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spacedikut · 3 years

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spooky scary skeletons ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: spencer has the prettiest face you’ve ever painted on. 1626 words

a/n: a poorly edited, poorly written and late halloween thing! inspired by idmakeitbehave (go read everything theyve ever written ever) because they have the BEST meet cutes and every time i think of them i :-)

masterlist

The haunted mansion of the fair, overflowing with screams, the sound of chainsaws and the evil cackle your friend has been rehearsing in the mirror all month, stands tall behind you like the looming presence it is. It’s brought great entertainment for you, watching and hearing the reactions of those that dare enter.

You’re set up not far from the exit of the house with your array of face paint around you, paintbrush in hand. Most of your customers are children – this year’s most popular request is pumpkin, last year was skeleton – and as much as you love spookiness and gore and everything in between, the rush of pride you feel when a little girl gasps and thanks you with the sweetest voice when you show her your finished work is unmatched.

You’re not the least surprised that your clientele is mainly children. There’s the odd parent here and there that is persuaded to get a black cat on their cheek, or some fake blood coming from their eyes and mouths, but they never venture beyond the small request.

Until him.

He’s marched up to you by his friend who, wearing a dress covered in fake spiders and cobwebs, pushes him by the shoulders right up to the foldable chair that’s placed opposite you. You’re drying off a wet paintbrush, glancing up when you hear the crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

“My friend would like his face painted.” She tells you.

“Of course,” You gesture for him to take the seat in front of you, the compliment slipping out after giving them both a once-over. “I like your outfits.”

“Oh!” The girl grins. “Thank you. I’ve been waiting all year to wear it. And he,” She points to the still-silent customer who hasn’t taken his eyes off you once, “Is more obsessed with Halloween than anyone I know.”

Looking at the bright orange pumpkin-covered sweater he’s wearing, you’re overcome by the urge to touch it – and his hair, with the way it’s all squiggles and curls and seems so soft. “What can I do for you?”

The first time he speaks, it’s after he takes a deep breath and rubs his palms on his trousers. “A skeleton, please.”

You’re already arranging the colours you’ll need, missing how the girl slips away, too busy asking the usual questions, “How big?”

“My entire face.”

That’s a new one. For an adult, at least. Usually all they want is an easy to clean, easy to hide image on their cheek.

It’s only then you really take in his appearance. In the dark, dusty light of the fair, he looks like a real life Tim Burton character – shallow eyes, sharp cheekbones, a general gauntness that you’ve only seen in fiction. He’s the perfect skeleton, if that isn’t weird to think.

“All over?” Your hand moves to gesture over your face, as if miming to him what all over really means.

“Yeah,” He nods, “I’m not that good of an artist, and my mask makes it kind of hard to see. So a skeleton is spooky enough but not a lot of work, right?”

“Right.” You smile at him. “Right, okay, let’s do it.”

The second the cold bristles dip into the paint before you, you’re absorbed in ensuring you do a good job. You’re used to working on children, so you naturally take hold of his chin to move his face this way and that way to apply a firm coat and get your lines right.

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” He mumbles.

You huff a laugh. He feels your breath on his lips. “Hi, Spencer, I’m Y/N.”

The customer – Spencer – wiggles his lips in a way that tells you he’s holding back a smile. You’re not sure what it is about him, but you like him. You like how still he sits, patiently letting you do your work, you like how much he seems to like Halloween (you refer to the sweater and the fact he’s about to cover his entire face in paint to look like a skeleton), and you like how his eyes on you make you feel. Because it doesn’t feel gross, or weird, like it normally does; it’s like his gaze is complimenting you silently, the intensity of it making you bite the inside of your cheek.

Small-talk comes naturally after hours of doing this job. “You mentioned a mask? What was it a mask of?”

“Michael Myers.”

“Oh,” You shiver, “I hate that guy.”

“The iconic mask is actually a William Shatner mask that’s painted white and changed to blur the resemblance to Shatner. Specifically, it’s a Captain Kirk death mask created for Star Trek.” Spencer tells you, giving a tight lipped smile when you pause for a second to take in the information.

“How does William Shatner feel about that?”

“Not great, probably. But, can you imagine being considered one of the stars of the Halloween franchise?” He’s giddy, almost wiggling in excitement. “I’d love to see people wearing my face every Halloween.”

You laugh at that.

A few more facts are spewed out while you mix black with a little bit of white to make grey, some you already know and some you don’t, but he’s still chattering on when you turn back to face him, ready to paint again.

The words die in his throat, however, when your hand finds home on the back of his neck, thumb hooking around to lift his jaw up. “Still, please.”

Even if he wanted to give an unnecessary apology, he wouldn’t be able to, as if his throat is full of sand.

It’s silent for a while, Spencer’s eyes trained on the twinkling night sky that sits calmly compared to the thundering of his heart, the scramble of thoughts in his head. When your hand moves away a few minutes later, his disappointed eyes fall back to your face, where he finds himself thinking, please do that again.

“Do you want the black on your eyelids, too, or just around your eye?” You ask over your shoulder, oblivious to the new slump in Spencer’s back.

“Eyelids, too, please.”

You smile to yourself at how polite he is. Spencer might be the sweetest person you’ve ever met and you’ve known him for twenty minutes.

By the time you’re done, you’ve decided Spencer is the best customer you’ve ever had and you’d give anything to replay this interaction again and again. He’s polite, listens when you ask him to turn a certain way or sit up (a surprising amount of adults simply do not listen), and brings the most interesting conversation.

Did you know the use of OMG can be traced back to 1917? Cause Spencer does, and he bestowed you with the same knowledge.

You’re impressed with yourself and Spencer’s brain when you finally lean back, checking for any spots you missed or parts you can fix.

Before you even reach for the mirror, Spencer’s interrupting you.

“Um… do I-do I look spooky?”

You face him, a pretty smirk on your lips, “Terrifying.”

When you hold the mirror up to his face, he barely spares himself glance (but it’s enough of a glance for him to think holy crap, you’re talented) and there’s a look in his eye – he’s hesitant. About what, you’re not sure.

You wonder if he can tell you don’t want him to go. You enjoy his company, you enjoy him, and you’ve never wanted to wipe your work off someone’s face so quickly just for an excuse to do it again until now.

“How much do I owe you?” He asks, reaching for his wallet but not leaving the chair.

Your eyes narrow for a split second as you weight your option. Then you think fuck it, and say, “Nothing. It’s on the house.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“You can, and you will.” You stand. “Consider it thanks for all the cool facts you gave me.”

He lights up when you say cool facts, and opens his mouth to again offer to pay when he’s cut off by a group of laughing teenagers flying out of the haunted house, the exit door slamming against the wood with a startling bang.

Spencer gets an idea.

Seeing you look at the house, he asks, “Have you been in yet?”

You shake your head. “No. Not yet. If I have time later, maybe-“

“Come in with me.”

His grip on his wallet is tight, channelling all worry into his fingers so he doesn’t stumble or say something stupid.

“It’s the least I can do, and it’ll be too scary on my own.”

He’s lying – the idea of going through a haunted house by himself sounds exhilarating, but he’s found an opportunity to not leave you just yet and he’s going to take it.

You consider him for a moment. It’s late, you’ve been painting faces all day, and the sweetest, most attractive person you’ve ever seen is asking you to join them in a haunted house on Halloween. What kind of person would say no?

“Okay,” You happily concede, “But don’t blame me if I end up clinging to you.”

The two of you join the line into the house, giggling when someone dramatically falls through the exit and gasps for air like he’s barely made it out alive. And when the next people to leave the house are a couple who hold eachother close and tight, hands intertwined and one with their head buried in the neck of the other, Spencer steps a little closer to you, hoping you get the memo that having you cling to him doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

+++

tags: @pinkdiamond1016 @bluerose512 @andreasworlsboring101 @roses-and-grasses @fandommonium3267 @ta-ka-shi-ma @ogmilkis @chiffonchronicles @rexorangecouny @unmistakablyunknown @goofygubler14 @jasongideonapologist @gublertoon @bitchyreids

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fanfiction #mine

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spencersawkward · 3 years

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switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 8

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

pairing: Fem!OC/Spencer

word count: 3.9k

content warnings: discussion of a dead body (for a case), discussion of sensory overload (idk if that's a warning but just in case).

A/N: sorry this took so long! i've had a lot of writer's block with this series, but i'm feeling a lot more motivated with it, now. anyway enjoy!

masterlist

my feet slam into the pavement at a rate that makes me wonder if my heart can take it. I can feel the air in my lungs, stinging, and the way it never seems like enough. I can't stop. my arms are pumping and my legs burn.

I'm sure I look like a mess right now, exhausted and sweaty as I make my way up the biggest hill by my apartment. I haven't been running in a while, and this incline is even more daunting than it was before.

I use the momentum I've built from before now and force myself up. every breath rips through me violently until I'm sure that if I stop running, I'll collapse. but I keep pushing, knowing it'll be worth it.

I hated running until college. just absolutely despised the thought of getting outside and forcing myself to move quickly. the older I get, though, the more refreshing it's gotten. it helped me escape from midterms, from the pressure that constantly seemed to mount with every passing day. sometimes it feels like all of it keeps piling on, and it's never going to stop.

of course, that's not really the way to look at life. I've had things to balance out the work, friends to call and ways to let out the hammering violence that always seem to fill the spaces between my ribs. running clears my head when nothing else does.

once I get to the top, I bend over and rest my palms on my knees so that I can relax. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and can feel my pulse thudding against my throat. it's good, though. I needed to do this again, to get exercise.

I resist the urge to lay down flat on the pavement. DC isn't really a good place to do that; everyone around me is on a morning stroll with their partner or they're out for a jog themselves. I pass several enthusiastic-looking dogs out for a walk. the sheer number of people around me should make me feel normal.

it doesn't.

I straighten and stretch out my muscles, wincing at the way my calves feel if I move them funny. I don’t want to get called in for a case today, but that's naive. there will always be another case because there will always be people we need to stop. maybe I'm just not jaded enough to not care. I like to think that's a good thing, though.

...

when I head into the office a couple hours later, there's a to-go cup of coffee resting on my desk. I smile to myself, set my bag down and shrug off my coat, then peek over the divider to see Spencer with a case file open and an identical to-go cup a couple inches away.

"is this your doing?" I refer to the coffee. he nods and smiles at me, seemingly not in the mood to talk.

"thanks, Reid."

sitting down to do some work, I sneak a peek at him. Spencer is acting different from last weekend. more shy. I'm not really sure the reason, unless he just felt particularly outgoing at the party and is now back to his default self.

we get a case before the hour is up, and then my mind is occupied by the details.

jet rides, though now a familiar routine, are probably my favorite part of the job. I don't feel totally unproductive, but I still have time to unwind and talk to people on our way. Emily and I have gotten much closer within the past few weeks and sometimes she tells me stories about her old job that keep me on the edge of my seat.

there's something so mysterious about her that I just appreciate; she's like a cool older cousin to me. and she's great at making fun of Morgan, which is something that I've found enjoyable as well. sometimes he needs to be knocked down a peg-- she's the woman to do it.

"how many?" I trace my finger down the smooth skin of Derek's arm, where he's lifted his sleeve just enough to show the inked lion. it's a big tattoo, and I'm somewhat surprised he has one at all. he just doesn't really seem the type.

"five right now." he flexes his bicep flirtatiously, and I immediately remove my hand with a repulsed expression, rolling my eyes at the chuckle he lets out.

"don't feed his ego like that." Emily warns from across the table. she's flipping through one of the plant magazines that we've stashed in the snack cupboards (much to Hotch's disapproval). I turn to see Morgan's reaction.

"you a little jealous, Prentiss?" he teases. her only response is a glance that dares him to push further. they both know that Emily has absolutely no interest in him, which I suppose adds to their friendship. Morgan leans down by my ear, but he makes no effort to quiet his voice. "you should ask about her tattoos."

"you have tattoos?" my eyes widen at this, voice a little louder than usual. Hotch glances over at us from his seat a ways away, but doesn't say anything. Reid is passed out on the couch, strangely tired for the middle of the day; Rossi's writing something in his miniature journal.

"that's not anyone's business." she says more to Morgan than to me.

"I wanna see!" I set my glass of ice water down on the table and straighten up. Emily pretends to be exhausted by the persistence, but she closes her magazine momentarily.

"look, I can't show them all here." she raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"then how does Derek know?" I smirk. Emily makes a face, but Morgan is the one who replies.

"this one gets a little loose-lipped when she drinks too much." he teases. I snort and glance at Emily. I've seen her tipsy before, but never drunk. at most, she gets affectionate with all of us and calls us her best friends in the whole world. which, honestly, isn't an unwelcome sentiment.

"I do not." she argues.

"yeah, you do." Reid mumbles from the couch cushion where he's been resting his head. I jump at the sudden noise, and we all turn to him.

"look who's up." Emily smiles. Reid stretches his legs out, limbs so long that his feet hang off the end of the couch. he's wearing mismatched socks again today, one with bananas and one covered in sushi rolls. I smile to myself.

"I'm not," he argues. "someone had to correct you."

Morgan and I let out an amused laugh. my eyes dart between Spencer and the two other agents. "I feel like I'm the only one here who hasn't seen Prentiss drunk."

"yes, you have." she frowns.

"no. not, like, plastered."

"don't let Garcia hear you say that." Morgan laughs. I snort.

"why?"

"any excuse to party, and she'll take it." he shakes his head affectionately.

"she'd just call it bonding." Prentiss adds in. I have a soft spot in my heart for Pen. for all of the darkness we see here, she makes it a little bit brighter with her quips and sparkly pens and neon glasses. she's a blessing.

"what's so bad about that?" I defend for her sake.

"nothing's wrong with it, per se," Emily shrugs. "it just means we aren't as professional as we should be."

"I'd argue that our job actually means we get to let loose more when we have the time." I shrug. Morgan offers his fist to pound, and I oblige with a satisfied smile.

"you two are children, you know that?" Emily gestures between Derek and me. I shrug, about to return to my crossword when she speaks again. "how many tattoos do you have, Clea?"

I blink for a second, deciding whether or not to lie. it would be kind of cool to sound badass, but I don't know if I even have the mental capability to fib to a bunch of profilers. "none."

"what?" Morgan looks at me with confusion.

"yeah, none. why is that such a big surprise?" I laugh at their reactions. Prentiss is alarmed, too.

"I don't know-- you seem like the kind of person to get a heart tattooed on your thigh or something." Morgan shrugs. I make a face, silent.

"that's offensive."

Prentiss snorts and finishes her drink. I peek over and see Reid with his eyes closed but a slightly amused smile on his face. by the couch, I can see through the window. we're slipping through gray clouds that are saturated with rain, and the weather change causes the jet to shake a bit.

my fingertips wrap around the arm of the seat and Emily eyes me warily.

"you okay?"

