was that person.

But she couldn't be. Not now.

And if I could help it, not ever.

“Can I help you get dressed?” she asked.

I smirked, trying my best to match hers. “Just to undress me?”

“Isn’t that the idea?”

We laughed, kissing each other again. We allowed ourselves a few more minutes of fooling around, her mouth around me and mine exploring her. Her lips felt just as amazing around my cock, swallowing every bit of me, not minding the tears in the corners of her eyes. It didn't take long for me to turn myself into her.

It didn't take her long, either. Her clit pulsed against my tongue, her lips wrapping around my tongue when I explored inside. Bringing her closer to my face, moaning against her and enjoying her taste is what it took to have her orgasm, her flooding my tongue with a taste hard to forget.

It was hard to get out of bed after that, especially when I wanted to devour her. Again and again and again. But it was already 8:00am, and Sam was going to be up soon. We needed to head out.

But she made me want to stay instead of run.

I knew I wouldn't feel that for a while.

Stopping in front of the drivers side of the impala, we looked at each other with a mutual understanding. We couldn't keep in contact. We couldn't have each other's information. We couldn't because we connected, and anything evil would try to take that away from us.

And that hurt more than actually not having her near at all.

She nodded, grinning. “You take care of yourself, Dean. Home appliances aren't even safe.”

I chuckled, leaning down to kiss her cheek and cupping it, feeling her soft skin under my calloused palm. “You too, Val. Be safe.”

After a few seconds, she started stepping away, causing my hand to drop. She waited until I was in the impala, starting it and backing out of the driveway to smile and wave goodbye.

I knew I wouldn't see her again.

But I was hoping I would.

“Val,” I interjected, growing impatient. “What's wrong?”

Taking a deep breath, she started, “I wish I didn't have to tell you-”

“Listen, you don't have to tell me-”

“But I do, Dean. I do.”

Hearing her shaky voice created a swell in my chest. Before, I could tell she was trying to keep herself together. But now, I heard the gates break down, tears probably streaming from her eyes.

“Please, don't cry,” I whispered, closing my eyes, willing away the image of a broken woman falling into my arms. I wish she was close to me.

“Sorry,” she said, sniffling before clearing her throat. “S-Sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “A few months after meeting you, I started getting sick. I wasn't sure why. I hadn't had the flu in years.”

Discomfort crawling beneath my shoulders, I breathed slowly. This couldn't be happening.

“Turns out, I was pregnant,” she said.

Pregnant.

“By who?” I quickly asked.

She snorted, but it wasn't friendly.

“You,” she bit back. “You, Dean. I just...couldn't tell you.”

After a few seconds of silence, I knew she wanted me to say something.

But what could I say?

Settling my fist onto my lap, reluctantly stretching out my fingers, I shook my head and asked, “Why?”

“Because you didn't deserve that.”

“I didn't deserve to know I was having a child?”

“You didn't deserve to have a child with me,” she yelled, taking me back. “You had enough on your shoulders. You don't understand what life is like for me, what you would've been walking into. I couldn't do that to you-”

“That wasn't for you to decide,” I seethed. “I would've made it work. I would've raced down there. I would do anything for my child-”

“There is no child!”

That's when I felt the world stop.

The clock stopped ticking. My chest ached with pain. My eyes made it hard to see anything in front of me.

I wasn't too sure if my ears were working correctly, either.

“Wh...What?” I asked, surrendering. “What are you saying, Val?”

“Dean,” she said, pleading. “I gave birth and...he didn't make it.”

#lemon #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #lemony #supernatural fanfiction #hopefully this doesn't completely suck #enjoy #lauravic #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #dean winchester x oc

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growinggeek · 5 years

Text

Sam’s First Date

Looking up at the house, I gulp. This place is huge, not big, big doesn’t do it justice, I mean huge. While we were chatting online Steve hadn’t said that he lived in a fucking mansion. I check the address on my phone to make sure it’s the right place because a guy never wants to turn up for a first date at the wrong house right because that would just be a little embarrassing. My phone confirms that I am indeed in the right place, although a part of me doesn’t believe it, but I undo the gate and walk up the path.

Now I know what you’re thinking…you’re thinking why would I be turning up at a total strangers house for a date? Surely this is more one of those casual sex experiences, but it’s totally not. We have this great night all planned. I’m meeting him here, we’re going in to town for a meal and then we’re going bowling. I’m just meeting him here as I’m new to the area and he said finding his place would be easier than trying to meet in town. To be fair, he wasn’t lying. This place is so big I’m pretty sure Thanos could see it from Titan. You guys know who Thanos is right?

I knock on the door, and after a few seconds Steve answers. His profile picture doesn’t do him justice. In fact none of his pics do. We had been chatting online for about a month on a gay app aimed for local men. I hadn’t really expected to find anyone nice on there but was pleasantly surprised when Steve messaged me. He’s over 6 foot tall, athletically built with short cropped dark hair and a short well kept beard. He looks so cute in his white tight white t-shirt, blue jeans and grey hoodie. And his smile, oh wow.

“Hi, you must be Sam.” He says to me, his voice his deep but very seductive. I want to say Hi yes I am but I’m a bit awestruck and it comes out as “Hi, Sam am I”. He looks at me and laughs.

“You seem nervous there’s no need to be.” He gives me a hug, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in. His body is so firm it’s clear that he works out. Unlike mine, I did try the gym once, but I swear the treadmill was trying to kill me and in the end while as much fun as a “Man killed by Treadmill” headline would have been to see, i’m not sure if I would enjoy the story being about me. Now I’m not saying I’m fat, because I’m not but I’m aware that I don’t have a rock hard abs or at least if I do they are hiding underneath a little bit of packaging.

“So I was thinking, I’ve had a bit of a long day at work and don’t really feel like heading out tonight, how would it be if we stayed in instead?” He asks me. Well that was not what I was expecting. I normally have a rule about not going into a strangers house on a first date. I have a lot of rules, I’m sure you probably think me a bit strange but they’ve kept me alive so far. “erm…” I stutter. Seeing my hesitance he jumps in with “honestly I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to spend some time with you and I love to cook.” He does seem like a nice guy and deep down I’m sure it will be okay. “Sure.” I say to him.

He takes my hand and leads me in to the house. Looking up, it’s certainly as grand inside as it is on the outside. Steve smiles again “The kitchen is through here, if you don’t mind watching me cook.” he says as he leads me through a door. “No I don’t mind at all.” I respond.

The kitchen is quite big, with a massive oven to one side, a sink under the window and a table in the centre. I instantly notice a chocolate cake in the middle of table. “I remember you saying you had a really sweet-tooth, so I thought I’d make you a chocolate cake. Hope you don’t mind?” Now here’s the thing with me, to say I have a sweet tooth is like saying the moon is made out of rock. One Easter Sunday I munched my way through 4 easter eggs before mid-day. I try very hard not to buy any sweet stuff now as would rather not put on loads of weight but when it’s right in front of me it’s hard to resist. “No I don’t mind at all.” I respond I can almost imagine i’m licking my licks and then it dawns on me that I may actually be licking them, that cake looks so damn good. “That’s great, let me cut you a slice.” Steve walks over to the cake, and cuts me the biggest slice I’ve ever seen. I mean like seriously, he might as well have just given me the whole cake, although I probably would have eaten it if he had and it probably wouldn’t be fair for him not to have any especially as he made it. “Go on then, try a bit, I want to see what you think.” He says as he places the slice in front of me. I take a bite of the cake and I swear to God it is the best thing I have tasted in forever. The chocolate hit is amazing and before I know it I’ve cleared the plate. “Wow you really do like your chocolate.” He says to me with a smile. I nod.

We chat for a bit about the random stuff people talk about when they first meet each other, music, movies etc and suddenly there’s a smell of burning getting stronger and stronger. “Shit!” Steve exclaims as he runs over to the oven. “I think I’ve burnt the dinner.” Now I’m no detective, but from the smell and the smoke that billowed out of the oven I would have to agree. “It’s okay. We can still go out to eat.” I suggest, feeling sorry that all the effort he’s gone to has come to nothing. “Nah i still don’t really feel like going out, how about I order us some pizza. You like Pizza right?” So first there’s chocolate cake, and now there’s going to be Pizza, this guy already knows me so well. “I love pizza.” I reply. “Great, I’ll go and order, give me a sec. Oh and help yourself to another slice of cake while I’m gone, dinner is going to be a bit later than first planned and I don’t want you to get hungry.” I look at the cake again and no that I shouldn’t have another slice, but it was so good the first time and I am feeling rather hungry. I cut myself off another slice and before Steve can even come back in to the room, I’ve finished it. Steve walks back in and looks at my empty plate. “Didn’t fancy another slice?” He says to me. “Oh no I did, but it was so good, I may have finished it already.” I let out a slightly embarrassed laugh. He looks at me. “I don’t believe you, nobody could finish a slice of cake that fast. But if you don’t like it it’s fine, you can just say you won’t hurt my feelings.” Now whenever anybody says something like that I instinctive think that hurting their feels is exactly what I’ve done. So I do the only thing I can do. “No honestly, I really loved it, i’ll even have another slice.” I smile and hope that I’ve reassured him. He brings the rest of the cake over and puts it in front of me. Now I didn’t really mean the rest of the cake, but he seems so pleased that I like it. But just to be safe, “Don’t you want any?” “Oh no, it’s fine, if you really like it please finish it, i prefer to bake for others rather than eating my own things anyway.” Within a couple of minutes the cake is finished and I suddenly realise I’ve finished the whole cake on my own. “Wow I can’t believe I ate the whole thing, I’m going to need to look in to reactivating my gym membership.” I say, hoping he won’t feel like I’m too much of a pig. He looks at me and simply asks “Why?” Now why, wasn’t the question I was expecting, actually I wasn’t really expecting a question at all so I ask him “Why what?” “Why would you want to re-join the gym?” he elaborates. “Well erm i’ll never have a body like yours, but if I keep eating like this and do no exercise this little belly is going to be a lot bigger.” I explain. “Would that be a bad thing?” He asks. Suddenly there’s another knock on the door. “Pizza’s Here.” Steve says as he disappears to answer the door. While he’s gone, still a little stunned by his answer I ask myself what he meant. Was he saying he liked my little belly and that he would want it to be bigger, It’s not the impression anyone else had ever given me but then again he had seen pictures of my belly while we were chatting online and always seemed quite taken by it. Eventually I tell myself that he’s just not shallow and doesn’t care about a guys size, within reason.