"don't like flying." I answer, nostrils flaring slightly. usually with these trips, I've been able to hide my apprehension for flying by holding onto my knee below the table or something, but the sudden jerks are putting me off.

it's stupid-- plane anxiety is ridiculously common, and I don't think it's necessarily unwarranted. the problem is that to a bunch of people trained in behavioral analysis, it shows a blatant fear of not having control.

which is true, but it's not like I need that plastered all over my face every time we board a flight.

"would you get a tattoo if you could?" Emily changes the subject, thankfully, and I bite down on my bottom lip.

"I think so, yeah." it's said without much thought; all that's on my mind right now is wondering what our ETA is. Morgan shifts in his seat to smirk.

"really."

"sure."

he nods appreciatively before turning to look back out the window. droplets of moisture are collecting there, but they only distort the image of Portland stretched out below. the water is steel gray and rippled with wind.

I've never been here. for some reason, I find myself wondering what it smells like. that mingling of city scent and ocean, if they meet in the middle to form their own distinct identity. if it will settle on my tongue and in my clothes.

it's funny to me that when I go to different places and return, I don't notice how different it all smells until I breathe it in through the fabric of my shirts, and from there it all comes rushing back. Spencer mentioned during a case once that scent creates the most powerful memory reaction out of all our senses-- and I believe it.

DC smells like humidity and rain-slicked streets, Montana like dust. even the jet has a particular one that I don't associate with anything right now, but I know I will in the future. like I'm standing in the formation of a memory.

half-baked.

...

we've got the hoods of our raincoats up as we make our way into the office of our latest victim. Morgan holds the door and I wander in, staring up at the enormous glass walls of the place. a stray droplet falls from the hood of my jacket and onto my nose, rolling down the bridge and causing me to sniffle.

her boss is surprisingly dismissive of us when we get to his office, reluctantly getting off a phone call and giving me something of a dead-fish handshake. as we take a seat at his desk, I can smell the overbearing stench of his expensive cologne.

he's got exactly the kind of look that I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole: taut, judgmental face with a stiff mustache and slicked-back black hair that honestly is probably dyed. his eyes linger on me for a bit longer than I appreciate, but I clear my throat and try to brush off the discomfort.

Winona's body was found in a ditch off the side of a highway, dumped like trash. based on the ME report, she was alive when he threw her in, but died shortly after from her wounds. the whole thing is gruesome and as her employer notes her tendency to daydream and occasional tardiness, I want to reach across the table to smack him.

Morgan is able to keep his cool better than I can, nodding. I know it's important to know her behaviors in order to build our profile, but I still don't like the way this guy is talking about her.

"she wasn't really the strongest employee we've got, but she was nice enough around the office." he shrugs. I notice the gold wedding band that glints on his ring finger, the way he leans back in his swivel chair. he's got evaluative eyes.

by the time we're done, I'm practically flying out the door of his office and hurrying to the elevator. we got what we needed to know from him, if not through a somewhat convoluted method.

"nice guy." I note sarcastically after punching the down button. Morgan tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and looks at our warped reflections in the elevator doors.

"we talk to a lot of people like that. you get used to it."

"didn't seem too concerned about her at all."

"I don't think guys like that are concerned about much more than themselves."

"you should have mentioned a tax evasion investigation happening around here," I smirk. "that would probably put the fear of God into him."

Morgan chuckles and looks over at me. it would be unprofessional to fist bump with so many people around, although the smile we share is definitely a great equivalent.

as we pack into the metal box with a bunch of employees, they look at us curiously. the enormous FBI label on the back of our jackets probably doesn't help, but I pretend to look like I know what I'm doing as we step out into the lobby.

in all reality, faking it until I make it is the only thing I know how to do.

...

the late night cravings come as a surprise as I stand over a map of Portland. my eyes are starting to cross from staring at all the minuscule details for so long, and my fingers are twitching from a mixture of hunger and overloaded caffeine.

we were supposed to go to bed about two hours ago, but I know for a fact that I'm not the only one sitting in my motel room with open files and a determined expression. I do happen to be the only person rooming alone, however, and the silence has been helpful.

Reid's been working on a geographic profile, but there's something missing. I'm not sure what it is. all I know is that if I don't figure it out soon, it's going to eat away at me. based on his activity patterns, there are only a few more days before this guy abducts another woman.

except now I'm just thinking about how much time we don't have, and that sort of sends me into a spiral, too. I'm prepared to always be running against a clock for this job, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'm going to lose it if I stare at any more tiny lines indicating roads or side streets or whatever else demands attention.

I need to get out of my head.

before taking time to really consider anything else, I grab my phone and look up pizza places nearby. what I need right now is some sustenance and tv-- or at least something to distract me enough to recharge.

I change into my pjs and wash my face while I wait for the delivery person to arrive, try to ease the day out of my bones. there used to be a whole process for me after work every day, where I'd shut off my brain. The Real Housewives of Atlanta provided ample help for this, along with fuzzy socks and glasses of red wine. I can make do with this.

once the pizza guy comes and I pay for my food, I don't even make way to my room; instead, I go to the person I know who needs this more than I do.

"Clea?" Spencer rubs his eyes as he swings open the door, glasses held in the other hand.

"hi." I smile brightly.

"what are you doing here?" his soft tone and the dim light from a motel lamp in the corner tells me that Morgan is asleep right now in the other bed.

in response to his question, I hold up the box of pizza with a grin. his eyes widen.

"I can't eat all this alone." definitely a lie, but saying that he needs to take a break probably wouldn't sway him enough.

for a second, Spencer seems to debate this in his head. when he runs a shaky hand through his hair, I roll my eyes. "it's pizza, dude. not a wedding proposal. you can go back to the case in twenty minutes."

he nods this time and looks up at me as I turn and start toward my room. closing the door gently behind him, I don't miss the way he increases his pace a little to catch up with me.

"did you get mushrooms?" he asks. I throw him a disgusted look before realizing what he's talking about and breaking into a grin.

"you remembered!" I reference my hatred of the fungus. Spencer smiles with pride, turns his gaze to the carpeted floors. I unlock the door and let us in.

"of course I remember," he snorts. "it's hard to forget."

I giggle at the way he immediately uses the sink to wash his hands, and I join him after setting the box on the bed.

"favorite soap scent?" I ask absently. suds cover my fingers as he rinses the water from his. normally, this isn't a question I'd ask, but Spencer seems like he would have a response.

"you know, I really enjoy anything fresh-smelling," he thinks about it. "like waterfall smell."

"I like those, too."

"what's your favorite?"

"there's this brand that I love that specializes in antibacterial soaps, and they have a lavender one that literally makes me ascend." I laugh. Spencer is drying his hands with a folded towel and his face lights up.

"Ravi's Organics?" he suggests. my heart leaps with recognition.

"yes! oh my god, have you used their cracked cinnamon one?"

"I have the hand sanitizer in my bag." Reid's eyes are so pretty. they sparkle with a hazel color, almost chocolatey in the cheap motel light.

"they have a hand sanitizer for it?" my jaw drops. he nods and I shake my head slowly. we walk over to the bed to eat the pizza. he seems hesitant, though, and pauses.

it takes me a second to remember that Spencer has different boundaries and is just kind of awkward in general. even though there's no obvious tension between us, I don't want to make him uncomfortable, so I plop down on the floor.

"you like Ravi's Organics." he states it back to himself more than to me, and as I pop open the box to reveal a beautiful pepperoni pizza, I nod vigorously.

"yeah, it's actually kind of a funny story," we start to dig in immediately. I lift an enormous slice to my lips and bite into the perfection. it's so good. "when I was little, my parents used to call me Rascal."

"Rascal?" he laughs through a bite of food.

"like the raccoon? from that book?" it's a kid's story.

"why?" he snorts. I take a second to chew before replying.

"I just get really overwhelmed by certain sensory things-- like, I hate being sticky or having any kind of weird texture on my hands. so whenever we went out to eat or anything, I would always sit on the outside of the booth so I could run to the bathroom and wash my hands as I pleased." I explain all of this with a slight frown on my face. it's true, I've just never really thought about it.

"I don't like sticky stuff, either." he offers.

"yeah, it got pretty bad. but I guess I just grew out of it. I'm not sure when." I pluck a piece of pepperoni off the top and slide it into my mouth.

Spencer takes in this information for a second while he eats, and I'm momentarily worried that I've overshared. he came for some food and now I've served up a weird childhood memory to accompany it.

but then he does something funny and altogether endearing.

"actually, raccoons are very cleanly creatures, despite their dietary habits." he tells me.

frankly, it makes me feel better than anything else that he could have said. "fastidious little things, right?"

"exactly." he chuckles. his shoulders are hunched, elbows leaning on his knees.

"fix your posture." I say gently, noticing the way his spine curves abysmally when he's sitting across from me. his cheeks turn a pretty pink, but he follows directions.

"is it that bad?" he's a bit embarrassed. immediately, I soften and do what comes easily, making a joke.

"if you don't work on it, you're gonna be living in a French cathedral by the age of thirty."

Spencer snorts-- genuinely almost chokes on his food-- and looks at me with his almost childlike eyes. there's something in them that I can't decipher at all, almost so obvious that it completely goes over my head.

"that was mean." he's still trying to recover from the onset of giggles, and I lean forward to grab another slice, suppressing a proud grin myself.

"your future straight-backed self will thank me."

"I'll remember that." he nods dutifully.

"I'm sure you will."

we share a secretive smile before I bite into my pizza and launch into a different subject. the more I learn about Spencer, the more I want to know. I feel like there are things beneath every new surface that would be fascinating to understand.

"what's it like having an eidetic memory?"

he frowns like he isn't sure how to answer. I thought he'd already have something locked and loaded, a prepared response for a question he definitely gets frequently. when he opens his mouth, I find myself hanging on every word. "it's... interesting."

"blessing or a curse?"

"both."

"would you ever give it up if given the option?" I narrow my eyes a bit. I'm especially curious about this.

"no." this is delivered with certainty. for a second, I stare at him with about a million more questions in my head. of course, they're completely out-of-bounds and way too personal, but they're still there.

"hm." I say instead. as usual, delivering thrilling commentary at every turn.

Spencer peeks at me over his pizza for a second, seeming to want to say something else, but decides against it. our eyes meet; I'm not sure what it is, maybe a silent agreement or something else that's unspoken, but we decide not to press further on either end.

whatever he's got tucked away in that big brain of his, he's not ready to talk about it with anyone-- much less a new colleague in a dumpy motel. there's a time and place for certain things, and boundaries to respect.

I change the subject before he can make some lame excuse to leave. for some reason, I just don't want him to leave me here in this room.

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added/removed for this series): @reidsconverse @voidsfilm

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #best friends to lovers #fanfic #mgg #matthew gray gubler #baby spencer #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Shaw’s Exorcism Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Note: This date was translated by @redqueenschoice! It’s on my blog because she doesn’t want to put individual translations on hers...

Shaw’s Qixi Collection: Date ♡ / Call 1 / Call 2 / Event / Special Call

Check out Victor’s date (by @lucienism) and Kiro’s date (by @skyholders) too! A lot of effort has been put in by these three lovely humans T^T💕 Do send them lots of love!!

On the night of Qixi, I had a terrible encounter and happened to be saved by Shaw. In order to repay the favour afterwards, I promised to run errands for him for seven days. Very soon, the seven days are coming to an end…

The crescent moon reminiscent of a bow hangs in the sky, the canopy of the heavens are painted pitch black. The little starlight that filters through the dense canopy of the forest scatters, and a line of men make their way through the mountain’s forest in a hurry, the swords on their waists still red with fresh blood.

A drop of blood falls onto the surface of a leaf, before it is trodden underfoot all of a sudden.

MC: Ahh…

Bandit Leader: Tell me the truth!

My head was harshly hit, and I let out a weak, muffled cry through the cloth stuffed in my mouth.

The image of my family’s pitiful state right before the moments of their deaths surface in my mind again, and my throat tightens, both my heart and mind unable to move on from the tumultuous upheaval in my life.

It was only supposed to be a trip to the neighbouring village to visit some relatives. How had it come to this?

Bandit Leader: The ones we’ve gone after the last few days weren’t lacking in anything, huh? Hiding so many goods…

Bandit Underling: That’s right. Especially this young girl here, she’s still young and healthy.

Bandit Underling One: Boss, before we sell her off, how about we… ehehe.

Upon hearing his perverted words and laughter, I start thrashing about in a panic, but the ropes wound tightly around my wrists and ankles just won’t budge no matter how hard I pull. Tears stain the blindfold over my eyes and I stretch my hands towards my waist, getting ready to put up a fight with everything I have - I’d rather die than be disgraced in such a way.

At this moment, however, he is interrupted by another low voice.

Bandit Underling Two: That’s enough. You can make merry anytime you like, but in this instance, it’s better for us to hurry and get on our way. I heard these woods aren’t to be trusted at night, and there are rumours that monsters come out at night.

Bandit Underling One: Big Brother, aren’t you a little too believing of these old folk tales? Where on earth would there be demons, and even if there were, I’m not scared of them!

Note from Red: and here, ladies and gentlemen, is the beginning to every horror movie ever

A cocky laugh leaves his lips, but the second he does, the surroundings in all four directions abruptly fall silent.

All of a sudden, a long, piercing cry rips the still night in two.

The sound is delightful to the ears, yet it is striking enough to tear through the haze - upon hearing it once, it would be irreversibly carved into one’s heart.

I only feel my body sway for a moment, but in the blink of an eye, I find myself shoved down onto the ground. The second my shoulder collides with the wet, slippery dirt, I hear the bandits’ terrified shouts flying to and fro above my head.

Bandits: Mon… Monster!!!

The snarl of a predator beast, the metallic hiss of a blade being unsheathed, frantic and hurried footsteps… followed by bloodcurdling screams.

The chaos and what I experienced a few hours ago are far too similar, the same sounds echoing inside my head until they slowly fade away to nothing.

I cannot see anything in front of me, and can only smell the faint scent of blood mixed with that of the cool forest suffusing my nose.

At this moment, footsteps gradually approach me.

I hold my breath, and feel cold sweat slowly trickling down my back.

Who is it? Did one of the bandits survive?

Or is it… the monster?

The owner of those footsteps stop before me, and a strong hand pulls me up from the ground.

The person lifts up my bangs and a fingertip meets my forehead, the ice cold sensation making me shiver.

Mystery Man: Hah.

He seems to have no intention of loosening my bindings, a peculiar silence filling the space between me and the nameless man before me. With the blindfold over my eyes, my senses of hearing and touch are my only links with the external world.

His breathing is very light, but with each exhale that leaves his mouth, I sense undeniable danger in the air. I can feel his gaze, like that of a wild predator surveying its prey, as if he would sink his fangs into me in the next second.

MC: Mmn!

Terrified, I duck my head away from him, trying to avoid his touch. Instead, I hear a short laugh coming from the person in front of me.

Mystery Man: Fine. Since you don’t want me to save you, just wait here on your own, then.

With these words, the heated breaths across my cheeks vanish and the man seems to disappear into thin air, leaving no trace. My surroundings are completely silent once again.

He left?

I don’t dare to confirm it myself, waiting where he left me for a moment. Once the sound of birds and chirping of crickets returns to the area, I let out a breath of relief and begin to move once again.

Since I was under constant scrutiny of the bandits, I didn’t dare to do this earlier. Now that there’s no one in the vicinity, I can finally reach for the small knife I had secretly strapped to my waist.

This is the last thing my parents, who died earlier this year, left me to defend myself with.

I carefully feel around for the handle of the blade, wrapping my fingers around it. Because I can’t see and my movements are restricted, the tip of the blade ends up nicking my skin a few times. Gritting my teeth, I bear the pain and work on severing my bindings.

Note from Red: guys this is the mc we need but don’t deserve-

When I finally pull off the blindfold around my eyes, I see that the moon has already moved considerably towards the west.

Apart from the goods the bandits had been carrying with them earlier, I don’t see anyone else when I glance about.

MC: Did those people… really get eaten?

At the thought of the danger I experienced earlier, and might still be in, I couldn’t care less about the injuries littering my body, and force myself to my feet with the support of a tree branch, preparing to leave the forest as fast as I can.

The mountain paths are confusing and complicated, and I feel like I’ve been wandering around in circles for awhile when I finally hear the sound of running water coming from nearby.

MC: That’s great! If there’s water, that means I can clean my wounds!

I hobble towards the source of the sound slowly, but just as I’m pushing through the underbrush, a sound suddenly rings out through the air, causing me to freeze where I stand in fear.

Mystery Man: Don’t panic, everyone has a share.

It’s the voice of that man from earlier!

Before I can react, there’s the sound of flapping wings in the distance, taking my attention with it. Several strangely shaped skeletal birds flap over, and from their shrill, clamorous cries, it sounds as if they’re begging for food from someone.

I turn my head, only to see a young man casually lounging in a rowboat on the surface of a pool, next to a grove of trees. In his hand is a bunch of evening primroses. Under the light of the night sky, their petals give off a gentle glow.

The young man’s long legs are crossed, golden eyes half narrowed lazily as he looks at me. His expression is leisurely and indolent, and I see the petal of an evening primrose held casually between his teeth.

If I hadn’t encountered him in such an unusual circumstance, in the depths of a mountain forest, perhaps I would have thought he was the pampered young master of a rich merchant or businessman.

Mystery Man: Oh, that sentence wasn’t quite right. It should have been ‘every bird has a share’.

As if the skeletal birds can understand what he’s saying, they let out noisy chirps before obediently taking the petals from his hand one by one. The second the petals leave his palm, they dissolve into puffs of black smoke being swallowed up instantly by the skeletal birds.

Mystery Man: Today’s haul wasn’t too bad, there’s so much evil energy about, there’s enough for all of you to gorge yourselves on for a long time…

Mystery Man: Oi, you little idiot at the back, I caught you! Be a bit more honest, you’re not allowed to cut the queue…

Skeletal Bird: Squawk squawk?

Mystery Man: What did you say? Why didn’t I swallow up that little lady from earlier?

Mystery Man: Come on, do I really seem like a scoundrel who doesn’t take proper care of women… yeah, I am.

Trivia from Red: The word ‘scoundrel’ was translated from is the negative of a Chinese idiom 怜香惜玉, meaning a gentleman who takes care of the fairer sex. Shaw referred to himself as someone unlike a gentleman, so that’s how I translated it.

Skeletal Bird: Squawk!

Mystery Man: [clicks his tongue] I was just playing around a little. After I feed the lot of you, I’ll go back and save her, is that cool with you?

At hearing his words, I secretly make a face in his direction, muttering under my breath.

MC: I didn’t need you to save me… I got out on my own...

A skeletal bird suddenly caws in my direction. The young man’s eyes narrow instantly, the light in his eyes intensifying to something swift and fierce, before he turns his gaze right in my direction.

Mystery Man: Whoever’s there, come out.

I’ve been found out!

Note from Red: She, in fact, had been found out.

I subconsciously take a step back, but all of a sudden, the injury on my leg flares up with immense pain. My body loses balance all at once, and I find myself pitching backwards before I know what’s happening.

MC: Ah!

Note from Red: MC then proceeds to black out in typical otome heroine fashion… but let’s cut her some slack she was cool here T^T

I drift in the darkness, countless strange dreams blending together and surfacing before my eyes. One moment it’s the leering grin of the bandits, the next it’s the cawing of the skeletal birds I saw earlier. But the final thing is the long, piercing cry I heard in the forest.

When my eyes blink open, I find myself in an unfamiliar room.

It’s a perfectly normal looking bedroom, and the sheets under me are fresh and clean. Somewhere, I can hear the sounds of a vendor selling his goods and the voices of kids peddling flowers drifting in from outside the window.

Everything is so peaceful, it’s as if everything I experienced before has just been nothing but a dream.

MC: Where exactly am I…

Mystery Man: You finally decided to wake up.

A young man dressed in purple appears at the door in the blink of an eye. Startled, I sit up as fast as possible in shock.

MC: Who are you!?

At my question, he leans against the doorframe casually, and after seeing my expression, the corner of his lips turn up in a smirk.

Mystery Man: What are you being so on edge for? I’m the benefactor who saved your life, you know.

MC: What benefactor, I clearly saw you on that lake earlier…

Mystery Man: You’ve had some entertaining dreams.

Note from Red: o k a y shaw

MC: Huh?

Mystery Man: You, little lady, fainted in the wilderness in the nearby mountains. If I hadn’t just happened to be passing by and decided to do a good deed, there’s no guarantee you wouldn’t have been eaten up by a demon.

What he’s saying doesn’t match up with what I remember, but the way he speaks so smoothly with absolute confidence makes it hard for me to doubt his words, and for a moment I question my own memories.

Could the glowing primroses I saw by the lake… and the skeletal birds… all been some sort of strange dream?

Mystery Man: It seems like you’ve slept yourself silly.

The young man runs a hand through his hair before straightening up once more, and I watch as he steps towards me until he’s right next to the bed, bending down to look at me more clearly.

His golden eyes flash with sly amusement.

Mystery Man: Since you’re awake, remember this clearly: you’re on my territory.

Mystery Man: The name’s Shaw, and I’m your benefactor.

Mystery Man: As for what you should do now, you should carefully think… about just how you’re going to repay me for saving your life.

Carrying a bucket filled with water, I stagger into the garden, out of breath.

The only other person in the garden is currently lounging next to a flower bed, legs casually swinging back and forth, the picture of idleness.

MC: May. I. Please. Ask. If. Sir. Benefactor. Has. Any. Other. Instructions.

Since the day I woke, in return for Shaw safely bringing me out of the mountain, I agreed to run errands for him for seven days. Today is already the seventh day.

Upon seeing me puffing and panting, his brow lifts in an amused arch.

Shaw: Hmm, go water those flowers over there while you’re at it, then.

MC: Shaw, don’t take your bullying too far!

Shaw: How am I bullying you? Weren’t you the one who said that you wanted to repay me by running errands? Or perhaps you want to do it by offering your body instead?

Trivia from Red: ‘Offering your body’ is translated from the Chinese idiom 以身相许, which means 1) pledge to marry or 2) have sex with a man of her own will.

I stare at him in horrified shock for a moment, face burning red from embarrassment. Grabbing the gourd dipper, I scoop up a full ladle of water and fling it at him with all my might.

Shaw ducks out of the way at lightning speed, and the spray of water splashes onto the flowerbed he had been lounging next to earlier, catching the light of the afternoon sun and forming a rainbow. Shaw’s laughter rings out clearly.

Shaw: I asked you to water the flowers, not water people. Or is your eyesight so bad you can’t tell a human clearly from a flowerbed?

MC: ...You!

These last few days, whenever we’ve had banters like this, I’ve never won even once. Determined not to fall into the same trap again, I ignore his words and instead ask a question.

MC: The seven days are almost up. Can I leave tomorrow?

Shaw’s smile turns teasing.

Shaw: Your house is opposite this mountain, isn’t it? Are you sure you won’t faint halfway on your journey back again?

MC: I definitely won’t!

Upon seeing my determined face, Shaw grins, opening his mouth to say something again. All of a sudden, however, the smile fades from his face.

MC: What’s the matter?

Shaw: Nothing’s up, I’m just heading out for a moment.

Shaw: If you want to go home, I’m not stopping you.

Shaw: But you’re not allowed to leave tomorrow. Stay put in my house, don’t take a step out of the compound.

MC: Why not?

Shaw doesn’t reply my question, and with a few strides of his long legs, he’s vanished from the garden.

MC: Shaw, wait a moment, you haven’t explained yourself-

MC: He’s gone?

This isn’t the first time he’s simply disappeared like this. With a shake of the head, I shrug off his warning. Besides, after tomorrow, I’ll have repaid my debt to him in full, and we’ll have nothing more to do with each other.

On the morning of the next day, Shaw still hasn’t returned.

I chew on my lip, looking at the doors for the seventh time, slightly hesitant to leave without bidding him goodbye.

MC: Well, it’s not like that rascal is going to bother about it anyway…

Trivia from Red: MC quite constantly refers to Shaw as 那家伙, which is a casual way of referring to a mischievous, rascally guy, and can be interpreted as ‘that guy’, or ‘that little punk’.

Even though I say those words, I find my footsteps slowing on the way out of the front courtyard.

MC: Perhaps I should leave him a letter.

I write him a letter and leave it on his table. Just when I’m about to leave, a painting hanging on the wall catches my eye.

MC: This is…

Taking a step closer to look at it more clearly, I realise that it’s a mythical beast that I’ve never seen before.

On the beast’s lower back are five tails, and on its forehead is a single horn. Just from the painting, I can sense a strong aura of pride and arrogance.

MC: This painting… it kind of resembles that guy.

Curiously, I reach out and touch a corner of the painting. All of a sudden, however, the sound of thunder rumbles outside the window.

I look out of the window, and am surprised to see that the sky, that was sunny just moments ago, is now blanketed with thick grey clouds, looking like it’s about to start pouring anytime soon.

MC: If I don’t leave now, it’ll be bad if I’m caught in the rain.

I fasten my cloak, pick up an umbrella and leave Shaw’s house.

Even thought it’s well into the afternoon, the little town is completely covered in a thick fog, as if it has been completely blanketed by a layer of grey. The little river that runs through the town has little lotus lamps dotting the surface, all of them floating along silently.

Just as I’m about to leave the little town, my mind gradually begins to calm.

MC: This feels a little strange…

The town that Shaw resides in might not have too many people, but on a normal day, it would usually be bustling with activity, the smell of firework smoke in the air.

Yet today, there isn’t a single person on the streets.

Note from Red: gee, i wonder why, mc-

The further I go from Shaw’s house, the faster the sky seems to darken and unease wells up in my heart.

MC: Maybe I should go back and wait for him…

[thunder rumbles]

The clouds seem to descend, and the sky darkens even further. I don’t know whether it’s just my imagination, but the mist seems to suffuse and thicken in the tunnel before me, and I can see the outline of dark shapes moving about inside.

Before I can look more closely at them, there’s a sound behind me, and I turn around. The moment I do, I can’t help but feel shock race through me.

It’s the skeletal bird I saw that night on the mountain!

The bird hops onto the side of the bridge, cocking its head at me. When it opens its beak to speak, what comes out isn’t the shrill squawk of a bird, but the familiar cool and clear voice of a man.

Bird!Shaw: Finally found you… what are you doing here?

MC: Shaw!?

MC: How are you… this bird is-

In typical Shaw fashion, the bird does not answer my question. Instead, it turns its head to look at the tunnel, and lets out a clicking sound even though it doesn’t have a tongue to do so.

Bird!Shaw: Come with me.

With that, it flies to me, taking my sleeve between its beak and tugging me in the opposite direction. Being pulled along into a run with it, all my words come out garbled.

MC: Wait a moment… What, what exactly is going on? Just now, what was that? And you, what are you?

Bird!Shaw: You have so many questions.

MC: It’s not me who has too many questions! It’s just that you’ve hidden too much from me!

Bird!Shaw: ……

Bird!Shaw: It’s the Ghost Festival today.

MC: Ghost Festival… Hungry Ghost Festival!?

Trivia from Red: The Ghost Festival, also known as the Hungry Ghost Festival, is a traditional Buddhist and Taoist festival held in certain East Asian countries. According to the Chinese calendar (a lunisolar calendar), the Ghost Festival is on the 15th night of the seventh month.

In Chinese culture, the fifteenth day of the seventh month in the lunar calendar is called Ghost Day and the seventh month in general is regarded as the Ghost Month (鬼月), in which ghosts and spirits, including those of deceased ancestors, come out from the lower realm. The deceased are believed to visit the living as the realms of Heaven and Hell and the realm of the living are open and both Taoists and Buddhists would perform rituals to transmute and absolve the sufferings of the deceased.

Bird!Shaw: That's right. This is when the nine yin converges, and evil grows easily. It is the day when the Ghost Gate opens, and evil and living souls intersect. It will be more troublesome than a typical day.

Bird!Shaw: I distinctly remember telling you to stay put in my house, who would have thought you’d actually dare to leave and make trouble for me.

As the bird says this, it turns back to eye me. Even though it has no eyes, I can clearly see the words ‘annoyance’ written in its eye sockets.

At that moment, a feeling of unhappiness washes over me, and I can’t help but open my mouth to speak.

MC: All these things… you could have just told me earlier. You made me wait for you for the entirety of yesterday… without so much as an explanation.

MC: Shaw, am I really not worthy of your trust? Am I a burden to you?

The bird stops fluttering its wings for a second before it turns its head, not saying another word.

For a moment, I wonder if Shaw is angry with what I said, but after a while, a small snort of laughter leaves the bird’s mouth, ringing in my ears.

The sound is so clean and clear, it seems like Shaw is standing right next to me.

Bird!Shaw: I don’t think of you as a burden.

Bird!Shaw: I can tell you my true identity, it’s just that at that moment, you can’t be afraid and you’re not allowed to regret it.

MC: I won’t be scared, and I wouldn’t regret it.

Bird!Shaw: Then follow me closely.

The clouds close in on us, and the first drops of rain begin to fall.

It’s going to rain.

I follow after the bird closely, and each time, I narrowly manage to escape every encounter with a dark shape. Just as we’re about to leave the small town, however, it’s as if all the spirits suddenly sense me, and they all turn and start rushing towards me!

Bird!Shaw: Don’t bother about them! Just run towards the exit of the town!

The second it finishes those words, it lets out a caw. As if rallied, a hundred of the skeletal birds suddenly fly over from behind the wall. Like arrows loosed from a bow, they descend on the mass of black spirits and attack them with their sharp beaks and wings, keeping them tightly packed together.

But there is a limit to the number of birds, and the pitch black spirits can’t be stopped.

Understanding that the birds can’t buy me all the time in the world, I grit my teeth and run as hard as I can for the exit of the town.

Even before I can take two steps, pain runs up my leg, as if I’m being yanked back by something. I fall painfully to the ground.

Withstanding the pain, I look down to see a skeletal person grabbing tight onto my ankle, refusing to let go!