He walks back in carrying 4 large pizzas. Now math was never my strongest subject but even I can work out that 4 large pizzas for 2 people is a bit too much food. “I wasn’t sure what type of Pizza you want so I ordered a selection.” He says as he puts the pizza’s down on the table. Now I was right in the room when he ordered them so he could have just asked but he paid for them and I didn’t want to appear ungrateful “Thanks.” I say to him and open one of the boxes. It looks like an amazing Pizza and it’s full of different meats with a few onions here and there. I take a bite and it is amazing. This guy has good taste in food I think. “So when you asked me if my belly being bigger would be a bad thing, what did you mean?” I ask him. He smiles that amazing smile again, “Exactly that, would it really be a bad thing if you put on a little more weight. It wouldn’t be like you’ve robbed a bank or murdered someone, you just put on a bit more weight. It’s not a bad thing.” I think about that for a few seconds as I’m taking another bite of pizza “If I get to eat Pizza like this more often it certainly wouldn’t be.” I say before I even realise I’m saying it. “See there you go then.” He says agreeing with me. “So you like fat people?” I ask, a bit surprised as although he’d shown positive interest in the pics I’d sent him, I never considered myself to be fat. “I like guys that don’t get hung up on their body size and are happy to enjoy life and their food. I think from the way you finished that chocolate cake you definitely enjoy your food and if you enjoy your food and it makes you happy why should your body size matter.” I look at Steve again, for quite awhile, he eats a slice of Pizza and then out of nowhere reaches of and pats my stomach. Suddenly a jolt of electricity goes through my body as a result of his touch. I shudder ever so slightly, but he notices and places his hand on my belly again before gently rubbing it. “A growing belly can also be quite an erotic thing.” He whispers in my ear. I’d never thought about it before but right at this moment I wouldn’t doubt him. He picks up another piece of Pizza which I’m expecting him to eat but instead of taking it to his mouth, he takes it to mine. And before I know it, he’s feeding Pizza in to me, one slice after another, never removing his hand from my belly. I can feel my shirt getting tighter and tighter from all the food, my belly solid and stretching the fabric, the buttons just holding out. He removes his hand from my belly and stands up. “You want to see how erotic it can be?” He asks me as he holds out his hand for me to take. I hesitate. “You trust me don’t you?” I nod, even though I’ve only met him in person for the first time tonight, we’ve been chatting for so long online that I feel like I know him.

He leads me in to another room and sits me down on another chair before placing a pizza in front of me. he doesn’t say anything but I get the impression he wants me to pick up the pizza. I go to grab it but as I do he grab my hands and before i know it he’s tying my hands behind my back and to the chair so I can’t move them. He then gets down on his knees and ties my feet to the chair so i’m totally trapped, yet strangely I feel safe, happy almost. I comment that I was looking forward to eating that slice of Pizza and he says “I can have it in awhile.” He then grabs some cans of soda and a funnel and sticks the funnel in to my mouth. I try and resist but with my hands tied behind my back i can’t do anything. He opens a can and pours it in to the funnel. I manage to drink it and then you he adds another one. I swallow as fast as I can, taking in all the liquid. “Is this okay? You feel alright?” He asks. I probably shouldn’t do, hell I should be freaking out, but for some reason it feels amazing. I nod. He pours in one more can of soda which I drink and he says “You’re doing really well” I groan a bit, suddenly feeling very bloated from all the fizzy drink and I let out a burp and groan some more. He then places a slice of Pizza in my mouth. It tastes so good, i surprise myself by asking for some more and suddenly he’s forcing the whole cookie into my mouth. I swallow it. You give me another slice and I eat it, it tastes amazing that I moan at the taste of it. “Can I have some more?” I surprise myself by asking. He gives me another slice and then another one. I burp again, and you quickly shove some more pizza in my mouth. The pizza is nearly finished and I’m starting to feel really bloated. He rubs my belly and it feels so amazing having him touching me there admiring it. But I’m so bloated. I ask to be untied, but Steve replies “There’s still more Pizza to go yet, do you really want to be untied?” I know I should do, but I shake my head. My stomach feels so full and while it is uncomfortable, it’s also incredibly amazing. I move slightly in the chair and my shirt can’t take the strain as a button flies across the room. My belly now poking out of the hole where the button used to be. Steve rubs it again and then places his head on it listening to all the noise it makes. I can feel my hard cock getting wetter and wetter as pre-cum drips down it. Steve picks up another slice of Pizza and places it in to my mouth. I chew it as quick as I can before another slice finds its way there. I moan, feeling so full and yet so turned on. I can feel myself reaching the point of climax.

Steve gives me another slice and says “here, just eat a tiny bit more.” I shake my head but he puts the pizza in my mouth anyway, as we both know that deep down I want it. “You should see your belly.” He says to me. “It’s so solid and fat it looks amazing, if you were to get fat this is what it would look like all the time and it’s so sexy to me.” I eat the slice and surprise myself by asking for another one. Steve pats my belly and give me another slice of pizza. I attempt to eat it but it falls out of my mouth and down my top. Steve looks at me and gives me a hug. “You’ve done really well, but I think you’re done now.” He says as he unties. I feel so bloated that I can barely move and just sit there. He takes my belly in his hands and tells me to look down at it. I do, and can’t believe how big it is. I’m shocked, yet amazing. I never thought having such a big belly would be so hot and suddenly i’m wanting it to be bigger. Imagining what it would be like in a few months time if I can keep doing this. I feel myself starting to come as the waves of ecstasy take over my body. Steve rubs my belly throughout my whole orgasm and when it’s finished whispers to me. “See being fat wouldn’t be bad at all, would it?”

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domestic-queen-blog · 5 years

Text

Freddie and Roger in 1973 working on the market selling their old clothes au

'You can't hang that there, it's clearly a tshirt. That's where we hang dresses'

'No I KNOW that but it could soooo be a dress if you put a belt on it like that, see?'

'Freddie, it's a tshirt for men, you can't put that on the same rack as these flowery strappy mini dresses'

'OH, I see! So by Roger's standards, girls can't be eccentric with their style and wear clothes 'made' for the opposite sex? We run a shitty fashion stand, Roger, we are supposed to be PROMOTING the idea of trying something new and being more out there'

'That's not BEING out there, Fred, that's a boring blue tshirt that no girl is going to want to wear'

'I'll be right back'

Freddie grabs the navy blue tshirt and struts off behind the curtains of the open area of their stand. It's 9am and the market is just starting to get busy. They have almost finished setting up for the day, although their stand always looks a bit of a mess. Racks and racks and stacks and stacks of clothes they've found, each item telling a different wacky story, whether it's an ancient headdress accessory from Freddie's childhood in Zanzibar or a skimpy sexy skirt given to Roger by a pretty face on a drunk night out; they had everything there, and the stall had actually became a popular attraction to the high street market shoppers.

'Fucking shit, whe- Roger where are the scissors? The big industrial ones?' Freddie calls from behind the curtains.

Roger slides a cigarette out from the packet in his hand with his thumb then takes it between his teeth before shoving the box back in his pocket. He reaches for the box of matches left on the seat of Freddie's high chair and lights it, sparking a flame.

'In the second drawer of the broken wooden cabinet, the first one doesn't move so don't get the second one jammed trying to open it'

Roger picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip, cigarette still in his hand. He and Freddie have been running this stall for a month in an attempt to make extra money. They had a flat together in London and their rent was demanding lately so they had this on the weekends to make sure they were rarely skint. It was funny, and they met a lot of interesting people, because their stall attracted a lot of interesting people, so it was never dull.

Freddie prances back out from behind the curtain with a big smirk across his face.

'Look at what I'VE made' he exclaims, unable to even attempt to be humble because he's so proud of himself. Using the dull blue tshirt that he and Roger had been arguing pointlessly about for an hour, he had reverted the entire thing into the strangest yet classiest dress Roger had seen in a long time. He'd cut the sleeves off and sewn them inwards so his messy cutting wasn't visible, and pulled the waist of the shirt in to create a curve, synching the middle to fit the figure of a woman better, and sliced the bottom of the shirt so it was tight and asymmetrical. It looked like a new piece of clothing. He was so smug.

'Impressive' said Roger, playing it off like he was unbothered but Freddie's natural eye for style was something he envied overwhelmingly 'NOW you can hang it with the dresses'

'Too right I can' spat Freddie, and he skips over to the rack of dresses and places the blue dress at the front so it's the first to be seen by customers. Flicking his long black messy hair behind his shoulder, he walks over to his high chair and sits down. He crossed his legs and grips the side of the chair with his hands, and swings his legs back and fourth softly, whilst Roger continues to smoke his cigarette, leaning back on the rack of coats.

Time goes on throughout the day and their sales are going well. It's getting really hot though. It's only May but for some reason it feels like Summer and Freddie starts fanning himself with his hand.

'This is unbearable' he whines dramatically, and Roger rolls his eyes

'Take your jacket off then' suggests Roger, who lifts off his Hendrix tshirt so he is now stood bare chested. He's shameless and has girls to impress. Freddie shakes his head in a very matter of fact way. It's a beautiful jacket. It's a cropped velvet blazer the colour of red wine, embroidered with extravagant flowers of gold and crimson and green. His sister got it for him, and it's one of his favourite items of clothing in the whole world. Only thing is, it's not suitable for hot days.

'I can't risk taking this jacket off. What if it gets put down amongst the stuff we are selling and then you accidentally let some girl buy it because you're too busy thinking about getting in her knickers to notice that it's NOT for sale' says Freddie, folding his arms and frowning at Roger, but he can't help but feel very uncomfortable in the heat. Roger starts laughing.

'Freddie, I won't let that happen, just take it off and put it behind those shoes, no one ever looks down there' says Roger, pointing to the area of unpopular clogs that for some strange reason never make any sales. Freddie groans.

'Fine, but if you sell it I am suing you' he snarls, taking off the jacket to reveal a tight white tshirt with a wide neck, revealing his sharp collarbones and the top of his chest hair, and very short sleeves, and folding it, before laying it down next to a rather horrid looking pair of white shoes, and Freddie makes a face of disgust as he sets the jacket down, wondering where on earth Roger got them because they certainly didn't belong to him. He walks back to Roger, folding his arms again, and looks at Roger with a face of disproval.

'Who the hell are you trying to impress looking like that?' Freddie questions, looking Roger up and down as he stands there with his hands on his bare hips wearing nothing but a pair of sparkly blue flip flops and some black trousers; coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, and a pair of huge sunglasses buried in his blonde locks.

People wander in and out of the stall, browsing for items with intrigued looks on their faces, and Freddie and Roger flash them the occasional smile, and will talk to them if they are called for.

'Ladies, my friend, ladies love a drummer, and if I dress like this, they'll get drummer vibes' says Roger, winking at Freddie, to which Freddie rolls his eyes, turning around to face away from the open area and squatting down in a crouch position with his legs open to get a bottle of water from the crate they keep on the floor. His tshirt is too small so his lower back can be seen as the shirt rides up. He is visible to the people who pass by the stall despite being on the floor; they can see over the stand.

Whilst Freddie is on the floor unscrewing the lid of the water, he hears a whistle, followed by Roger laughing, and Freddie frowns. He stands up and looks at Roger, who is giggling, which doesn't amuse Freddie, and then turns to face the culprit of the whistle, which is what is causing Roger's outburst. In front of Freddie stands the most gorgeous man Freddie has ever seen in his life. He's got short blonde hair and a five o clock shadow of stubble. He looks strong and wears a white blazer and has one of his ears pierced. Freddie looks him up and down and goes bright red, readjusting his mouth to his teeth as his bambi eyes meet directly with the stranger who stands before him.

'I like your top, are you guys selling anything like that here?' the stranger says with ease, pointing at Freddie's tshirt.

'What, HA! This old thing? Pfttt' Freddie says, high pitched and very flustered. He laughs nervously, covering his teeth with his campy hand, flawed by this man's sex appeal and angry at how quickly he lost his cool.

'Yeah we got loads of stuff like this'. He clears his throat softly, then licks his lips, and gathers himself together, feeling much more under pressure than usual because Roger is staring him down waiting to see how this pans out.

'What sort of thing are you looking for?' Freddie asks, a bit more bounce restored in his voice, and he sucks his cheeks in and readjusts his mouth again, something he does all the time due to his sad insecurities surrounding his beautiful teeth. The man smirks.

'I'm looking for a pair of white flares, but now that I'm here I may as well get your number as well' the stranger says, grinning as he can tell Freddie is melting for him. Freddie's jaw drops open with a massive gasp and a smirk. Just as this is happening, John and Brian come round the corner for their daily visit. They stop by all the time.

'Perfect timing' says Roger sarcastically, 'Freddie's about to get married'

'Shut up, Roger' says Freddie exasperated, hitting Roger lightly on the arm with the back of his hand before turning back to the angel stood in front of him and starts to twirl a strand of his fluffy black hair. John and Brian realise what's happening.

'How about I take you round the back, we have flares round there' says Freddie, and before the man can answer, Freddie has him by the hand and pulls him to the storage area of the stand, biting his lip.

'Ridiculous, isn't it? I'm stood here with no shirt on looking like a rock star, and girls just give me weird looks, but he can get a boyfriend in the time it takes for him to bend down to get a drink' Roger moans, lighting another cigarette.

'Maybe selling clothes isn't the money maker for you, you should be washing girl's cars or offering lifts on motorbikes' jokes Brian, bored already of Roger's sob story.

'Whatever, sales have been good today at least, we got a lot done' Roger inhales a drag of his cigarette and blows it directly into John's face. 'What have you been up to?'

'Absolutely nothing' responds John. 'I only woke up an hour ago, Bri dragged me out of bed with the promise that we'd get breakfast which still hasn't happened yet' he looks at Brian with dissatisfaction.

'It will, it will! I just can't go too far from this area until my guitar is fixed. I handed it in to the repair shop an hour ago and they said it should be done by 1 which is in 20 minutes so we just have to wait' Brian runs his hands through his crazy curls 'Jesus christ it's hot'.

'Yeah I know, that's why I took off my shirt!' Roger says, raising his voice.

'Good to know that's the reason' Brian says with sarcasm. 'You guys working till 5 or 6 today? Because there's a rock show happening later a few blocks down and we were wondering if you and Fred wanted to join us once you're done?'

A man in his thirties comes by and starts to look through the clothing. He's stylish, with glasses and wavy hair, has a slight John Lennon look to him, but less extra, and he makes his way over to the shoes. He then picks up the jacket that Freddie had left there for safe keeping, and nods.

'Yeah, man, that sounds gear, we wrap up at 5 but packing all this shit down takes about an hour so we'll be finished around 6, where shall we meet you?' is Roger's response, not yet noticing their latest customer. Freddie is out of sight.

The man approaches Roger.

'Sorry to interrupt mate, but how much does this cost?' he asks politely. Roger is distracted by the possible plan for this evening that he has completely forgotten about Freddie's strict instructions to protect that jacket with his life.

'No, not at all man, uhh, you can have that for a tenner' says Roger, smiling wide. The man's eyes widen.

'Really? Just ten quid? Surely it's more than that, I saw this going in Biba for about fifty the other week?' the man says generously. Roger has a lightbulb moment and nods.

'Yeah, you're right, sorry, I thought it was a different piece of clothing, you can have that half price so twenty five quid please' says Roger, thinking he's being smart. The man beams and nods his head.

'Sure thing!' he gets his money out and hands it to Roger, 'thanks so much! Have a great day!'

'No worries, mate, you too!' Roger calls out after him, before placing the notes in the till and turning back to Brian and John, leaning back on the rack of trousers. 'If you guys just meet us here after our shift then we can pack this shit into your car and drive up. I might bring Crystal, actually, should probably give her a ring later, see if she's about'

As Brian and John are nodding at that, half of Freddie appears from behind the curtain. He's waving his love-at-first-sight off.

'I'll be around this evening for you to call me, darling!' he giggles, 'oh stop it, you're so naughty'

Freddie re-enters the main area of the stall and stands to face his friends. He puts his hands on his heart and he spins round on his feet, swooning.

'Wasn't he just a DREAM?' he says with an airy tone in his voice like he's out of breath. He looks a little more disheveled than he was when he left, his shirt riding up a little to reveal his hairy little stomach and his midnight black hair is sticking up a little.

'Someone's had fun, you know you are at WORK, Freddie', Roger's tone is moody.

'You're just in a sulk because you thought you were going to get some because you took your top off and then I happened to be the-' Freddie stops speaking mid sentence, as his eyes have noticed something.

'Roger...' he says, with deep deep seriousness.

'Yeah, what?' Roger asks, in a daze.

'Where is my jacket...?' Freddie's jacket is not where he left it, nor is it anywhere else as Freddie's eyes scan the surface of the stall. Brian and John appear confused, they weren't aware of the conversation earlier on in the day. Roger, on the other hand, looks like he's seen a ghost. All the colour drains from his face, and Freddie clenches his fists and grits his teeth, slowly stepping closer to Roger. Roger backs up against the racks of jeans and flares.

'Freddie, I'm so sorry'

'Who was he'

'Freddie I don't kn-'

'What did he look like'

'Uhh he h-had long hair a-and glasses, looked a bit l-like John Lennon'

'How much did he give you'

'Twenty five quid'

'YOU LET HIM GIVE YOU TWENTY FIVE STUPID POUNDS FOR MY FUCKING ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO POUND JACKET??'