No matter how hard I struggle, the person refuses to let go, and only holds on tighter and tighter. Watching the rest of the dark shapes slowly approaching, I yank out something I have tucked in my waist, and bring it down as hard as I can on the person.

Shiing!

A loud wail rings through the air, but the grip loosens enough for me to pry it off. Looking down in my hand, I clasp the dagger that had saved me seven days ago, I’ve never let it leave me even once.

But in the time it took for me to do all that, it’s too late for me to escape the town.

I grip the dagger tight.

The dark shapes draw closer, before they finally rush at me ferociously.

[thunder rumbles intensely]

Thunder rumbles throughout the sky, like the beating of a thousand drums, the galloping of a hundred thousand horses, unceasing. In that second, hundreds of white hot lightning bolts flash through the air before me, bathing the entire sky in bright white light.

Note from Red: that can’t be good for your eyes...

A large hand covers my eyes from behind.

Note from Red: who needs sunglasses when we have shaw’s big hands T^T

Shaw: You idiot, why are you just standing there for? Do you want to keep your eyes or not?

His tone is teasing and lighthearted, but it makes me feel safer than any promise or vow in the world.

MC: Shaw…

Shaw: I didn’t think you’d be able to save yourself, not bad.

Shaw: No wonder I-

The rest of his words are cut off by the rumble of thunder, the flash of lightning. I feel raindrops land pitter patter on my nose and cheeks.

In order to let me hear his words clearly, he leans down and puts his lips right next to my ear when he speaks, breath hot against the shell of my ear.

Shaw: Turn around, open up your umbrella and count to ten in your head before you open your eyes. Got it?

I nod with all my strength.

Shaw releases me and I obey his instructions, opening the umbrella and beginning to count.

MC: One, two, three…

The strikingly familiar cry I heard that night in the forest rings out from behind me, leaving yet another deep impression in my heart.

MC: Four, five, six…

The rain slows to a gentle drizzle, and the oppressive air hanging over the town seems to be slowly fading.

MC: Seven, eight, nine…

Shaw… Shaw…

MC: Ten.

I turn around.

Within the bright flashes of light, I catch sight of a silhouette of the five tailed mythical beast.

Evil spirits dealt with and the dark clouds gone, it seems like the town has finally gone back to normal.

Because I injured my foot, Shaw takes me to a small boat, and the two of us drift along slowly on the river. As the boat is slowly carried along beneath a bridge, Shaw, who is lazily sitting at the front, plucks a flower from the side to play with.

The lotus lamps bobbing alongside us glow softly, and what was initially supposed to be a gloomy Hungry Ghost Festival resembles more of a pleasant evening of a wedding night.

Shaw’s purple robes flutter in the wind, and under the light of the lamps hanging from the boat, the horn on his forehead seems to be softened with a soft glow.

The scenery before me reminds me of the time we first met on the lake back in that forest, the only differences being that he’s now missing a few birds, and that I am here with him.

MC: Right, why haven’t I seen any of the other town residents today?

Shaw: You think everyone is like you? I already warned them beforehand not to leave their houses, it’d make way for the souls and I can do what I need to do.

MC: Hahahaha…

Shaw: What are you laughing about?

MC: I’m laughing at you - with that image and disposition, who would have guessed that you’re actually a great immortal?

After hearing my words, Shaw lifts an eyebrow, looking slightly miffed.

Shaw: Then what did you think I was, a monster?

MC: I think that you’re Shaw, that’s all.

Shaw stares blankly at me for a moment.

MC: Shaw, on the day of Qixi, when you brought me out of the mountain, was it you who rescued me from those bandits as well?

Even though my words are phrased as a question, my tone is sure and certain. There’s a flash of surprise in Shaw’s eyes, but he doesn’t reply. He casts his eyes downwards, manner insipid.

Shaw: That isn’t a good memory to have for the Qixi Festival. Just forget it.

MC: I won’t forget it.

What he says is true. The Qixi festival is deserving of good and happy memories, and being by bandits certainly isn’t that, but still…

I look earnestly at Shaw.

MC: But on that day, you also appeared.

All around us, the lotus lamps flicker softly in the night, jade green smoke curling up faintly, the cool sounds of running water in my ears.

MC: I feel like this is the most memorable, and also the most treasured Qixi I have ever experienced.

This world’s thousands of relationships cannot be clearly defined by these dates, but on this Ghost Festival, my heart soars more than it did on the day of the Qixi Festival.

Shaw watches me silently, before he puts down the flower in his hand and leans forward, closer to me.

His hands carry with them the body temperature of one that is not human, fingertips lifting up my bangs once again.

Inch by inch, his finger trails down, as if mapping out my face.

His golden eyes are locked firmly on me, gaze intense and captivating like that of a wild beast, not letting my eyes deviate from him in the least.

This time, I don’t shy away from him.

Shaw: The last time, didn’t you ask for my true self?

Shaw: I’m Zheng, and I consume evil energy as sustenance.

Shaw: I’ve never felt like I’ve done this to help humans, and I’ve never considered myself to be an auspicious sign like the legends say.

Shaw: When I’m hungry, I eat.

Suddenly, my hand is grasped tightly in his, and he lifts it to his mouth.

He bites down slowly on my index finger, sharpened teeth scraping over delicate skin, and slight pain radiates out from where his lips are wrapped around my fingertip.

Shaw: Even if that’s what I am, you’re not going to be afraid of me?

Even though he’s clearly giving off a sense of hidden danger and his words are meant to provoke me into giving him a response, my heart skips a beat at the smile on his face.

MC: I…

Shaw: I… what? Speak louder.

With a self satisfied smirk that looks reminiscent of a cat that got the canary, he nips on my finger again.

MC: I said, I won’t be-

Before the word ‘scared’ can leave my mouth, my finger suddenly slips free of Shaw’s mouth to land on his lower lip. My fingertip softly runs against his lips, breath warm and eyes shining.

It’s clearly… a kiss.

Note from Red: yes mc you get flustered NOW when your finger was on his lips but not when he was literally biting on it priorities on point we stan

In a moment, my entire face burns bright red and I hurriedly pull back my finger.

MC: Shaw!

Shaw grins at me as he releases my hand, his gaze on me filled with an emotion I can’t quite recognise. Having fallen for his tricks yet again, my heart races and I desperately look for something to say, but didn’t expect that Shaw would beat me to it.

Shaw: Shouldn’t you be heading home?

The second he says that, I’m reminded of my original purpose: to bid my farewells to him before leaving for home.

I nod at him for a moment, before I shake my head energetically.

MC: Shaw, I…

Shaw: But today, haven’t I saved you once again?

MC: ...Eh?

Shaw: The timing’s just right. I’ve polished off all the evil energies and spirits here completely, it’s time for a change in scenery.

Shaw: The town near your home… is there anything entertaining?

He speaks so quickly that I have no time to think.

MC: Entertaining… well, not really, but there’s a lot of good food there! Recently it’s been chestnut and lotus seed season, so there should be a lot of confections sold on the streets…

MC: Wait a second, you’re not thinking of following me home, are you?

Shaw: Of course I am. How else are you going to repay this huge favour you owe me for saving you?

His words are bold and upright, but the grin on his face is that of a satisfied hunter.

Shaw: Before you fully repay the favour… don’t even think about escaping from me.

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc shaw #redqueenschoice translated this

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five-rivers · 4 years

Text

Reflection

Tucker passed in front of a mirror and stopped, did a double take. He'd been doing that a lot, lately, ever since what he and his friends referred to as the 'Egypt incident.' He raised one hand and traced a line under his eye, his lower eyelashes ruffling.

"You checking your eyeliner, Fol-ey?" asked Dash, bumping into him, rudely.

Tucker avoided stabbing himself in the eye and caught himself on the sink. He frowned at the reflection of the jocks in the mirror and scanned the locker room for Danny. Alas, his best friend must still be running punishment laps in the gym.

"Looking for Wimp-ton to save you? That's pretty pathetic," said Dash, jabbing Tucker again.

Tucker spun to face them and started to back away. He wondered if it would be okay to fight back under these circumstances, or if he would get in trouble. Because Tucker could fight. Maybe not as well as Sam and Danny, he was more the tech guy of their group, but all of them could throw a punch. Heck, Tucker could pull back a bow and put an arrow into the center of a target a hundred feet away. That took arm strength.

If he fought Dash, he'd probably win.

But fighting was generally frowned upon at school and with the other jocks as witnesses... Yeah, that wouldn't pan out well. His parents would take his side, but he didn't want to get a bad reputation with the teachers. One of the trio had to stay on their good side. Obviously it couldn't be Danny, and Sam was too argumentative, so it fell to him.

He sighed. Well, he could take a punch, too, if it came to that. He took off his glasses and put them on the back of the sink.

"What're you doing that for?" asked Dash.

"Good glasses are expensive, Dash," said Tucker, flatly, glaring up at the taller boy. "They're also made of glass. I don't want to be wearing them if you decide to hit me in the face."

Dash stared down at him, as though seeing him for the first time. He humphed. "You take all the fun out of it," he complained. "Come on, guys," he said to the other jocks, leading a parade out of the locker room. Tucker sighed and looked back at the mirror.

Eyeliner, huh? Dash probably would have been surprised to find out that Tucker had thought that he'd seen eye makeup on his face. Kohl. No. Not kohl. That was a recent word, and not completely accurate. Mesdemet for the black. Udju for the green. He blinked, unsure where the words had come from.

No, he knew where the words had come from. He just didn't want to think about it.

Danny stumbled into the room, banging the door behind him. "Hi," he said, waving at Tucker. He paused. "Are you okay? You look kind of..." Danny trailed off and shrugged.

"I'm fine," said Tucker. "Just talked my way out of getting beaten up by Dash."

"What, really?" asked Danny, his eyes flickering over Tucker. "Are you sure you're fine? He didn't hit you?"

"Nope. I'm really fine."

He hoped.

The archery club met right after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, regularly, contrasting with the computer club, which met 'whenever' and 'online.' Usually, meetings coincided with Danny getting detention and Sam's activist stuff. Tucker thought of these afternoons as their 'alone time.' Otherwise, they were, well, not quite joined at the hip, but...

It was a near thing.

Tucker wouldn't have minded if Sam and Danny did join the archery club (or the computer club, for that matter), but it could be nice to have some time away, so that he could sort through certain thoughts. Thoughts such as: What was happening to him?

Because he really had thought that he had thrown off the influence of Duulaman's ghost, or that weird staff, or Hotep-Ra, or whatever had been going on that week, and yet, here he was, over a week later, hallucinating himself wearing Egyptian makeup, of all things.

He squared himself on the edge of the archer range and checked that it was clear. The other members of the club were working with the closer targets. Tucker thought that he would challenge himself today. He pulled back.

The thing was, at the end, when Hotep-Ra was gone, and Tucker was back to himself, he had been able to use that staff, the Scarab Scepter, to return everything to normal. He wasn't sure he should have been. He had no idea how that staff worked. Yet, in that moment he had.

And he did look an awful lot like Duulaman.

"You're doing great today, Foley!" called the club advisor from across the range. "Are you sure you don't want to shoot competitively?"

Tucker rolled his eyes. "I'm sure!" Then he caught sight of his arrows. They were all clustered neatly in the bullseye.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Tucker was good. He wasn't, quite, that good. Not at this range. But, in the moment, as he was shooting, he hadn't registered anything as being unusual. He remembered looking at them as he was aiming, so he wasn't just spacing out.

Archery was practiced in Ancient Egypt, wasn't it? He remembered seeing murals. He remembered the sun shining down on his shoulders as his entourage...

... What?

Tucker frowned. This wasn't going to go away, was it?

The computer screen cast Tucker's dark bedroom in a blue light. The only sound was him typing away at the keyboard.

Tucker didn't want to worry Danny and Sam. Mostly Danny. He had enough to deal with without worrying that his best friends was going to go crazy and try to kill him. Again.

He cringed. He did not have the best track record when it came to that particular thing. Then again, neither did anyone else close to Danny.

Hence not wanting to worry Danny.

Maybe he should talk to Sam, though. Out of everyone he knew, she was the only one who'd been mind controlled in a similar way. She hadn't said anything about having hallucinations post-Undergrowth, but, then, she wouldn't, would she? Sam had the same reasons Tucker did for keeping quiet.

Tucker made a face at himself. It was probably a sign that their relationship wasn't as healthy as it looked, keeping secrets from each other like this. But... he knew Danny kept secrets. They all did, and they were fine with it. So, Tucker or Sam keeping secrets was fine, too.

As long as it didn't turn into murder attempts. That was not fine.

Tucker slipped his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes and returned his attention to the screen. He was researching Duulaman, and had dived deep into the academic side of the internet. He'd come up against a dozen paywalls and dismissed them all with a few keystrokes.

Duulaman. Pharaoh of Kemet. A descendant of Hatshepsut and an ancestor of Tutankhamen. He had been a fairly progressive member of his family, restoring several of Hatshepsut's monuments after other of his ancestors had done their best to destroy them, making laws concerning the treatment of slaves and foreigners, and forging peace with neighboring countries. He had been well-liked, his popularity having been attested to even years after his death by inscriptions in other graves, praying that their inhabitants would find themselves under Duulaman's rule in the afterlife. He'd been famed for his athletic and magical abilities.

Sadly, academic publications were as skeptical about magic as they were about ghosts.

Tucker rubbed his eyes again.

Duulaman had been murdered. According to his brother, the pharaoh who had succeeded him, the deed had been done by an advisor whose name and image had been systematically removed from everything.

Probably Hotep-Ra. That fit with the ghost's whole thing, and the fact that Tucker couldn't find any information on him.

After another relatively fruitless hour, Tucker pried himself from the chair and went to bed.

He turned the fine silver mirror over in his hands, contemplating its polished surface. It had been a 'gift' from a Mitanni noble, and had carried a brutal curse into the heart of Kemet, but the curse was loose, now, wound around his very soul, and the mirror itself was merely a harmless, empty vessel.

One that Duulaman could learn from. He ran his fingers along the strange symbols scored on the outer edge of the mirror.

If his advisors would stop arguing for just a moment.

"We must attack at once!" said Hotep-Ra. "This insult against the person of god cannot be borne!"

"But it is harvest season," objected another. "We cannot afford to take the men from the fields. There would be famine!"

"Hotep-Ra," said Duulaman, softly, "brother of my heart, it was not even their king that sent this. Would you raze their whole kingdom and force a tragedy on their own for the sake of one man?"

"One who attacked you and our kingdom through dread magics?" asked Hotep-Ra. "Yes, my pharaoh."

"Then perhaps it is good that I am pharaoh. I know that you love me, but I have no desire for war. Even so," he said, raising his voice, "I have sent certain persons to correct the problem, and my brother has borne a letter to the Mitanni king, explaining the situation. It is true that this assault on our kingdom cannot be suffered quietly."

The advisors took that in. Duulaman turned to the Priestess of Mut and tried not to squint. She was just far enough away that he had trouble seeing her. Sadly, none of his magic had yet succeeded in giving him the eyes of a hawk, but he yet had hope.

"What say you about the curse?" he asked.