'He told me he saw it in Biba the other day going for fifty!'

'The stupid cow was LYING! Which way did he go?'

Brian is trying not to laugh, clearly he and John missed a lot of the previous events in the day because this whole situation has escalated fairly fast. One minute Freddie was getting physical with a cute guy behind the curtains, and now he looks like he's actually going to KILL Roger. It's amusing to them from an outside perspective. Brian points left.

'He went that way'

Without any warning, Freddie storms over to the till and takes out fifty quid, and before the others know it he's gone. Running as fast as his skinny little legs will go in black clogs, stumbling like a baby dear, he hurtles down the street screaming 'WHO HAS MY FUCKING JACKET!' as people stare in disbelief. He stops every now and again to scan the perimeter to see if he can spot anyone who matches Roger's weak description, before bolting off again, in and out of market stalls. Then, across the road, is the fifth Beatle looking man, and as Freddie's eyes go into superzoom, he is carrying what Freddie recognises as his pride and joy piece of clothing. He dashes across the road as he is beeped by taxis and cars for not adhering to red lights, and finally catches up to the man, grabbing him by the shoulders. The man freaks out and turns around really fast, staring at the crazy looking mass of black hair stood before him with an expression of horror.

'What the fuck are you doing?' he questions, clearly alarmed by this whole thing because he's not quite sure what he's done wrong.

Freddie is out of breath but won't show it, and he puts his hands on his little feminine hips and gestures to the jacket in the mans hand.

'That's my jacket'

'No it's not, I bought it 10 minutes ago'

'I know you did, you bought it from my clothing stall. My idiot friend sold it to you by mistake, it wasn't for sale, I want it back'

'Well, you can't have it back! I bought it for twenty five pounds!'

'Listen to me, you ridiculous tart. I bought that jacket for £152, and you know that, because my friend told me you mugged him off with the prices. Now, I don't need to worry about money, because I'm going to be famous one day, but you, I don't see you doing anything interesting anytime soon. so I will give you double the refund price, but I am taking my jacket back'

Freddie hands him the fifty quid and before the guy can really do anything, snatches back his jacket and struts away, his thick black hair bouncing as he walks with a slight skip in his step, happy because he has won.

Brian and John are still there when Freddie returns, and they all stare at him as he walks past them, looking exhausted.

'See? You got it back, panic over' says Roger, trying to take the attention off the fact that he is the one who fucked up.

'Roger, you're a fucking idiot, and I am never trusting you with anything of mine again' Freddie says as he wraps the sleeves of the jacket around his tiny waist.

'That's harsh, come on, it was an easy mistake. Blame these two for coming over and distracting me' Roger exclaims, pointing at Brian and John who just roll their eyes. Freddie frowns, readjusting his mouth, and takes a cigarette from Roger's box. He doesn't like to smoke much, he's just doing this to get on Roger's nerves. He lights it and takes a drag, crossing his arms and flicking his hair behind his shoulder.

'I'm still suing you'

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

Text

Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 20: In Which The Best Laid Plans, Etc., Etc.

Rating: M Summary: Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which A Daring Rescue Mission Is Launched NOTES: Warning for some slightly gory medical scenes in this chapter. Nothing too bad, but our Garbage King has definitely done a number on himself.

As the transformation completes, as the creature that was formerly Wyatt Logan hits the ground on all fours and its jacket and trousers tear away, it lifts its head and lays its long ears flat back, its teeth bared in a frothing snarl. Its eyes burn with a hungry yellow glow, and it sniffs the cold air in hoarse gulps. It may be the first time that Wyatt has ever actually fully transformed, if he’s been on stiff anti-lycanthropy medicine to this point, trying to keep the furry little problem under control in hopes of a more permanent solution. In that, he’s almost surely deluding himself, since while medicine can control the condition, it can’t cure it. Only strong old magic has a chance, and certainly not Matija Korvin’s. Matija’s magic was made to destroy these creatures, scions of his mortal enemy Dracul, and if this is Wyatt’s first complete transformation, this is somehow – impressively – even worse. Older werewolves can regain some sense of themselves over time, but young ones, blind and terrified, given over fully to the monster, have no chance.

It’s Flynn’s first, long-conditioned instinct to shoot, even though he doesn’t have his special heavy revolver with silver bullets and thus might as well be throwing twigs. He also, of course, doesn’t have any wolfsbane, because it’s otherwise known as aconite and is one of the deadliest poisons going, to human or were-creature alike. Flynn’s bad leg is not going to hold up much longer, and there are too many people that he needs to get out of the way. The only one he can really see, however, is Lucy. He still doesn’t know if she set him up to be captured, though the vehemence of their reunion (he does not intend to think about that right now or possibly ever) would suggest not. But there is a werewolf on the loose, he can’t protect her, and it turns his battered, weary, bleary brain almost blank with terror.

There is no time for calculations of risk or sophisticated stratagems. As the werewolf decides on the nearest humans – Lucy’s adventuresome friend Rufus and an unknown lady companion, from the looks of things – as its most convenient targets, Flynn gathers his haunches clumsily beneath him and throws himself into an almighty leap. He hits the werewolf from behind, locking both arms around its neck, and it utters a horrible, strangled squeal as he wrestles it down. They roll madly in the snow, claws slashing at his legs, jaws snapping and slavering as he desperately tries to hold them away. If he gets bitten, he’s fucked too.

Flynn fumbles blindly for a soft target, somewhere on the underside, though he’s fairly sure the beast won’t feel it. He hammers his best attempt at a punch in anyway, which seems to make it mad more than anything. Flynn is a highly trained monster hunter and it’s not the first time he has had to fight one of these things mano-a-mano, but he has also spent the last twenty-four hours locked in a small box, lost a significant amount of blood, and hasn’t exactly been fed or tended to in that time. He has a lurid memory of tangling with the revenant, which he also took on himself rather than let it go after Lucy, as he grabs the werewolf by the ears and drags its head back, trying to expose its throat long enough for someone to get off a shot. It won’t kill it, but it might stun it, and then they can work out something else. “HEY!” he roars. “NOW!”

It is quite hard to see anything in his present predicament (so, similar to his last one in that respect, though the lack of a blood-maddened werewolf is making the box sound not that bad in comparison). He can hear yells and running footsteps, and a blast of blue energy sizzles overhead as someone, possibly Lucy, decides to see if tocker droppers work on werewolves. The answer is that they don’t, but they make their fur very frizzy, send an electrical charge jolting through Flynn that briefly stuns him, and he jerks his head aside in the nick of time as jaws close ferociously where it just was. Sparks sting between his fingers, and he sees double. If the ravens are here to help him, they really should bloody think about doing that right now.

Flynn doesn’t say that aloud, mostly because he can’t for obvious reasons. But the next moment, he hears a rush of wings, and the ravens descend on them in a swarm. They pluck and peck and tear at the werewolf’s muzzle and eyes, as it thrashes madly trying to dislodge them, and Flynn almost loses sight of his opponent in the whirl of black wings. It’s just enough for him to crawl out from beneath the beast, bleeding and breathless, and grab a dismembered iron arm off one of the broken tockers sprawled nearby. As the werewolf turns blindly toward him, Flynn winds up and swings it with all of his strength.

It might not be silver or any other special sort of weapon, but even a werewolf notices when it gets bashed very hard in the skull with a solid piece of metal. Its eyes roll back and it collapses in the snow with a crash, paws splayed and black blood trickling from the gash in its fur. It’s unconscious, at least for a few minutes, and Flynn can’t waste any of that time.

He lunges for the tocker, economically guts it of its piano-wire innards, and strips away the copper insulation to find as much of the exposed silver as he can. It’s sharp enough to cut his already-lacerated hands, but he doesn’t feel it. He used this trick once on an assignment in Montenegro, which held it long enough for him to get to his gun and finish it, but that is a fairly major missing piece in this case. He tangles the wire around the werewolf’s front and back paws, and yanks a winding mechanism out of the chest of another tocker, feeling like a mad scientist cannibalizing corpses for parts. He is, in a way, though these corpses are mechanical, not mortal. But some of the more upscale tockers have fancy silver clockwork, rather than common pewter or bronze, and he feels a brief and absurd relief that Rittenhouse sprang for the nice ones to serve as prison guards on the train, rather than send their own people up into this desolate frozen asshole. Flynn jams the silver clockwork against the werewolf’s throat, holds it in place with more piano wire, and yells again at Karl and the nearest members of his gang that he can see (Karl came to get him? Karl? He may have to give him a pay raise), “HEY!”

To their credit, the men run over, though they are justifiably extremely leery about getting too close to a werewolf, even a semi-conscious one. Following Flynn’s terse instructions, they drag it toward the ruined train, throw it in the most solid half of the crushed coal tender, and heap the heavy parts of the ruined tockers over it. It will serve as a makeshift prison, but not for very long, and does not address the question of either turning Wyatt back into a human or getting them the hell out of here. It is only as a thundering silence falls that Flynn realizes he is in fact bleeding a lot, and sits down heavily in the snow, losing his balance. He doesn’t think any of it is a werewolf bite, but that is not exactly helpful right now.

“Flynn?” Lucy runs over to him, kneeling down with a very worried look on her face. He appreciates her concern, even if he is still mildly stunned by its existence. “Flynn, are you – ”

“Just… give me a minute.” It hurts ferociously when he breathes, like a hot knife jamming under his ribs, and even in his eventful career, that one was too close for comfort. “Where is – are the Sokolovs here? How did you – ”

“The Sokolovs – ” Lucy jumps back to her feet. “Wait. Wait here.”

It’s on the tip of Flynn’s tongue to ask where she thinks he’s going, but given his last day or so, that’s a reasonable request. He duly waits as Lucy and the others return to the smashed-up locomotive of the train that they evidently used to pursue him here (that sounds like a fascinating story, but one for later) and pull an unconscious Anton and Gennady Sokolov from the wreckage. At least Flynn thinks they’re only unconscious, given the anxious way that everyone is treating them, which presumably would not be the case if they were already dead and past help. He feels rather numb and detached from the whole thing. Just a few hours ago, he was still locked in that metal cage, en route to Siberia for some horrible and unknown fate. Now he’s sitting in the middle of a snowstorm with two wrecked trains, a werewolf, two dozen broken tockers, the recent manifestation of the Raven King, and Lucy Preston, apparently of her own free will, just kissed him. It’s fair to say he’s a little stunned.

Once the Sokolovs have been carried into the train car out of the wind and Rufus and his lady friend are doing something to them there, Lucy returns to Flynn and crouches down, trying to pull his arm over her shoulders. “Can you stand up?”

“Mmm.” Flynn doesn’t stop her from doing it, but he also can’t get up the volition to help either. It strikes him that he might have more than a little hypothermia, the way the world turns milky and dreamy, groggy and slow, and if you don’t wake up from that pleasant reverie, you won’t wake up at all. “We need to get the trains off the tracks. This is the Moscow-Arkhangelsk line, there will be another service running through here tomorrow. If it hits those – ”

It’s plain that that would be an epic disaster (so, another one, then), but it’s also not clear how a ragtag group of less than ten people, none of whom are freaks of nature and several of whom are badly wounded, are going to get two wrecked trains off the line. For that matter, it’s not clear how they’re going to get out of here. The locomotive from Flynn’s train might still be somewhat operational, since it was the farthest away from the site of the crash, but the Sokolovs appear to be the closest thing anyone had to engineers, and they’re both unconscious. Flynn, still chivvied by Lucy, finally tries to get to his feet, then grunts and goes down, almost pulling her with him, as his leg gives out. “You go on,” he manages, grimacing. “Go on, just go and – ”

“You think I’m leaving you here?” Lucy looks absolutely ferocious, in what Flynn can dimly make out of her face. “After I came this far? Come on. Come on, one – two – three – ”

She heaves with strength out of all proportion to her size, ignoring the fact that she too has a gimpy leg, and somehow, Flynn rises up like a snowy phoenix, leaning heavily on her as they stagger toward the train. Its broken-out windows are blank and black as blinded eyes, the wind scouring it with an eerie, spine-chilling keen, and the presence of a bound-up werewolf in the coal tender doesn’t exactly provide any impression of a warm or welcoming refuge. Flynn heaves her over the tilted step, she reaches back down for him, and their cold fingers almost slip free. He crawls up, pushes the door open into the compartment where Rufus, the Sokolovs, and the others have taken refuge, and nods at it. “You go in there, I want to try something.”

Lucy looks at him anxiously, but decides to do as he says. She goes into the car, and Flynn, groaning every time he puts weight on his leg and having to grope his way along the crazily tilted walls, makes his way along the track to the locomotive of his train. It may be roughly functional, but the boiler fire has gone completely out, and he sees no way to get it going again. So that’s it, then. They just all get to sit here in the darkness and slowly freeze, or wait for the werewolf to wake up and kill them all.

Flynn gives into a moment of sheer and desolate frustration, shouting curses in all the half-dozen or so languages he knows, banging his hands on the iron plates and achieving nothing except bruising them up some more, and sliding to the floor of the cab, sitting in a crumpled huddle and wishing that he would wink out of existence on the spot. This wish, to his vast annoyance, is not granted, and after another few moments, he crawls forward, fighting the now-agonizing pain in his leg, and lies flat on his face. “Matija,” he mutters. “Matija, you brought us this far. Don’t leave now. Matija Korvin, Gavran Kralj, king of the darkness and the wild, of the night and the stars, the snow and the wood. Matija, moj gospodaru, help us.”

The silence remains deafening. Flynn stares into the abyss that he first discovered the depths of after Lorena and Iris died, after he spent several nights contemplating whether to just take his own gun and finish it off, to go and be with them, at peace, rather than face the hell of trying to exist without them. He came close a few times, but his burning need for revenge on Rittenhouse would not allow him to do it without a fight, to lie down and let them win. A monster hunter who missed the biggest monster of all, who has to make it right, and now –

He doesn’t know what this is, or what he is, any more. He doesn’t know if he even wants to keep fighting, other than that he knows no other way to live. He remains facedown, breathing in pained, wheezing gulps. He knows the Raven King will not come on command, like a dog being called to perform tricks, and you might anger him if you importune too repeatedly or frivolously for his assistance. But Flynn has believed in the man and his legend since before conscious thought, from his most fundamental beginning, and he has seen that power in indisputable action tonight. He knows that Matija’s magic is incompatible with technology, that in all this iron and steel and steam, there might simply be the impossibility of its existence. And yet. And yet.

Nothing tangibly changes, and yet, something does. Flynn has the brief, shadowed sense of someone stepping over him, though when he looks up with pain-bleared eyes, there is still no one else in the cab. Nothing more than a whisper of an old robe, vanishing around a corner. The next moment, he hears a strange rattling from the boiler, like coal being shoveled in, but there is still no heat or light from it. The whir sounds like a drone, like wings, as if the ravens are flying madly inside it, circling, circling, and slowly at first, then faster, the locomotive starts to move.

There is a jerk and a jolt as the momentum is transferred badly down the line of crushed cars, like a tangled wooden train on a string. Flynn doesn’t have the strength to get up and see if it includes the one that Lucy and the others are in, but somehow he does it anyway. One of the rear cars tumbles sidelong off the track with a horrible screech and thunder, sending up sparks as it somersaults into the snow, and he crawls in agony, hand over hand, down the length of the train to the carriage they’re in. He can tell that the coupler is tenuous, that they need to get into the next one, and jerks the door open. “Move!”

Lucy looks up at him, startled and white-faced. “What?”

“We need to get out of this car, it’s going to break loose. There’s an intact one a little further up.” Flynn braces himself on the wall. “Come on, hurry up. Now!”

Rufus, Lucy, Karl, and the others hop to their feet. It is a hair-raising production to heave the unconscious Sokolovs through the narrow door, across the gap between cars with the ground now going by fast beneath, and for Flynn to pull them into the next carriage, but they manage. Rufus and his lady friend crawl across, Flynn grabs their wrists and heaves them as well, and then Karl takes a running start, leaping clear, as the coupler is starting to rattle in an alarming fashion. That leaves just Lucy on the other car, and they have maybe thirty seconds before it breaks off. “JUMP!” Flynn bellows, holding his arms out. “LUCY, JUMP!”

He can see abject terror on her face – it’s not the easiest thing to do, in the dead of night and snow, with a good five feet to clear and the fact that she’ll instantly be dragged under the train wheels and crushed gruesomely to death if she misses. But sparks are starting to fly as the ruined car is dragged free, and she has no time to think about it. She backs up, lowers her head, then breaks into a full sprint, throwing herself into thin air, as he sets his feet and prays.

The next instant, Lucy hits him like a ton of bricks, knocking him backward into the carriage, as he wraps his arms around her and she wraps hers around him and he can feel both of them shaking like leaves, as he buries his face in her freezing hair and can hear her sobbing into his shoulder. He staggers back, still holding her, as the other carriage breaks away and likewise flips off the track, spinning down the embankment and blowing up in a spectacular fireball fifty yards below. Flynn kicks the door shut, rams in the bar, and doesn’t let go of Lucy the entire time. He staggers back, then collapses with her on one of the broken seats, the hard, ancient green velvet upholstery feeling almost as comfortable as a featherbed.

Wyatt is trapped in the coal tender, presumably (and hopefully) still unconscious, so that makes all of them, albeit in very bad shape, as they gain speed, rolling into the whirling snow. Flynn’s hands are cut from the wire, his leg badly damaged, and he has a splendid collection of bruises, cuts, contusions, and other decorations from the beating he took while getting captured. Lucy has done something unpleasant to her leg as well, the Sokolovs are still out, Rufus has managed to escape relatively unscathed but was not in tip-top shape to start with, and the rest of the gang has likewise taken weather from the train crash and the fight in the snow against the automatons. Rufus’ lady friend turns out to be named Jiya. Flynn struggles to recall if Lucy mentioned her before or not. He feels like she might have, but cannot pin the precise instance to mind. Everything is turning rather hazy.

Flynn hopes that they don’t barrel through some crossing too fast and cause yet another accident, or anything else of the sort that could occur when a bunch of injured people are trapped in a train essentially careening out of control, but he decides to leave that to the ravens. Lucy is curled up very close against his chest, it’s cold and dark and they have just been through a terrifying experience, and Flynn can’t summon the necessary volition to push her away. He reminds himself to do it later, then – finally, blessedly – passes out.