Duulaman was a powerful priest in his own right, favored by the gods and his ancestors, but he valued other opinions. Being the focus of the curse might have blinded him to certain aspects of its function.

The priestess bowed. "It is as we first feared," she said. "It binds your great soul, so that you may not pass into the green fields of the Duat when it is your time to do so. Instead, it decrees that, when you die, you must suffer to be born into a common line, far from your rightfully exalted place."

"And for Kemet? For my line?"

The priestess, an experienced woman who had served Duulaman's father, actually trembled. "That, whence your second life reaches the age of reason, you shall understand, and you shall see the last of the Pharaohs come to ruin, all our temples abandoned save for nonbelievers, your descendants crushed or cast into obscurity, your name stricken from history, and your tomb robbed by foreigners. She dooms you to watch the slow decay."

This was about what Duulaman had expected. He closed his eyes, pained. If only he had been more careful opening the box... but he had assumed it to be from Hotep-Ra, or his brother, or one of his sisters, for it had been among other, like gifts.

"I see. Fear not. I will take care of it. Kemet shall not fall within our lifetimes."

The relief in the room was palpable. They had faith in Duulaman's power.

Alas, that it might come to naught.

Tucker woke with a jolt, hand on his heart. He looked around wildly, relaxing when he saw the acid green numbers on his bedside clock. He was here. He was now. He was Tucker.

And it wasn't even time to wake up for school.

Wait. It was Saturday. He wouldn't have to wake up for school anyway.

Alright. So he might have, thousands of years ago, been Duulaman. Fine. He laid back down, breathing through his nose. He dealt with ghosts on a daily basis. He could deal with reincarnation. This was cool. This was fine.

He was definitely having a crisis.

Crap.

He fumbled for his phone, and hit the speed dial for Danny. Danny never slept anyway, it was fine. Besides, stuff like this was why Sam had bought him a phone (a Nokia brick, because ghost fights) in the first place. Dead people were Danny's specialty.

"What's wrong?" asked Danny, far too alert for the small hours of the morning.

"I think I might be Duulaman," said Tucker.

There was a beat of silence. "Yeah?" said Danny, confused.

"Like, I'm a reincarnation of him or something."

"Yeah?" repeated Danny. "I thought that was the whole reason you could use that staff and stuff?"

"Wait," said Tucker. "You mean, you knew all along, and you didn't say anything?"

"I thought you knew and didn't want to talk about it," said Danny. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just having weird Kem- Egypt flashbacks. I'm fine."

"Do you want me to fly over?"

"No," said Tucker. "I just- Am I still me?"

"I mean, you're you to begin with. You are yourself. That's like, definitional."

"Yeah, but..." Tucker gestured at his ceiling with his hand, even though Danny couldn't see it.

Danny chuckled. "You're still you, Tucker. I know Sam and I aren't always super sensitive, but... We do pay attention, you know? We'd know if you were being taken over. Maybe not right away, but..."

"Thanks," said Tucker, with only a little bit of sarcasm.

"Hey, I like to think we've all come a long way since the thing with Poindexter."

"True," said Tucker. "Hey, thanks, man. I'm sorry about waking you up."

"Don't worry," said Danny. "You didn't. I'd just caught Boxy when you called."

"Oh. That's good. Get some sleep, Danny."

"You, too. Tell me what Egypt was like tomorrow, okay?"

"Kemet," corrected Tucker. "And, yeah. Bye."

"What are you doing?" demanded Hotep-Ra.

Duulaman turned away from his ritual tools and fixed an un-amused eye on Hotep-Ra. "I may have made it your place to question me," said Duulaman, "but I thought I had made my decision on this matter clear. The method your faction proposed is too uncertain, too risky."

"I have made a mirror," said Hotep-Ra, "one that will recognize your soul in whatever body it should take. With it, we could search all of Kemet for you when you are reborn and then lay you properly to rest, as you deserve, before the curse comes to fruition."

"And if I should be born in lands beyond?"

"Then we should look there, too!"

"Starting all sorts of wars on the way, no doubt. Tell me, brother of my heart, what is the difference between the young man who falls in war, whose body is left for the crows, and the old man who is buried peacefully, and who will find joy in the Duat?"

"The devotion of his family!" responded Hotep-Ra instantly.

Duulaman shook his head sadly and looked back to his tools, touching them softly. He had already completed the ritual that would force the curse to carry his soul thousands of years into the future. By the time his next life reached the age of reason, there would be no pharaohs for the curse to affect. And if there were? Well, it would have been a good long time, and the curse would have weakened significantly. Perhaps even to the point of unraveling.

"No, Hotep-Ra. The difference between a tragedy and a happy ending is time. All kingdoms fall. All civilizations fade."

"Not this one."

"Even this one. The only questions are when and how."

"No," said Hotep-Ra. "No. Never!"

Duulaman felt, rather than heard, the scrape of metal against oiled leather and reached for his staff, which lay across from him, on the other side of his ritual. He was too late. He had trusted Hotep-Ra too much, let him get too close, and he felt the bronze knife slide between his ribs. His eyelids fluttered as his hands groped up his chest.

He was dying.

"I will see you, in the next life," he whispered, blood bubbling in his throat.

And then he was gone.

It was bright when Tucker woke again.

He felt... oddly calm. It was nice to know that he had succeeded in out-waiting the fall of Pharaonic Egypt, even though the fact that it was gone made his heart shiver.

Well. He pulled his phone over, and texted Danny. I know what it feels like to die, now, he said. Maybe they'd be able to bond over it. Or Danny would give him some coping pointers, since Tucker was pretty sure he'd have at least one breakdown over this. Either one would be good.

He stood up and walked to the bathroom. His reflection stared back, completely normal. No weird eye shadow, no Egyptian clothes, just Tucker and his pajamas.

Behind it stretched miles and miles of sand.

#danny phantom #dannymay #dannymay 2020 #tucker centric #day 3

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elldell1204 · 4 years

Text

I Sing for Love - Jay Halstead x Reader

fofisstilinski: hi, i would like a jay halstead with prompts 3 - “Can you just shut your mouth?”, 60 - “But I want to hear you sing.”, 63 - “I think I love you.”, please, thanks

Thank you for this! ❤️ I didn’t reblog @darkdisrepair ’s prompt list to be getting them, but they kindly let me use them so definitely go and check them out. Their Upstead fics are like no other! They’re genuinely amazing. 😘 Anyways, I really loved writing this one. I did alter some of the prompts slightly to make them work in the sentence, by the way. Also, I’ve been playing The Last of Us II recently, and this fic was partially inspired by the scene of Ellie playing the guitar in the music store. I’ve linked it down below so you can listen to the song I mean, as it’s really beautiful and thought it’d fit nicely here. I hope you like it, even if it is a little long-winded. Enjoy! 😊

Warning: couple swear words, may make you cry :( sorry!

wc - 2,783

Click here for the song

Admiring the pile of untouched boxes in the otherwise empty corner of the living room, you took a moment to finally let it sink in. ‘I’m moving in with Jay.’ It was a seemingly simple event to anyone else, but for you and your best friend, it was a huge step forward in your hopefully long life together. Because you knew this was it. You had shared your heart, your mind, your soul with Jay Halstead, a feat you had never even come close to achieving with any of your other boyfriends, not that there were many.

It was scarily similar how alike you two were, yet at the same time, you were totally different. You were both quick-witted, divergent thinkers, aware of the true horrors of the world but in different lights. He had first discovered that when his father gave him ‘tough love’ as a child, a trait he vowed never to adopt. Next was when he saw the travesty that is war; tragic losses of friends as their lives are ripped from your hands by beings you could swear weren’t human, the methods of finding information that haunted you in the form of your worst nightmares, the survivor’s guilt that plagued your everyday when you came home to the widows of the men you fought so hard to save, but unfortunately it wasn’t hard enough. It was a miracle he was able to pull himself out of that hole, and still, he hasn’t fully. But with your help and Hailey’s, he’s surviving. Knowing him now, you weren’t surprised that Jay went into the police force after his active duty. Some say that Chicago is a warzone in itself, but he knew that he could endure this one. After all, the heart he possesses wouldn’t have allowed him to do something with his life that didn’t help others. One of the many reasons why you loved him. Every day he sees the scum of the world, but when he manages to help someone, it reminds him of why he does it. And he knows when he comes home to you, he’s safe. You both know that. Because you have each other, and you protect one another, physically and mentally.

You weren’t on the front lines like Jay was, but still you saw the suffering and agony the world withstands. You were an ASA, a dream you had since you were a child. From the age of three you were better at arguments than any other child on the playground, something your dad used to tease you lovingly for your whole childhood. He told you to “chase your dreams until they become reality, because you would never forgive yourself if you didn’t”. You had asked him why he seemed so forlorn when he said the last part, sat on your bed one night after he’d read you your story. That was when he told you about his dream of becoming a singer, an almost unachievable dream, but one he worked so damn hard for. You asked what happened, and he relayed how his mother became troubled with drinking and drugs after his father left, and so he, being the eldest child, had to work to provide for the family, and so his dream stayed a dream.

You remember saying “But, Daddy, you can still be a singer. I can be your audience.”, and you can still see the smile that spread across his face at your words, the expression being etched into your memory ever since. That was the night he decided to make you his protégé, teaching you how to play guitar and singing with you. This went on for years, and by the time you were thirteen, you were both playing along together, serenading and smiling without a care in the world.

But it wasn’t long before your world crashed down around you. You were seventeen when you got the call, walking out of school one afternoon, with the biggest of your problems being a boring geography assignment, when your mother told you to get to the hospital instead of going straight home. She wouldn’t – more like couldn’t – tell you why over the phone, and as you rushed to Lakeshore Memorial Hospital, your mind was racing with possibilities.

Your dad had collapsed at work, luckily not severely injured, but after running further tests, it was discovered he had stage four lung cancer, and there was nothing they could do. You barely left the hospital the next few weeks, sitting by your father’s bedside as he drifted in and out of consciousness, coughing one minute and throwing up the next. He managed to stay awake a few hours a day at the start, holding your hand and telling you he loved you, retelling stories from his childhood and yours. But when his lungs got weaker, he asked you to bring in your guitar and sing to him, seeing as he couldn’t do it himself. “Music makes me almost as happy as you do, my darling.”

So you did. You sang until your voice was hoarse, until you fell asleep mid-verse, until your fingers and thumbs were blistered. Your mother sat like a mannequin in the chair on the other side of his bed, holding his hand, treasuring the feeling. The feeling of the man you lost too soon.

“If I ever were to lose you, I’d surely lose myself. Everything that I’ve found here, I’ve not found by myself.” You sang, tears pricking at your eyes. You looked up, gazing over at the weak form of your father. If it wasn’t for the machine hooked up to him that was beeping quietly but steadily, you may have thought he was already gone. He was that debilitated, with his limbs laid straight, outlining his body, his eyes closed and his lips, that seemed paler than ever before, the only landmark in the vast ocean of ghastly white that had replaced the face once full of life and laughter.

You laid your guitar back in its case before moving closer to him, intertwining your fingers with his, scared at how cold they felt already. You looked over at your mother. She was silently crying, her eyes rimmed red and streaks traced down her cheeks, and she nodded her head at you.

You sniffed, letting the tears that stung your eyes fall as you stood, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your father’s forehead.

“It’s okay, Dad.” You whispered. “You can go now. Go be at peace. I love you.”

And after a deep breath, you turned to the doctor that stood at the doorway. “You can take him off life support now.”

You let the tear flow down your cheek for a few seconds before you wiped it away. You shook your head, trying to get rid of the sadness. You had a job to do.

You had officially moved in with Jay a few weeks ago now, but due to your busy lives, the only things you had unpacked were the bare necessities, most of which were already dotted around your shared apartment.

It still sounds weird to refer to Jay’s apartment as your own. You practically lived here before he asked you, anyways, seeing as yours was a lot smaller, in a worse neighbourhood and had a lot of noisy neighbours. It was practically the complete opposite to Jay’s, his being a two-bedroom condo with sweet Mrs Elizabeth Bailey next door who you often helped out by carrying her groceries or fixing a dodgy cupboard door. She was like a great aunt to you both, inviting you round for dinner or baking you some cookies every so often. Many a time had she told you about her late husband, Tommy, and their stories from their lives together. Both you and Jay loved to hear the tales of their adventures, and you were saddened that you never got to meet him. One night, you sat close together on Lizzie’s couch, Jay’s arm wrapped around your waist as you leant into his chest, admiring a photo album she had passed to you as she recalled the memories linked to each image from her armchair. She had surprised you when she suddenly said, “You two remind me of Tommy and I; hopelessly in love.” You looked up and smiled at her, a twinkle in her eye as she remembered her husband, and you felt Jay pull you just that little bit closer.

It was also that night, when you both returned to his apartment, that he asked you to move in with him.

And now you were rummaging through your stuff that was packed into boxes, pretty much half of your life stuffed neatly into them. Looking through each one, you realised how little each of the material items mattered to you now that you knew Jay. Apart from the photos of friends and family, the odd keepsake you’d collected over the years and meaningful gifts from various birthdays and Christmases, it was all just junk. At least you thought so until you spotted your guitar case tucked away into the corner.

You took a deep breath before reaching over and picking it up, getting to your feet as you carried the case over to the couch. You sat down slowly, your heartrate picking up even with your meticulously controlled breaths. You gently laid it down in front of you and opened it, lifting the lid like it would shatter if you went too fast. You hadn’t opened it in years, not since you closed it at the hospital on that horrible day. A droplet landed on the smooth mahogany, one that came from your eyes. It took you a while before you wiped it away, unsure if you were strong enough to touch the instrument without breaking down before it.

‘Pull yourself together, Y/N, it’s been ten years’ you thought. And despite telling yourself that you had mostly moved past your father’s death, trying to see the light from it instead of the darkness, you still had moments where you were majorly overcome with grief. But you knew you could do this. You had to. He would have wanted you to.

So you picked it up. You examined it, not that there would be any new marks or scratches with it being shut off from the world for a decade, and then laid it on your knee like a baby, your hands assuming the positions that were like second nature to you, like another language. And you strummed the strings. They were horribly out of tune, so you let out a sodden laugh at the sound before tuning it to perfection.

Now all you had to do was play. You had time before Jay got home, so that wasn’t stopping you. What was is the thought of playing the guitar your dad bought you, the guitar your dad taught you to play, the guitar that you played to him and with him as you sang together. You knew he wouldn’t want you to stop playing, but you couldn’t bear the thought of playing it without him there to listen.

So you closed your eyes and imagined he was there with you, listening and smiling, as your fingers found the first chord on the neck of the guitar and you played it. Then the next. And the next. And you were doing it. You were playing the song. Now all you had to do was sing. You saw your dad’s smile and you knew you could do it.

“If I ever were to lose you,

I’d surely lose myself.”

Then suddenly there was a loud smash of glass on the floor behind you and you jumped, spinning around violently to see Jay stood in the doorway over some shattered glass.