He has no idea how long it has been when he stirs, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Everything aches from head to toe, with a nerve-shredding, eye-watering savagery, and he struggles to catch his breath. The inside of the train car is filled with wintry, watery grey-pink light, and they do not appear to have been gruesomely dismembered, whether by a werewolf or by another crash. Flynn struggles to get his thick, cottony tongue around a question – he is dying of thirst, will probably have to go melt some snow – and then through the frosted window, sees the train chugging slowly past a wooden sign, the Cyrillic characters half-obscured by icicles. Арха́нгельск. They’re here.

Flynn sits up, realizes that Lucy is missing, and has a sudden moment of panic, casting around to all sides and almost scrambling to his abused feet before hearing voices from ahead. The train rolls beneath the handsome iron portico of the Arkhangelsk railway terminal, venting blasts of steam, and hits the buffer with a thud that Flynn feels in his teeth. For once, after two days of chaos, the dull, ever-present clack of the train wheels and the hiss and blast of burning coal, there is silence. It rings in his still-ringing ears.

After a few moments, the compartment door unlatches, and Lucy limps in. Someone has fashioned a makeshift splint for her leg out of broken wood and handkerchiefs, which does not look comfortable, but at least it is allowing her to keep going. “We’re in Arkhangelsk,” she informs him, unnecessarily, breath gusting silver in the pearlescent half-light. “Can you walk?”

Flynn thinks about that, isn’t sure he wants to hazard it, and finally Shitmouth and Robert Taylor are called in to assist, hauling him upright and helping him hop the length of the car to the door. There are two platforms in the station, of which they are occupying one, and the other train must be awaiting its departure to Moscow shortly. Lucy goes to find the station master, and since he is the only Russian speaker who is either compos mentis or mobile, Karl has to go with her, which Flynn hates with his entire heart. This time, however, Karl refrains from anything ill-advised, and the station master appears with a look of alarm at multiple injured, scruffy, dirty men (and two women) suddenly descending upon his otherwise peaceful hamlet. “Who are you people? Where on earth did you come from? The service from Moscow does not arrive until much later.”

“We were… unscheduled,” Flynn answers, suddenly wondering what the werewolf situation is, if removal from the affected area of Matija’s magic has reverted Wyatt to human form. He needs to have a good shout at Logan for keeping that secret later, given as it very nearly killed the lot of them, though he grudgingly supposes that Wyatt could have had no way of knowing that that was going to happen. Poor bastard. It’s not a pleasant fate, and anti-lycanthropy medicine may be in short supply around here. They’d better bloody hope he doesn’t wolf out again.

It takes a while, and the requisitioning of several porters to help with all the walking wounded, but they finally get everyone off the train. The answer to the werewolf question is that Wyatt in fact human again, but has a nasty goose egg where Flynn clobbered him with the tocker arm, is naked and half-frozen, shivering and disoriented and confused, and the porters considerately fetch a quilt to wrap him up in and throw censorious looks at everyone else, evidently thinking that they kidnapped him. Flynn wants to explain that he is tied up in piano wire for everyone’s best good, including his own, but that takes too much effort. There’s a British diplomatic office, bank, and guildhouse in Arkhangelsk, due to the long-established Anglo-Russian trade through this port, but given their status as British fugitives-in-chief, that does not seem like a place from which they should expect succor or assistance. Maybe they can assist in getting Lucy (and Rufus and Jiya) back to England. Other than that, who knows. Flynn has given up guessing.

In fits and starts, lurching and staggering, they make their way out of the station. Arkhangelsk is bathed in that eerie pink-grey light like the inside of an oyster; they are too far north for the sun to get more than a few degrees over the horizon. They’re not quite at a high enough latitude to have total polar night, but the days are only a few hours long, and still have another month to go in getting shorter. Flynn devoutly hopes that they will not be here for another month, or even much time at all, but they are too battered to immediately race off again, and if Rittenhouse was bringing him here, there had to be a reason for it, something they need to find out. Despite the lack of sun, the day seems brighter than it is, thanks to the vast streaks of gold that dance and swoop in the sky. Aether in its purest, strongest form. The deposits around here must be unbelievable. That alone would get Rittenhouse’s attention, if they’re mining it.

Anton and Gennady are dispatched to the sailors’ hospital on the waterfront, since they’re more hurt than can be easily cared for, and Lucy wants Flynn to go as well, but he resists. Those places are usually of the rough-and-ready school of medicine that involves swift treatment (or amputation) of grisly wounds, and he doesn’t want them to get any damn ideas about hacking off his leg. Finally, he, Lucy, Rufus, Jiya, and Wyatt (since Flynn can’t think what else to do with him, doesn’t want him close, but also not out of his sight) find a boarding house that caters to the British merchant clientele, with a proprietor who speaks some English and proudly shows them the portrait of Queen Victoria in the hall. As his last memory of this woman is jumping out her drawing room window while her Munshi stabbed him in the arm, Flynn can’t help but choke.

Nonetheless, everyone is at the end of their rope and needs to collapse, and fortunately, news of the Buckingham Palace break-in does not seem to have gotten this far north. Wyatt is untangled from the piano wire and sent to the bedsit in the cellar, Rufus and Jiya take one room at the end of the hall, and Flynn and Lucy find themselves in the other. It is more comfortable than their bare-bones overnight setup in St. Petersburg, with handsomely papered walls, thick velvet curtains and a whitewashed fireplace, and a four-poster bed with a counterpane that looks as soft as a cloud. Flynn wants to fall into it and sleep for a hundred years, but he is absolutely filthy, and wonders if he should limp outside and empty several buckets of freezing water over himself first. If he could even make it that far. Just now, it seems unlikely.

After Lucy has shut the door and turned the key with a click, she removes it, puts it on the night table, and they finally turn to look at each other properly, which they both immediately appear to wish they had not done. A slow, dull flush steals up Lucy’s cheeks, she coughs, and then finally says, “So. We, ah. We’re here.”

Since this is obvious and does not require response, Flynn merely grunts. He supposes he should thank her for saving him, but he also wants to know what happened back in St. Petersburg. Either way, he’s not going to be able to do it standing up, so he sinks into the poufy chintz armchair, wondering if the owner’s grandmother decorated this place. They eye each other for another horrendously awkward moment. Then Lucy says, “I’m sorry about what happened at Sibley’s office. About John Taylor. I didn’t – I never meant for that to – ”

“Never meant for that to happen to him, but did mean it to happen to me?” Flynn isn’t really in the mood to beat around the bush. “Is that what you wanted?”

“No.” Lucy’s cheeks deepen a few notches in color, but she doesn’t take her gaze off him, cool and even. She’s apologized once, but she isn’t going to grovel or waste time on regretting something that is done and over, and Flynn is forced to respect that. He did just see this woman take on a Siberian snowstorm, a train full of tockers, a werewolf, a fell enchantment, and Christ knows whatever else, and it astonishes him all over again what a sheer force of nature she manages to contain in that slight frame. “I didn’t set you up on purpose. I didn’t know that Rittenhouse was going to be there. I should have, perhaps, but I didn’t.”

“Mmmf.” Flynn’s leg is hurting too much to think of a witty reply. Lucy’s eyes flicker to it, the crusted bullet hole and dried blood, the redness and swelling from – to judge from the thousand veins of fire in it – several hairline fractures, and the purplish-black bruising on his ankle and up the back of his calf. She visibly flinches, and Flynn feels a stupid masculine impulse to tell her that it isn’t that bad, he’s fine. Fortunately, he manages not to.

“You really should have gone to the hospital,” Lucy says. “Your leg’s a mess. I have a few field-medic skills, but I don’t think I can fix that. And after what happened with Wyatt – ” She hesitates. “Did you – know? Before?”

“No, I didn’t know before.” However much he may deserve it, Flynn is still rankled at the implication that he would let her run around in close proximity to a dangerous monster, and never utter a word of warning. “I did tell you that Dracul’s children can pass as human, even to someone like me, who used to hunt them for a living. I wondered once or twice if he was under some sort of spell, but I didn’t know for sure until he started changing. Matija Korvin’s magic must have forced him to do so, a sort of allergic reaction.”

“So that’s why he wants a cure,” Lucy says softly. “He came to this reality to retrieve you for Connor Mason, stumbled into a place under Dracul’s curse and was turned into a werewolf, and now he can’t go home unless he finds some way to get rid of it forever. He can’t go back to Earth – ours, our non-magical Earth – as a werewolf, or feel like he can properly find his wife and reunite with her while he’s – he’s this. Is there anything you know that could help him?”

“As I said, there’s medicine to control it, but nothing to cure it permanently.” Flynn, obviously, does not like Wyatt Logan much at all, but even he can admit that this is nothing to be envied. “You were the one researching how to disenchant a revenant. Maybe you saw something useful.”

“All the magic for that was Matija’s,” Lucy counters. “Since as you said, he was the one who made revenants in the first place, in order to fight Dracul’s children. Anything we could find from the Raven King would probably be meant to destroy Wyatt, not save him.”

Despite the pain and grime and other deeply undesirable aspects of this situation, Flynn finds it extremely arousing for Lucy to be standing there calmly talking about the Raven King and his magic and whether or not it is of any use to the monster they have become unexpectedly saddled with. She has learned a lot, he thinks, remembering her in Oxford, scoffing at the idea of anything actually being otherworldly or powerful enough to take seriously. Then he thinks again of her mouth on his, hungry and raw and wet and open, and swallows hard, reminding himself that that was just a euphoric, spur-of-the-moment reaction, helped along by the dark and the snow and the thick strands of enchantment that hung around them both. He tries to avoid looking at her lips, or entertaining any notion of a repeat. Why is she still so beautiful, hair down and face dirty and dressed in battered old men’s clothes, after the literal night from hell? It dries his throat and skips his heart like a rock pattering along the surface of a lake, over and over, over and over, until it falls. Her face is set and carved and bold and burning in the reflected aether glow through the window. Arkhangelsk. He’s suddenly not so sure it’s Michael.

“Maybe,” Flynn says, after a too-long moment, struggling to remember what they were talking about. Right, Matija, and whether his magic would be any good for Wyatt. “The full moon was recently, we shouldn’t be in immediate danger as long as there isn’t another incident, but we need to get our hands on some of his medicine. I’m not risking another train trip with the possibility of a total transformation. Especially since he has no idea how to control it.”

Lucy looks as if she’s not that eager to risk it herself, all things considered. There is another brief pause. Then she says, “If you won’t go to the hospital, I’m going to find you a doctor. I’ll take Karl. You stay where you are.”

“Karl?” Flynn still doesn’t like that. “There has to be a servant in the house you can send, or you could ask the proprietor. You don’t need to go off alone with that – ”

“Karl’s welcome to try something.” Lucy gives him a slightly feral smile. “We’ll happily see how that works out for him.”

With that, leaving Flynn frankly more shaken than ever, she whirls on her heel and exits the room, as he leans back and blows out a long breath. The proprietor comes up with some tea, which Flynn sips slowly, and he drifts in an uncomfortable haze until Lucy returns. She has indeed brought a doctor, a young, sandy-haired gentleman who sucks in his breath in horror at the sight of Flynn’s leg, enquires of Lucy in broken English if perhaps she would like to leave while he sees to her husband, and is oblivious to the blushes that result on both of them. The doctor sets down his bag, unpacks his things, and gingerly cuts away the ruin of Flynn’s trousers, as if not even sure where to start first. “How did you do this?” he asks in Russian. “Were you run over by a train?”

“Not that far off, actually.” Flynn grimaces. Lucy has taken up a position next to his chair, apparently intending to remain in the name of moral support, and he is about to tell her to go, like the doctor suggested. But he can’t quite do it, and this is going to be awful enough. If she wants to get some grim satisfaction out of seeing that he has in fact suffered for all his bad decisions, she might as well.

Suffering is, Flynn has decided ten minutes later, a gentle way to put it. He’s not altogether sure that he is not in fact dead, in hell, and the doctor is a cunningly disguised junior demon getting started on his eternities of torment. He has to first scrub down the leg with warm water and soap, trying to remove some of the calcified layers of grime, before he can get to work. Then he has to fish the bullet out, cauterize, clean, irrigate, and stitch the entry wound, and pack it thoroughly with gauze and bandages, as Lucy is drafted in as an extra pair of hands to cut thread or hold the raw edges of Flynn’s skin closed while the bastard stabs him repeatedly with a needle. Once that is done, the doctor is leery about the multiple fractures in Flynn’s tibia, which he has really managed to mess up, and warns him that unless he stays off his feet for at least a fortnight, he runs the risk of doing permanent damage and being lame for the rest of his life. Flynn is not enthused to hear that, but needs must. It feels like the Raven King could magically swoop in and fix that too, but he’s probably used up his miraculous intervention for several decades.

Flynn is even less enthused about the fact that the doctor decides that they’ll have to fully break the fractures, then re-align and set them cleanly, rather than having them jam together and knit badly. At that, he decides that his tolerance for letting Lucy get vicarious satisfaction out of his misery is at an end, and turns to her. “Go. I don’t want you to see this.”

“No,” she says. She helps the doctor lay his leg out straight, fix it in place with an iron collar, then returns to him and takes hold of both of his hands. “No, I’m staying.”

Flynn debates about that, and yet doesn’t have the will to force it. This is going to be more hell as it is, and she does seem worried. “Fine. But it’ll be ugly.”

Lucy has a pale, set look on her face as if she’s seen ugly and it doesn’t faze her, as if she has gotten well used to it, and doesn’t answer. The doctor removes his mallet and wedge, finds the displacement of each fracture, and places the wedge against it. He gives Flynn a knotted handkerchief to bite down on, promises that this will be quick but is really going to hurt, and then hits the wedge with the mallet.

Flynn lets out a strangled, roaring gargle, as it feels exactly as you would expect someone deliberately breaking your fucked-up leg with a chisel to feel, and hot red-blackness fizzes at the edges of his vision. Lucy has one hand in his hair, cradling his head against her stomach, her other hand still tangled in his, as he gulps and heaves and tastes bile in the back of his throat, trying not to throw up all over her. The doctor cuts strips of his skin back in order to properly align the broken fragments, drills in a few small steel screws that he assures Flynn will grow into the healing bone, and then sews the skin back into place. If nothing else, Flynn has become almost desensitized to the pain at this point, since his nerves have just up and quit, and he’s practically able to fall asleep from exhaustion as the doctor finishes his work and washes the wound thoroughly with a perhydroxic acid solution. Then he splints the leg, bandages it up until it looks like a mummified white club, and finally gets to his feet. “Well,” he says, taking off his glasses and wiping his face with his arm. “I advise a stiff drink and a long rest.”

“Thank you.” Flynn still feels like he’s about to die, and would not mind at all if he did, but he is able to recognize that the doctor did a very competent job under challenging circumstances, and might in fact have saved him from permanent crippling. “If you want to be paid, I have money. Not right now, but I can find a way to get it to you. However much you’d like.”

The doctor assures him that whenever he can find the money, that is suitable, and to send his wife by again if the wound worsens or develops any complications. Neither Flynn nor Lucy bother correcting him at this point, and he packs his things back into his bag, washes his hands, and removes a small, stoppered black vial from his pocket. “Laudanum,” he says. “You’ll want it. Good day, sir, ma’am.”

With that, as the door shuts behind him, Lucy steps in, slings Flynn’s arm over her shoulder, and helps him hop to the bed. She tugs the covers back and helps him underneath them, undoes his belt and unbuttons his dirty shirt, and he supposes there is some impertinent remark to be made about her tearing his clothes off, but he is weak as water and suspects it would backfire on him anyway. She eases him down onto the pillow, he wonders if it’s worth it to deny the laudanum when she offers it, and then decides that it isn’t. He takes a few foul-tasting droplets, chokes it down and dry-retches as his stomach revolts, but manages not to bring it back up. The world is already fading into a haze, and within moments, he is gone.

Flynn has tormented poppy hallucinations that flash in and out like carnival mirrors, until they finally subside long enough to let him properly pass out again. His waking from this seems destined to be even more unpleasant than his waking on the train, if that’s possible, but at least it doesn’t hurt right now, and he wanders in the opium mists without any sense of time or space or conscious form. Unlike his visions as a prisoner, where he saw the ghosts of Lorena and Iris flitting in and out, nobody is here at all. He is standing in the middle of a grey moor, the wind blowing hard in his face, the boggy ground giving way beneath his feet. He does not remember when he came here, or how he arrived. Doesn’t know if this is a dream, or if he has somehow been plucked out of bed in Arkhangelsk and carried on the wind.

After an indefinable passage of time, short or long or neither, Flynn becomes slowly aware that he is not, in fact, completely alone. There is someone standing on the far side of the fog, someone waiting for him to come to them. Black leaves twist and scatter, leaves that look like wings. He can hear a distant caw, and he knows who calls.

Slowly, step by step, Flynn crosses the moor. His leg does not pain him; it is of no concern at all. He is not in a place where the limitations of his physical body can touch him. He wades through the peat water, which slops murkily around his ankles, and climbs up on the far side. He can see the edge of a robe, the one that he glimpsed vanishing around the corner and into the train boiler, right before the locomotive began to move. This time, however, it is more solid, not merely an ephemeral scrap or half-seen shadow. It is embroidered in ancient runes that speak the language of stone and sky and field, of stars and moon and tree, and it rises up the body of a tall man, who stands there without a word and casts a shadow as vast as a forest.

Flynn looks up into the pale, carved, handsome face, the eyes as black as onyx beneath thick brows, the long hair somehow untouched by the wind, the mouth like a seam of granite and the iron crown that rises in sharp, elegant points. If he is honest with himself, he should have known this was coming, and he drops smartly to his knees, bowing his head and lifting the robe to kiss. “Matija Korvin,” he says. “Moj gospodaru, moj kralj. Pozdravljam te.”

Garcia Flynn. It is not quite a spoken voice that answers, but something like the sound of far-off thunder, somehow recognizable as words. It is an older dialect of Croatian, antique and formal, but understandable. You called me by the old ways and placed yourself at my service. I have come, I have delivered you from your enemies. Do you now pay the toll?

“Yes.” Flynn can feel the cold droplets on his face, the taste of salt on his lips. “Whatever you ask of me, you may have it. As I swore.”

You make hasty promises, boy. Matija Korvin sounds amused. Are you sure you would give anything I could ask of you, without a single thought or question? You are in my debt. The magic spent for you was grave and strong. I will need it back.