“What the hell, Jay?! You scared the shit outta me.” You shouted, a hand over your racing heart.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, I just wanted to hear you sing.” He smiled sympathetically, walking a little further in to lean against the chest of drawers in the corner.

“Shut your mouth. Like hell you did. You just wanted something to make fun of me for.” You huffed, frowning, as you moved to put away your guitar. You could feel the unjustifiable anger bubbling deep inside you at him hearing you, allowing yourself to be so careless as to let him in the first place.

“What? No, of course not. It was really beautiful, and I’ve never really heard you sing before.” He said cautiously as he came to sit beside you on the couch, taking a hold of your hands to stop you putting away the guitar. He could tell you were annoyed, and though he wasn’t sure why, he knew to tread carefully, as he seemingly had hit a nerve.

“Yeah, well, I don’t do it around other people, at least not since I was younger.” You said softly, feeling guilty for shouting at him.

“With your dad?” He asked. He knew all about the story with your father, minus the part where you sang to him before he died. You couldn’t bring yourself to relive that if you didn’t have to. But now you did have to. You couldn’t let Jay be in the dark about it any longer. All he had ever been was supporting and caring to you, and you felt ready to let him in fully.

“Yeah.” You whispered, not trusting your voice. You shuffled in closer to him, and he let go of your left hand to wrap his arm around you, and then you took a deep breath. “I, erm, haven’t played my guitar since the day my dad died. He asked me to play it to him whilst he was in hospital, because he couldn’t do it himself like before he got sick. And on his last day, I played him that song you just heard; it was one of his favourites. Not that he was conscious. He’d been knocked out cold with meds for days by then. After, we said goodbye and took him off life support. And I could never bring myself to play my guitar since.”

Silence followed, allowing him to process and you to recover. He kept rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, showing you support without using his words.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “But wouldn’t he want you to keep playing? For him?”

“He would, that’s why I’m trying now.” You pulled away slightly and smiled at him. “He’d have liked you, y’know? He really would.”

“I’m sure the feeling would be mutual.” He returned your smile.

Every day he reminded you of the wonderful man he is; caring, funny, kind, smart. But he also showed you he loved you, that he trusted you. And so you did the same.

You sat up, retrieving your guitar and laying it on your lap once more. You glanced over to him and smiled.

“This was also one of his favourites.” You told him, and then you started to play.

“Talking away,

I don’t know what,

I’m to say I’ll say it anyway,

Todays another day to find you.

Shying away,

I’ll be coming for your love okay.

Take on me,

Take me on.

I’ll be gone,

In a day or two.

Needless to say,

I'm odds and ends,

But I'll be stumbling away,

Slowly learning that life is okay.

Say after me,

It's no better to be safe than sorry.

Take on me,

Take me on,

I'll be gone,

In a day or two,

In a day or two.”

When you finished, you sighed deeply, a half-sad, half-loving smile spreading across your face as you turned towards Jay. He was sat in an awestruck daze, smiling back at you as you put your guitar away in the case. When you sat back up, he shifted closer to you, gently taking your cheek in his palm as he gazed into your eyes, running his thumb softly over your cheek.

“I think I love you.” He murmurs.

You scoff jokingly and roll your eyes teasingly. “Well, you better bloody love me, Halstead. We’ve moved in together.”

He chuckles, and you can feel his warm breath brush over your cheek.

“I do. I love you. And I’ll keep saying it, even when you’re sick of hearing it.”

“I’ll never get sick of hearing it, Jay, because I love you too.” You whispered, smirking as you leaned in to kiss him. He met your lips with his, kissing you lovingly, assuring that you knew you were it for him, as he was it for you.

#jay halstead #jay halstead imagines #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead fluff #Chicago PD #chicago pd imagine #jay halstead fanfiction

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wizardofrozz · 3 years

Text

The Perfect Pair

Warnings: swearing, mention of past trauma, mention of child abuse, mention of past sexual assult

Pairing: Loki x OFC

A/N: I’m sorry it took me a few days to post the next chapter, but I’ll be back to updating regularly! *Memories and character thoughts are in italics*

Please read with caution! There is mention of sensitive and triggering topics in this chapter, beware please.

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Chapter 5: Welcome to Asgard

(Violet)

I groaned, rolling on my side; the sudden weightlessness made me fumble to catch myself. I blinked a few times, trying to figure out where I was; I stared down at the painfully white floor I was kneeling on. My head shot up, trying to make sense of my surroundings; an odd orange, translucent barrier surrounded three of the four walls to the room. What the fuck? I got to my feet and realized there were creatures in similar rooms all around me; I wandered closer to the barrier but knew better than to touch it. I glanced to my right and realized that there was another figure about six rooms away from me; it finally occurred to me I was in prison, but I had no idea where. “Hello?” I called to the figure at the end of the row of cells. They stayed lying on their back as if they didn’t hear me; I pushed my conscious away, traveling through the barriers between us. As I got closer, the creature's features got clearer; dark hair, pale skin, high cheek bones. “Loki?” I said louder this time; he moved slightly. He shifted on the bed he was lying on, his eyes finally starting to open; I expected to see surprise, but he only sighed, closing his eyes again. “Loki,” I moved closer, his head snapping in my direction. “Vi?” he whispered, scrambling to his feet. “Please tell me you aren’t really here too,” he sighed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Look to your left, dear,” I huffed. I watched his head turn, his eyes falling on my body before letting out a deep sigh and looking back at my projection again. “What the hell happened, Loki? Where are we?” I asked anxiously. “Welcome back to Asgard, little one. We’re in the prison near the castle,” Loki scrubbed his face with both hands. “What happened?” I growled, racking my brain for memories. “I don’t know exactly; I remember trying to get the tesseract back but not much else. I remember the Avengers, so I’m assuming my brother wanted us locked up here,” he rolled his eyes, wandering towards his small bed again. “Great, so we’re stuck here,” I threw my arms up, groaning. “Trapped is a better word. I’m surprised you could project yourself here. I guess they only block my magic so strongly. I can only use it in my cell. Yours is just different enough so you can do some things outside the barrier,” Loki tried to smile, but it just left a thin line on his face. “Fuck, so now what,” I asked, my shoulders sagging. “Get comfortable, darling,” Loki breathed.

///

Time seemed to pass differently underground, but maybe that had to do with having no sunlight and no idea how many days had passed. I spent most of the time sending my projection to Loki’s cell, where we would talk, he’d read to me, or we’d just sit there, silent. Loki and I shared much more with each other as the time passed, bonding more than we had in the almost year we were running around together. *** Loki and I sat against the wall, shoulders touching as Loki stared into space and I traced the pattern of the barrier surrounding us with my eyes. “You never did tell me what you meant on the roof in New York?” Loki suddenly said. “What?” Loki’s sudden question threw me off; I racked my brain as I tried to remember what I said that day, but everything blurs together. “When your father was dropped on the roof, you said something that deeply bothered me. You brushed it off and told me you’d fill me in later. Will you tell me now?” Loki whispered, shifting his gaze towards me. The mention of my father made me realize what Loki was referring to; I shifted uncomfortably next to him, trying to swallow around the lump forming in my throat. “Yes, that. Well, what more should I say?” I huffed, curling in on myself. I risked a glance up at Loki, swallowing a gasp; the openness that radiated off Loki was jarring. I’ve never seen him look as open and accepting as he did in that moment. “Uh, well. My mother was captured and assaulted during an attack on Jotunheim; when she was rescued and brought home, she was with child. Me. My father assured her that he would be there no matter what, and he was, but he didn’t love me like his own. He was disgusted by me, but that didn’t stop him from doing the things he did.” I pulled my knees against my chest, desperately trying to ward off the flashbacks of my childhood. “You mean, he….” Loki trailed off, unsure of what words to use. “Yes. When I said preference, I assume you understand what I meant by that.” “I-I can’t believe…who would do something like that?” Loki’s voice was harsh; I could feel the anger and tension that filled the room. “As I said in New York, he wasn’t the only one I knew of. It was like they had a secret group,” I mumbled, resting my chin on my knees. I fought back the bile that stung at the back of my throat as I focused my eyes on the floor. “Disgusting. Foul pigs. I can’t even think of a word to describe that,” Loki spat, venom dripping from every word. “I’m aware, but it’s over now. I watched his heart pump the last bit of life out of him on that roof. If anything, that was too peaceful for him,” I laughed dryly. “I wish you would have told me before….” Loki trailed off again, nervously picking at his nails. “Why would that have changed how you treated me?” I snapped, turning to look at him. Pain and guilt flashed across Loki’s face, his eyes drifting shut for a moment; he puffed out a quick breath before looking at me again. “…Yes. Physical injuries heal, but psychological wounds run deep; they latch on and never let go. I don’t strive to cause you psychological pain. I don’t want to hurt you that deeply.” I wanted to scoff at his admission, but I realized he honestly didn’t want to cause me that kind of pain; all the injuries and pain Loki may have caused me has never been an attack on my mind. “I wanted to say you’re lying, but I can’t think of a time that you said anything to poke those wounds,” I muttered, hoping to find something in my memories that contradicted my statement. “Everyone has their demons, including me. I don’t like my demons poked; therefore, I avoid doing it to others.” Loki smiled softly when I turned my face towards him; sometimes, I wondered what it would be like if we met differently. Would we have traditionally fallen in love instead of the fucked up emotional situation we constantly battle? *** “We haven’t fought in a while.” Loki's sudden statement yanked me out of the memory. “I know, but it’s hard to fight when I feel so helpless,” I whispered. “I know. I can’t say I dislike you as much anymore,” Loki laughed dryly. “I’ve grown to enjoy your company,” I smiled tightly at him, realizing how tired I was. “Darling, you look tired. You’ve been in here a while. Go get some rest,” Loki urged. “Goodnight, dear,” I smiled sadly at Loki, snapping my consciousness back to my body, collapsing on my bed. /// When I woke up again, I stared at the ceiling, wishing there was a way out of this shithole. I took a deep breath and pushing my consciousness towards Loki, I found him sitting on the floor, reading a book, but something seemed off. “Loki?” I whispered. “Hello darling,” he said, keeping his eyes on the book. I felt something odd in the air, realizing Loki was using magic to hide something; I closed my eyes and focused as hard as I could. I found the crack in his shield; I blew out the magic filling the room. “No!” Loki screamed. I opened my eyes and saw the true horror he was hiding; his cell was trashed, everything was thrown in different directions, broken. It looked like he went berserk, smashing everything in sight; my eyes landed on where he was sitting, the clean, put-together image of Loki was shattered. He was sitting against the wall, his clothes disheveled and torn, his hair was wild, and his eyes were bloodshot, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “Oh Loki, what happened?” I whispered, kneeling next to him. He had a faraway look in his eyes as if he didn’t even hear me speaking. “Honey,” I tried again. “My mother’s gone,” he said so quietly I almost didn’t hear it. “No, she can’t be,” I cried. “She can’t be gone,” I mumbled, tears filling my eyes. “Dark elves,” Loki muttered, still staring at nothing. “That’s not possible. They were locked away years ago,” I stated. “Thor’s human found the Aether. It woke them again. My mother’s gone because of a fucking human,” Loki finished with a growl. “Don’t blame her,” I snapped at him; he finally looked at me. “I do,” he said, anger swirling in his eyes. “It’s not her fault, and you know it. Your mother would’ve done the same thing if she was an Asgardian woman. Don’t blame a human for what the Dark Elves did.” I reached out to him, my hand fazing through his. “I can’t even find comfort in you,” his voice was strained, fighting off tears. I plopped down next to Loki; we sat for hours, crying, stewing in the overwhelming sorrow. “Brother?” Thor’s voice broke through the crushing anguish. “What happened? How are you in here?” his gaze falling on me. “I’m not, at least not really,” my voice cracked slightly. “Ah, brother, come to watch my descent into madness?” Loki let out a dry laugh. “I came to ask you for help,” Thor shifted his weight nervously. “You must be really desperate to come to me, brother,” Loki spat at Thor. “Loki, behave, hear him out,” I warned, shooting him a glare. “I need a passage away from Asgard to draw Malekith out before he causes more damage here. I need your help,” Thor pleaded. “What could you possibly have that would make me want to help?” Loki raised an eyebrow at him. “Can’t you just do it because Mother would want you to?” Thor shot back. “Classy brother, use our mother against me,” Loki’s expression was dark, angry. “If you do this, you won’t have to come back here,” Thor took a step closer. Loki looked right at his brother before locking eyes with me; I knew he wouldn’t leave if that were the offer. “No deal, brother,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “I won’t leave you to rot here,” he was talking to me now. “Loki, I need your help. I will try to release her when you hold up your end of the deal. Please take the deal,” Thor pleaded with his brother. “He’ll do it,” I said, keeping Loki’s gazed locked on mine. “You don’t speak for me,” he growled at me. “I don’t care. You’re not giving up on getting out of here because of me,” I shot him a look before turning to Thor. “He’ll do it. I hope you’d consider letting me out because he’s helping. I won’t let the fact that he cares for me get in the way of him working towards being a better person,” I sighed, waiting for Thor’s response. “Bold of you think he loves you,” Thor raised an eyebrow at me. “I never claimed he loves me. That doesn’t mean I want him to be stuck here,” I muttered flatly. “I care for him, and he cares for me,” I sighed. “And there’s a difference between the two?” Thor looked back and forth between us. “Yes,” I spat. “Now, just take his help,” I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll be back for you brother,” Thor looked around me before walking off. “Is there a difference?” Loki mumbled. “I think so. I still have the urge to hurt you at times,” I laughed hoarsely. “Oddly enough, I do too,” he laughed; it sounded almost normal again. “Maybe that’s how we love,” I whispered. “I’d still kill you, but I’d prefer not to,” I chuckled. “The only person that I cared about as much as you was my mother. I loved her very much. So maybe I do love you,” Loki whispered, staring at his hands. “I’ve wondered the same thing. Whatever we feel isn’t like everyone else,” I whispered. “I love you, darling, as much as I’m capable of,” he whispered, reaching for my hand. “I love you too, my dear, as much as I’m capable of,” I whispered back, my hand fazing through his, a sob bubbling out of my chest. I plopped down on the floor next to him, trying to hold back tears. “Darling, you look tired already,” Loki’s head lolled towards me. “I am; breaking your magic was hard,” I whispered, feeling myself struggling to stay. “Go, it’s okay,” Loki reassured before I slipped out of his cell.

____________________________________________________________

Series Masterlist | Chapter 6

Taglist:

@criminalyetminimal @kendallthesimp @marvelfansworld

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imnotwolverine · 3 years

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A Devil’s Duet - Part 2

August Walker x OC Anna

Author’s note: Readers or not, I’m just going ahead with this -- Tumblr are you eating my posts again?! What’s happening? :(

Word count: 1.527

Warnings: unprotected smutty smut, stalking, strong language, references to graphic deaths

< Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 >

.AIR

“I flew up high, but the sun burned too hot. Too strong. And now my wings are but memories as I drift in an endless ocean.”

.AIR - I miss you

‘For international calls, please press *beep beep beep* [..] Cannot answer your call right now. Please leave a message after the..’