Flynn is aware of a chill that does not come from the wind, that seems to cut him to the bone. He is reminded of the reason why you only call upon the Raven King in the darkest hour, and of his earthly nickname, Matija the Just. He will give you what you need, but he will expect fair recompense, and he will not be swayed by pleading or petty mortal concerns in what he asks. He is old and fey and very strong, and Flynn has to fight a sudden and consuming terror. What if Korvin asks for not something, but someone? Is Flynn willing to defy his own gods, his ancestral master, the flesh and bone of his country’s existence and magic and pride, all the legends ever told and all the songs ever sung, and the debt that he clearly does owe, to be so insane as to withhold the King’s tribute from him? It is said that the Raven King must sometimes find a Raven Queen to rule Faerie with him, and Flynn has seen for himself what Lucy is. What if –

I will tell you when I have set my mind, Matija Korvin says. Then you will bring it to me, and the account will be settled. Call upon me again, and a second payment will be owed. I shall, however, strengthen your leg, as you will need it. You may thank me for this gift.

“Thank you, my lord.” Flynn takes the offered bone-white hand and kisses it, next to the black-stoned ring with a raven carved in its face. “I am your servant.”

Do not forget it. Matija Korvin’s rumble is becoming deeper, farther away, and his body is starting to become one with the mist, as the leaves twist and whirl and leap around his feet, spring from the moor and become birds taking flight. We will speak again.

With that, all at once, he is gone, and Flynn is aware of the grey field falling away, the world turning to darkness. When he slowly stirs back to consciousness, he is aware that he is lying in bed, his leg still hurts but not nearly as badly as before, and he is once more physically back in Arkhangelsk, if indeed he ever really left. He grimaces, pushes himself upright, and looks around. The room is quiet. Lucy isn’t there, but someone has left a tray of food, in case he feels up to eating. He considers, then decides that he does. According to the clock, it is four-thirty PM, and has probably been dark for at least an hour.

Flynn is polishing off the supper, and wondering if he feels up to hauling himself out of bed and to the WC, when the door opens and Lucy returns. She looks cold and windswept, as if she has been out for the day. “I’ve been to visit Anton and Gennady,” she says, by way of explanation. “They’re awake, they should be all right, but they were hurt fairly seriously, they’ll have to stay at least a few days. I managed to find a little medicine for Wyatt, I hope it’s enough. Rufus and Jiya are mostly all right, if banged up and confused. I sent a telegram to Ada in St. Petersburg to tell her that we’re alive and we rescued you, but I had to be very roundabout. Our last entanglement with telegraph operators in St. Petersburg going how it did.”

Flynn nods, thanking her for the explanation, and is yet again impressed at what she has managed to do within a few short and dark hours of being dropped into this place. “Sit down,” he says gruffly. “You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

Lucy looks about to protest, then for once, thinks better of it. She shucks her dirty cap, jacket, and shoes, sits in the chair, and lets out a long sigh, rubbing both hands over her face. Flynn manages to get out of bed and hop awkwardly to the loo, do his business without killing himself, and hop back, aware that the roles have been reversed in terms of who is in the bed and who seems self-conscious about sharing it. Maybe Lucy does not want to cuddle too close to his grimy invalid carcass, for which she cannot be blamed, or maybe she is already regretting the kiss. He should not have been so forward, the way he kissed her back with such starving, forceful insistence, the one thing he knew he would do if he let himself give in. She might feel sullied, assaulted, preyed-upon, though he does get the sense that things are different, socially speaking, for men and women in her world. But he isn’t sure he could bear the shame, the guilt, if so.

It continues to get darker, and Lucy gets up to light the lamps in the room. The window glows with green-gold light from the aurora and the aether streaking in great gouts of color across the night sky, more beautiful than the stars, and Flynn half-feels that he could stare at it forever. Lucy disappears into the bathroom, the water runs for a while as she evidently has a proper wash, and Flynn tries not to chase his head in circles. Should he ask her if she is all right? Apologize for his impropriety? Lucy is clearly a woman who is not affronted or shocked by the things that would cause other well-bred Victorian ladies to swoon, and Flynn doesn’t want to insult her by insinuating that she couldn’t handle it or must have been a fragile flower. But at the same time, he’s increasingly terrified that he did hurt her somehow, inside or out, and she’s been pushing it aside for the sake of taking care of him. He could offer for her to sleep down the hall, with Rufus and Jiya, or on the sofa. No, he should sleep on the sofa. Even if it means limping downstairs to freeze, he probably –

Flynn’s progressively more panicked rounds of self-recrimination are finally interrupted by Lucy opening the door and emerging from the bathroom, pink-cheeked and damp-haired, wearing one of the nightgowns from the wardrobe. She looks at him a little shyly. “There might be some hot water left in the boiler. I don’t think you could have a proper bath with your bandages, but I could find a sponge or a handkerchief.”

Some removal of his exoskeleton of filth sounds nice, even as Flynn is briefly unsure if she’s implying that she should wash him, and doesn’t respond for fear of choking on his tongue. He finally manages to answer that that would be good, thanks, and hops to the bathroom, waving off her offered assistance. There is a hand towel that he can use to scrub, and he hastily declines her suggestion that she fetch one of the gang from their lodgings a few doors down. He is not having them see him like this, or expected to act as a nursemaid for the boss.

Once the door is shut behind him, Flynn strips off the rest of his ragged clothes, climbs very carefully into the claw-footed tub, and picks up the towel and the bar of rosemary-scented soap. The water is lukewarm rather than hot, but he doesn’t begrudge it to Lucy, and with grunts and curses of pain, he manages to get the most egregious mess off. He has to prop his bandaged leg awkwardly on the rim of the tub to avoid getting it wet, and wonders what exactly Matija did to it, or if it’s a bad idea to go rummaging around trying to find out. He’ll take it not hurting like the son of a bitch for now. Everything else is gravy.

Having finished his makeshift ablutions, Flynn heaves himself painfully out, dries off, and discovers that a folded nightshirt has been left on the shelf. He shrugs into it; it’s slightly too small through the chest and shoulders, and clearly made for a shorter man, so that he feels afraid of inadvertently flashing passersby if he bends over too quickly. Not that anyone is likely to be passing by except Lucy, but flashing her would definitely be mortifying. Among other things.

Flynn opens the door and hobbles out, to discover that Lucy has curled up in the bed in his absence, but seems set to vacate it upon his return. “No,” he says quickly. “No, you can take it. I’ll – ”

“There is no way you’re going to walk downstairs and sleep on the sofa,” Lucy says. “None whatsoever. We’re just cutting that off right there.”

Flynn is miffed that he is apparently predictable, but relieved that he doesn’t have to make the trek down to a cold and empty parlor. Even he doesn’t think he could manage a night on the floor in his present state, so he gimps over and climbs in with a grunt of effort, assisted by Lucy. They end up very close to each other, his hand alongside her thigh and their noses almost brushing, and briefly get lost in the other’s eyes. Her hair has tumbled into her still-flushed face, and his fingers ache with the urge to brush it aside. To run his fingers along the fine bone of her cheek, to cup her chin with his thumb, to curl around her ear and draw her mouth to his. But that would take a determination, a conscious effort, a decision that he does not know if he can make, and he refuses to toy with her or jerk her around. Their gazes remain locked, and he can hear her breath hitch in her throat. It is a small, hungry sound, which seems to suggest that she would not necessarily be averse to what he has just imagined (or more), and it is murder on his self-control. How can she, how can she possibly, have done this for him? It is unfathomable. He has done nothing to deserve it. And yet, heart-shatteringly, unbearably, here she still is.

After an anguished moment more, Flynn pries his eyes off her, moves his hand back, and carefully, slowly lies down on his back. He settles his head on the pillow, letting out a jagged sigh, and after a brief hesitation, glancing at him through lowered lashes, Lucy lies down as well, curling herself into his side and nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder, the way they slept that night in St. Petersburg. She doesn’t ask permission, not that it would once occur to him to refuse her, and he wraps his arm instinctively around her. She lowers her head, and rests on his chest.

At that, Garcia Flynn’s fragile heart almost breaks altogether. He wants to take this moment and put it in glass, somewhere small and perfect and remote from the rest of the world, from all of time and eternity, and keep it safe. He knows it beyond all dispute, it slashes him like a knife, and only incidentally less painful. He loves, he loves, he loves, he loves her, and he can never let her go. Unless she asks, unless she tells him to, and if so, somehow, he will have to find the strength to watch her get into her machine, however she came to this reality in the first place, and leave it forever.

(He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. His heart and his head flee wildly from even the possibility of imagining it. And yet. He has always known she would not stay. Could not.)

Lucy closes her eyes, the exhaustion swiftly pulling her under. Flynn is just as tired, and yet he feels tempted to stay awake a little longer, to look at her like this, boneless and utterly trusting and fast asleep in his arms. He shifts a bit to be able to hold her with both, tugging her closer against him. When he is absolutely sure that she is soundly out and will not stir, he brushes the lightest, most gentle of kisses against her tangled hair, the soft skin of her temple and her cheek, and hopes they may stay there as an offering. God. His heart shakes.

Something drifts past the window, outside. Something neither snow, nor wind, nor passing traveler of the night. It fills Flynn with something closer to foreboding than relief, something more terror than gratitude. For he knows very well, as he has all along, that it was a raven.

#timeless #timeless ff #lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #starlight & strange magic #steampunk au #and the people said Welp

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