Sighing quietly Anna looked out through the frozen glass of the phone booth, dark silhouettes passing by in the gloomy New York night.

*beeeep* Sounded the shrill phone line.

'Mama, you’re not answering my phone calls,’ She hesitated. ‘I miss you and I’ll try to call you later, okay?’

With a heavy click she put the phone back, her arms wrapping around her winter jacket as she stumbled back out in the restless nightlife.

Not far off a man leaned into a grey sedan, most of his acne-damaged skin hiding beneath a fedora.

An embrace was shared, his wet lips brushing over her cheek like a snail’s trace. It was just for show, his face lighting up as he started some animated chatter, the two of them getting in the car.

‘Miss me?’ He pulled his door closed and looked at Anna, her eyes giving him an unamused glare before she quickly put a smile back on her angelic cheeks - aware that some might be watching.

‘You? Ha! Just drive already, will you? I have somewhere I need to be.’

.AIR - I forget you not

She had about three cocktails too many. She knew. But she was willing to suffer for it in the morning.

The bar she was leaning into was bustling with life, fellow clubbers pushing her left and right to get their orders in, her shoulders solid as marble as she twirled her straw in her mojito, uncaring about the heavy beat that rung in her ears.

‘Hello angel.’ Yet another jerk tried a move, and she was this close to beat him into a childless future, before she turned around and found the devil himself looking back at her. At least, it probably was.

Staring up at him, she decided it should be illegal to look this handsome with a moustache, the combination of his deep voice with the smooth curls and face hair leaving little doubt that this must indeed be the one she was looking for. The coincidence.

‘Hello devil.’

He smirked and eyed the dance floor. ‘No dancing tonight?’

She shrugged, then hinted at her feet; one bandaged in walking plaster.

‘You’d have to carry me.’

Another jerkish idiot pushed Anna into her ribs and before she could serve him the long impending groin-kick instead, she was hoisted up, her drink now abandoned on the busy bar.

‘HEY. FUCK.’ That heavy Russian lilt was back on her sharp tongue, but it was quickly silenced as this devil took whatever he pleased, hands groping at her bum as he placed the two of them in the middle of the dancing crowd, making them disappear from the world like dust in the desert.

‘Great idea, angel.’ The music of his voice teased and she was quick to recuperate, deciding that she might as well indulge a little more, her hands tugging aggressively at his blouse.

‘Is that how you dance?’

Their eyes shared a look and Anna licked her lips - him being here made everything so much easier. ‘No, this is.’ She whispered into his ear, climbing onto his hip as she twirled her groin into his.

And again he eagerly took from her gifts, her dress skirting up and his flies zipping down, the two finding a solid rhythm of lip-locks and hip-rocks. Uncaring of the consequences of their little escapade.

For a moment Anna flew again, her sorrows forgotten, her fingers marking him so he wouldn’t get away this time.

.AIR - I remember

‘How old are you?’ The solemn man settled on the metal chair before her, blue TL-light buzzing in the dense air of the empty grey room.

‘Fourteen.’ She bit, looking straight into his dead-pale eyes.

‘Ha.’ He settled back and eyed the files before them on the metal desk, crimson red spluttered over the corpse of one malicious ballet teacher, child pornography scattered around him like the wings of an angel.

‘A little young to go to the Gulag, no?’

Their eyes met as the man closed the folder before him.

‘I have a proposition for you, little girl.’

.AIR - I’ll take your breath away

The cigarette burned ash between his lips as he studied the crying figure near the fountain. Red hair, blue eyes. Foot in plaster. Her. He didn’t even know her name.

What are you doing there angel? He flicked the falling ash onto the cold pavement and licked his lips, his feet hesitating to get near when another person stepped out of the theatre, chubby cheeks soon laying eyes on the crying woman, too.

The two knew each other, apparently, his snaky fingers wrapping around her shoulder as he comforted the weeping angel, some conversation being exchanged before they both got up, a car now arriving which they both slid into.

But before she joined the man, she looked up. At him. Straight at him, blue eyes sparkling with not tears but determination, making him choke on the smoke of his cigarette, the ashen tranquilliser suddenly too hot in his lungs.

'Fuck.’

.AIR - I spy with my little eye

‘I see.’ Two hands pushed a folder away. One in a library in Easter-Upper, one in a gloomy office building, CIA.

A response that two pairs of watching eyes thought strange. Was something the matter with their best agent’s ability to see this mission through? It was already taking far too long.

The acne-damaged face of Anna’s messenger frowned. ‘I spy with my little eye that something is up with you, little angel. Get yourself sorted.’

‘I’ll get it done.’ Two voices confirmed solemnly.

.AIR - I crave violence

‘It’s done.’ She settled back in the car seat as the man started to drive, the string of red lights before them slowing the car before they could get to any significant speed.

‘Almost done.’ He corrected, making her frown at him.

‘A deal’s a deal, Sergei.’

‘You’re not done angel.’ And with that he pressed his phone into her hands, gesturing her to look at the video that was ready to play, the small screen showcasing a slumped forward, hooded and bound figure, a hand moving into the image to pull it off, red curls springing free from the rough material.

Air escaped Anna’s quiet lips.

Mom.

‘It’s the work of some terrorist group called..the Apostles. American. We’ve got news your guy may be involved.’

‘The one I tracked?’

‘Mm.’ He pushed in the gas pedal. ‘If we finish this, we’ll avenge your mother’s death and free the world of the American poison once and for all.’ He clicked on his direction indicator and turned his head to make sure he could make a safe lane change.

Anna blinked, replaying the video beneath her fingertips again and again, that same American poison bubbling back up in her throat after her reckless behaviour last night. She could still feel the devil’s traces deep inside her, bleeding into her usually calm nerves. She could still smell him, taste him, feel him. Big and strong between her quivering thighs.

In that moment she had tasted the freedom that was so close. But now it was taken from her yet again. Her wings clipped short and her hands bound, it was now that same devil she had to take down, the contract drawn in her own mother’s blood.

.AIR - I think we should dance

The Parisian air was different. Both in the lungs and in the atmosphere, the winter evening much less cold and harsh in comparison to New York.

Anna had opted for a slightly more revealing dress to visit this club, a high slit showcasing her long dancing legs, two heels clicking beneath her feet.

She was glad to be rid of that obnoxious fake plaster, and even more glad that she no longer had to lie to her now ex-colleagues. What she did miss however, was dancing itself, her feet already moving to the dance floor before she had gotten her first drink, the well-dressed crowd bouncing on the smooth low grind of an electronic bass.

‘Hey.’ A man in his fourties clasped onto Anna’s shoulder, ‘Aren’t you Anna Karikova? New York Ballet? Ha! What a small world..’

Anna’s face froze over as realisation hit that her boss had been right: never attract too much attention to yourself. With a swift tug she tried to free herself from his hand, but he only held on tighter, immediate panic bubbling up in her gut when another man intervened, wedging himself in between the two of them.

‘I’m sorry..I eh..think you are mistaken. This my wife..and, she’s hardly a dancer.’

Two devil blue eyes looked back at Anna, her breath escaping her lips as the world indeed had become terribly small, the risk of a failing mission suddenly much too close for comfort.

‘Looks like we’re dancing again, angel.’ He purred, the sweat breaking clear on Anna’s back.

Shit.

#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill smut #mission impossible au #august walker x oc #august walker smut #a devil's duet #august walker fanfiction

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stones-x-bones · 3 years

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Dreamkeepers (Part 2) || Morgan and Bex

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @mor-beck-more-problems and @inbextween SUMMARY: Bex shows back up at Morgan’s, a little worse for wear. CONTENT: Domestic/Child abuse references, self harm references

Bex limped all the way to Morgan’s.

It wasn’t that long of a walk from the ferry, but the pain that burned in her knees-- and in her arms and her stomach and her face-- made it feel like she’d been at it for miles. Little glass shards still stuck in her palms, hurting everytime she forgot and clenched her fists. She kept licking her lip, tasting the warm blood that stuck to it each time the scab peeled off. Tears had traced clean trails down her cheeks through the blood smeared on them, and the one bag she’d managed to stuff full of things clicked against her side as she walked. She could already feel the bruised cut forming where she’d fallen on the stairs and smacked her head on the railing, but the cool air actually felt nice against it, despite it making her shiver. Her body ached to just sit and more tears prickled in her eyes. She didn’t bother wiping them away as she finally rounded up the driveway to Morgan and Deirdre’s. There was a minute of fear as she pulled herself up the porch and to the door-- what would Morgan think? What would she say? What if she turned her away? She stood there for what felt like hours, doubts and fears and angry voices rattling in her head. No one could ever love you, no one cares about you. Finally, fingers left a bloody smear across the doorbell as she pushed it and waited, vibrating in her own skin the entire time.

And when the door finally opened, Bex looked down at Morgan and in the smallest voice asked, “Can I...stay here again for a bit?”

Morgan hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Bex since she’d left. It was one thing to panic because you’d been in some wild dreamscape for a couple of weeks; it was another to panic again because you were afraid of going home to her parents. Only an anxiety over kidnapping charges had kept Morgan from suggesting that Bex simply stay. They could buy her new things, down to her school books. They’d get her the good kind of insurance. Whatever she wanted. But Bex left before Morgan could invent an excuse that wasn’t, ‘your family shouldn’t be people you want to hide from; they should be people to be afraid of.’ So when she saw the girl in the door the very next night, there was an uncanny second of wondering if she’d fallen into an enchanted sleep this time.

But Morgan didn’t have the courage to conjure an image of Bex like this: bloody, bruised, and stuck through with glass. She couldn’t begin to trace the chronology of the violence. Everytime she tried to find it, something new caught her eye that she had to account for. This was worse than when Deirdre had come home from Ireland. This was worse than anything she’d ever seen on a child. Bex’s voice was so quiet, it didn’t break through her shock. Had she walked? Had no one stopped to ask if she was okay? How was she holding that bag with so much glass in her hands? But finally her mind stopped spinning in place. She knew what to do.

“You can always come to me, Bex. Inside, quickly. I’ll get the first aid tub and meet you in the great room. Get your jacket off. We can put your things in your room later, okay? Let’s get you taken care of first.” The words rattled out of her quietly and quickly. She stepped aside and beckoned her inside. “You did the right thing, coming here. You’re safe now, okay?”

You did the right thing. The words rang in Bex’s head as she lowered her gaze and stepped inside. She was sure the bruises on her face had swollen because the ones on her knees had and she could see them now. Purple and yellow and blue. She moved inside stiffly. “I’m sorry about your door,” was all she could manage to say, eyes glued to the floor, to her shoes. These weren’t even her favorite shoes, why hadn’t she put on better shoes? Oh, and her dress. Her nice dress was all ruined, covered in blood and all torn. How had this happened? Bex closed her eyes and she saw red. Anger flashing, feet pounding up stairs, loud voices outside her door. The crack of a belt. Shattering glass in time to loud screams. Her breath started coming up heavy again as she sat on the couch, shaking in her spot. You’re safe now. She curled her knees up to her chest and repeated the words, hands turned outward when she remembered the glass still stuck in her palms, bloody and painful. She was silent when Morgan came back in. She didn’t know how to explain.

Everything they might need was in the tub Morgan kept under the sink for easy access, even a basin for pouring water in. But there was something horrible about the preparedness. This place, the cost of this world, where girls asked for love with their blood, where there was nowhere to be taken care of or be assured kindness except behind closed doors and drawn curtains.

She came into the room and set everything on the coffee table, kneeling before Bex. “Hey, honey…?” She prompted. “I’m going to need you to uncurl just a little bit, so I can get this glass out. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be fast, and you’ll be in less pain long term and your body will have a chance to heal.” She tilted her head, trying to find the girl’s gaze. “Maybe some deep breaths first, huh? Slowly. Do you know five-three-five?” She held out her hand, patient but expectant.

Bex felt like a child. Maybe she was a child. She’d been robbed of the ability to be one, after all. There were no fun games or birthday parties or rolling around in the mud. There was only proper manners and sitting up straight and learning how to be a good girl. Don’t make noise, don’t take up room, don’t embarrass her parents. Bex looked down at Morgan on the floor and searched for the anger behind the gentleness, but found none. Reluctantly, she held out her hands and shook her head. She stayed silent, as if waiting for some unspoken wrath to jump out and break the calmness that she was trying to find. She hadn’t known where else to go, but little by little, she was beginning to believe what Morgan had said. She was safe here. “I’m sorry,” she finally mumbled, “I didn’t call first.”

Morgan took Bex’s hand and set to work with her tweezers. “Sometimes there isn’t time. Emergencies can be like that. You don’t have to be sorry for that. It’s good that you knew this was a place to go to. I want that for you, okay?” She stared down a particularly large piece lodged in Bex’s palm. This couldn’t be about her upset. She needed to work. She needed to come through. Someone had to for this girl.

Pinch. Pull. Out came the glass, joining the other bloody pieces on the towel she’d laid out beside her.

“So,” Morgan said quickly, as if she could talk over Bex’s pain. “Five-three-five, it’s a breathing game I play when I’m anxious or panicking. Sometimes--” Especially now that her default was not breathing, “I get in this place, and I can’t breathe at all. Or I hyperventilate. And so I have to play to get myself back. You draw your breath in for five whole seconds, and then you hold it for three, and then you let it out again in five seconds exactly. I learned it in therapy. It’s one thing you can control again, no matter how bad everything else is. You get a rhythm going, and you start a chain of breaths like that, and you don’t stop until you’re ready. You can even tap the rhythm on yourself, that can help too.” She took another piece out and dropped it on the towel, noticing the tension coiled in the girl’s body. “It might help, is all I’m suggesting. Other hand now, please?”

Bex was quiet. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she admitted under a breath. And it was mostly true. She supposed she could’ve gone to Nell’s, but the hike was longer and she didn’t know if Nell’s anger would be as controllable. Nell had already threatened someone for her. And her parents hadn’t meant it, not really. The glass was her fault, anyway. People were hurt because of her. She inhaled deeply and held it. Bit down hard on her cheek as she prepared for the pain-- she’d grown accustomed to tolerating it in short bursts, but this was different. She flinched and whimpered, more tears pooling in her eyes. Five three five. “I’m not-- it just hurts.” She wanted to say she wasn’t panicking, but that wasn’t true. Every time she thought back to what happened, her chest seized up. So, she closed her eyes, and when Morgan plucked out another piece, she inhaled for five seconds, held it for three, then let it go for five.

“I-it’s my fault,” she said unprompted, holding out her other hand, “I-- I got so angry. I was so scared and then I--” she had to stop to do it again. Five, three, five. “I blew up. It was my fault.”

“You haven’t had a chance to learn how to control what you can do,” Morgan said simply, working steadily faster. “I don’t know if that counts as being your fault.” Three more pieces came out. They were almost there. “If you were doing the best with what you had, with what you know, then it doesn’t seem fair to hold whatever happened against yourself. But that’s just my two cents.” Four more pieces. Morgan felt up Bex’s arms and plucked out the last of them. They could shake out her hair later. “Okay, all done with the worst part. I appreciate you being so brave. Now lets rinse this blood off and get you bandaged and salved up, and then into some pajamas. You’re about Deirdre’s size and she has a drawer full of pajamas she never wears, so we’ll have something extra cozy for you.” She reached for the other cloth in the bin and soaked it in the water before starting to rinse off the blood. “Since it is on your mind, though, do you...want to tell me what happened exactly? It’s your choice, to be clear. You can stay here as long as you like, no questions asked. But maybe it’ll help you make sense of it, or work off some more of that energy.” She soaked the cloth again. “Roll up your sleeves, please.”

Morgan was working through this as if she’d done it a thousand times before. Maybe she had. Bex remembered the manner in which Morgan had talked about her mother and she wondered if hers had ever looked at her the way Bex’s mom had that morning. If she’d ever released all her anger and resent on her instead of where it should have been. “I didn’t mean to,” she responded, robotically. “They wouldn’t believe me, but I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.” She breathed through the rest of the pain and finally looked down at her arms. They were shaking, but that wasn’t surprising. She didn’t want to roll up her sleeves, Morgan would see. The bruises. The ones that weren’t her fault. “They didn’t mean it. It’s not their fault. Things were-- it just got out of hand. They were just worried. My mom said-- they didn’t know where I was.” She looked at the cloth Morgan had. “I told them I fell asleep and couldn’t wake up but they didn’t believe me. I didn’t mean to this time,” she said, clenching her sleeves in her palms. “I knew it was coming. I can always tell now. I don’t know what happened. I just-- I didn’t want it to happen again. I broke-- the windows shattered and my head hurt so bad I just passed out.” Tentatively, she held out her arms. Rolled up her sleeves, one after the other. Purple and blue, just like her knees. “They didn’t mean to, they just get so angry sometimes. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have ignored their messages.”

Morgan had to pause again to process what she was seeing. She could gauge where the hands had been, grabbed and shaken. From the swelling on her face, Bex had probably been hit. There was no good story of a girl brutalized by her parents. Months ago on this couch, Morgan had chilled at the care, the finesse the Dolans put into their violence. And now she had the opposite and didn’t like it any better. Bex’s parents were reckless, careless, like there would be no consequences and whatever Bex might do about it after wouldn’t matter.

“You are not responsible for other people’s actions, Bex,” she said at last. “Your family...a good family shouldn’t be something that hurts you on purpose. And lashing out on impulse is still an intent. It’s not your job to anticipate their emotions, to bend yourself into whatever shape you hope will make them happy. And their choices, however short sighted, are not your fault.” She swallowed thickly and went back to wiping the blood off Bex’s arms and hands.

“I’m sorry they didn’t believe you. It makes things harder, when you have to lie. When you can’t really choose. But you know that I...there’s no reason for that here. It’s just your choice, whatever you feel like you can do.” Morgan exhaled and blinked the moisture from her eyes. “Can I get the blood off your legs? I can cut the leggings, but if you roll them off I can try to salvage them, if you prefer.”

“But they’re my parents,” Bex argued weakly. “They don’t mean to.” They always apologized afterwards. Her mother always drew her a warm bath and poured in the salts and eased her bruises. They always made sure to never scratch her face or leave cuts behind. These were her own wounds, her own mistakes. She’d done this to herself. “They’re all I have, they gave me everything. I need to be good for them and I wasn’t.” That was really all there was to it. But this time...had been different. She’d tried so hard to be good for them, and she’d still somehow messed up. This time hadn’t been her fault, but they’d still blamed her. It didn’t feel the same. She hadn’t deserved to be punished for what happened. Bex looked down at Morgan, still curled tight in herself. “I know I’m an adult, I know I can make my own choices, but I-- they’re all I’ve ever had. I never meant to hurt them.”

Slowly, stiffly, she moved herself enough to slide her tights off, wincing as she rolled them over her bruised and bloody knees. She sat back on the couch, gently uncurling her legs from her chest and setting her feet flat on the floor. “I don’t wanna be this way anymore,” she said, barely audible, as more tears streaked silently down her face.

“Love shouldn’t hurt like that,” Morgan said simply. “And it shouldn’t be conditional. I believe you, that they care, but sometimes people who love us very much do it badly.” Her lips thinned as she remembered her own mother, the adamant insistence that she didn’t need to be sorry for anything because it was for Morgan, for love of Morgan. “Maybe no one showed them how to be better, or maybe they don’t want to learn, but that doesn’t make it your job or your fault. Not like this…” She wiped the girl’s legs slowly and gently, trying to soothe the tension in her muscles as she worked. “I’m sorry your life has been like this, Bex. You are so very brave and so very strong to be as kind as you are in the face of all this.

When the rinsing was done, Morgan got out her disinfectants and swabs and bandages. “This is probably going to sting, but it won’t be as bad as the glass, but the salves will take the edge off the pain, and the bandages will help with pressure.” She smiled at the girl, earnest despite the sadness of the moment, and went to work again, keeping her touch as gentle as she knew how. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you are, Bex,” she sighed after some quiet. “Can I ask what you mean, though? By ‘this way’?”

Even though Bex knew Morgan was tending to her wounds, she still flinched every time she touched her legs. Muscles tightening on reflex. She tried her best not to move too much, but feeling brought only muscle memory and reflex. “I just want to be what they want me to be,” she said again quietly, arms wrapping around herself as she curled up again, keeping her legs planted on the ground. “I’m trying so hard but it’s never enough.” She felt the well of tears damming in her eyes again, trying her best to hold them back but knowing eventually they would come. They always did. She was never strong enough to keep them in. “I’m not brave,” she said, hands clenched on her sides, “and I’m not strong. I’m just me. I’m just doing what I have to.” To survive, to get through each day.

Morgan’s smile made the damn break and Bex let the quiet tears roll down her cheeks in droves. She hadn’t even started putting the disinfectant on yet. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, “I’m good at tolerating pain.” She didn’t try and wipe away her tears this time, but she couldn’t meet Morgan’s gaze anymore. “I’m such a fuck up,” she answered, “I can’t do anything right. This-- this thing inside of me, the thing that keeps breaking things and hurting people, I-- I don’t want it.” She folded in on herself, head resting on her legs. “I fought so hard just to live a normal life and now I have to deal with this, with being this. I don’t wanna be like this, I never asked for this.”

“Okay, hold on a second, honey,” Morgan sighed. She pulled the coffee table closer to them and crawled up onto the couch, pulling Bex into her, back to chest. She wrapped her arms around, ready to continue the work of bandaging the poor girl up, but first-- “Hey, you’re not a fuck up, honey. You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that, sshh…” She brushed her knuckles over the girl’s cheek, wiping away her tears. Bex was stiff but didn’t fight as Morgan settled around her, finding the way they might fit together best. “You’re not a fuck up, and there is so much you do so well. You don’t have to be anyone but who you are. Because that girl is nothing short of wonderful, and brave, and strong, even if she doesn’t see it yet.” She ran the tips of her fingers through the girl’s hair, skating along her scalp the way she’d once found comforting when she was alive. “Let me know if you want me to stop and I will, okay?” She murmured. “Now let’s get you wrapped up.” She thumbed her salve over the girl’s hands and laid pads on either side before wrapping them up. The small band aids would be fine for her arms and fingers, and the same mix she’d tried to give her the last time she was bruised went on the bruise blossoming on her face. “There’s nothing wrong with who you are, Bex. And the sooner you turn some of your wonderful kindness inward, the sooner you can control your power and do beautiful things with it. It’s that easy, and that hard. But maybe starting on that can be a tomorrow challenge, huh?”

As Morgan moved up around her, Bex reflexively began to tighten. Her mother often did this same thing, but instead of gentle caresses, it was firm hands, brushing along her back, her arms, smoothing down the bruises. They were stiff arms that wrapped her up and held her and told her if she was better next time, this wouldn’t happen. She flinched only slightly when Morgan ran her hands gently through her hair, dangerously close to the place her mother’s nails had scraped down her scalp. But despite the coldness of Morgan’s fingers, the act felt warm. It was...comforting. She’d never felt anything like it before. There were no harsh lessons to learn here, no words of blame, no apologies. She let Morgan work, the coolness of the salve soothing her aching hands almost instantly. The cuts on her arms burned and her side ached, but she let her continue, watching with a sort of marvel in her eyes, unsure that this was real, that someone could be this gentle with her. She tried her hardest to listen to Morgan’s words and take them in, but she couldn’t believe them yet-- did the bruises on her skin not prove that wrong? Did the tears in her eyes not prove that wrong? “I was never what they wanted me to be,” she finally said, breaking her own silence, “I don’t even know who I am.”

Finished with the wounds she could identify, Morgan tucked Bex carefully into her arms. She resumed her combing motions, working out the tangles without breaking any strands. “You’re Bex,” she said. “You are kind and curious and you find beauty in the past as well as the present, in life as well as death. You’re smart, even funny, when you let your guard down enough. You’re someone who tries. How could you be all these things and not be wonderful? How could we be anything but lucky to have you in our life, Bex?” She brushed the girl’s cheeks again, lapping away the stray tears she’d missed before. “Are there any other places you’re hurt that I need to know about? I won’t touch them if you don’t want me to, but you should tend to them if I don’t. And I want to be mindful of those places, so I can be extra careful. And then we can get you washed up and into something clean and soft to wear. How does that sound?”

It was almost eerie, how similar Morgan’s actions were to her mother’s. But they held no intention of harm. Was this what it was supposed to be like? Was this how it was supposed to feel? She didn’t know if she believed Morgan. Maybe that was a person Bex wanted to be, but she didn’t know if that was the kind of person she already was. She chewed her lip and pushed herself up a little more, not saying anything as she looked away again, shame turning her cheeks red as she slowly pulled up her sweater to reveal the large, rather foot shaped bruise growing on her side. “I’ve never seen her so angry,” she whispered, her voice suddenly raw, “I tried to run. I’d-- I’d never done that before.” And then, even quieter, “I was so scared.”

Morgan didn’t gasp or stare when she saw the mark. She wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t suspected. But there was something not-right about being relieved that it wasn’t a stab wound or placed over her organs, where there might be internal bleeding. She scooped out more of the yarrow salve and applied it carefully over the mark before taking out one of the big rolls of gauze and wrapping it around Bex carefully. “Thank you, for trusting me,” she said. “I swear to you Bex, which you know is something I don’t do lightly: I will never, under any circumstances, intentionally touch you in anger. You shouldn’t have to be afraid like that. Do you...want to tell me what happened? After you ran?”

“It’s-- she--” Bex started, “she was probably just scared, too. I’d been gone over a week. It’s my fault, I should’ve messaged her, but I didn’t and she was just worried. She said she’d been worried. They didn’t know where I was or what happened to me.” But they seemingly hadn’t done much to look for her. They hadn’t called the police, they hadn’t looked for her themselves. Bex pushed the thoughts away. Her parents were busy, they had to keep things going, even if she’d been stupid and gone missing like that. She looked up, a little shocked, at Morgan’s words. “You shouldn’t-- you said not to do that.” Wincing slightly at the cool touch of salve on her skin. “I didn’t get far. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just...ran to my room. There’s no lock on my door, though. I just wanted to find somewhere safe.” Somewhere they couldn’t get her, but they could get her anywhere, couldn’t they? Even here. A hiccup of panic swelled, but she didn’t have the energy to process it right now. “I...I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she added on after a long moment. “Tomato.”

“I know I said that. And it’s still really ill advised, as a rule. But this is important.” Morgan said. “I promise not to touch you in anger. Anywhere, to any degree.” She rolled the girl’s sweater down and raked her fingers through her silky hair. “Let’s get you to your room, or at least your stuff. Deirdre and I did some decorating since you were last here.” She guided Bex to her feet and shouldered her bag. “We can change anything you like, it’s kind of a hobby of ours, and we haven’t had much reason to indulge. So you’ll kind of be doing us a favor if you want the walls painted or the ceiling stars taken down, or different curtains, whatever.” She made a stop by the laundry room to pluck a pair of long silk pajamas out of the warm folded laundry basket and lead the way up the stairs and down the hall. “We can do whatever you want tonight. You have your own TV in here, but you can also use the one in the great room. I’ll probably be out there until Deirdre gets home, if you’d rather have some time to yourself. And there’s plenty of stuff in the kitchen to whip up something fresh or reheat some leftovers. Whatever you want is okay, is all I’m trying to say.” She held out the girl’s bag and the pajamas, still warm, and smiled hopefully.

“You made me...a room?” Bex could only stare bewildered. After everything Morgan had said, that was all she could think. The promise still rang in her ears, but some big, burdened part of her couldn’t believe it, even if Morgan had never done anything to the contrary. She’d followed her up, still limping from the pain in her legs from falling on the stairs. She didn’t actually know what she wanted to do, holding her hands out as Morgan handed her her bag and the new, warm pajamas she’d picked out for her. Such kindness had never really been a part of Bex’s life, save for maybe some of the house maids or nannies that had helped out through the years. She drew them into her chest and clutched the objects tightly. “Th...thank you…” she said quietly, more tears welling up. “S-sorry. I’m sorry,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes with her palms, wincing again. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. It won’t stop.” She sniffled, looking at the room, then to Morgan. “I--” she felt her voice choking, “I don’t wanna be alone, I...I think.” Swallowed, and said a little more confidently, “I’d rather not be alone tonight.” Because not only was she still reeling from what had happened, the fear of sleep still gripped her insides. The fear of falling back into that place she didn’t know how to get out of. The fear of getting so lost again. “If...if that’s okay.”

“Hey,” Morgan cooed, cupping Bex’s face and wiping her tears. “You don’t have to be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for, honey. I know crying feels embarrassing sometimes, when you’ve been shamed for it, but it’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay.” She smiled again, encouraging. “You don’t know this about me yet, but I actually cry a lot. So I’m the last person who’s going to tell you anything bad about that. Okay?” She nodded, hoping it would help the words sink in. “Why don’t you get changed, and then meet me downstairs.” She tucked Bex’s hair behind her ear and smoothed it out again. “Have you eaten recently? Do you think you could handle some food? It’s okay if you don’t, I can get you some tea instead. But, either way: does back on the comfy couch in ten sound good?”

Bex only had the capacity to nod more as Morgan explained that it was okay-- it was okay to cry and to be upset and to be emotional. It was okay to show that she was human. Usually, by now, her mother had dragged her into the bathroom and was scrubbing her face with a hot towel, trying to get rid of the puffiness in her eyes, or to sooth away the blue of her bruises. This time, when Morgan reached out to smooth down her hair, she didn’t even flinch. She nodded again. “Tea sounds good. Ten minutes,” she repeated quietly, before stepping into the room and closing the door. For the first time since she’d woken up, she felt relief. There was nothing in this house that was going to hurt her, at least not on purpose. No one who would look at her with those eyes, or say those harsh words. Back pressed against the wall, she took a moment to breathe, before she opened her eyes again and took a look around. The room that stretched out around her was larger than she remembered, with light blue pillows and bedding, warm colors on the walls, stars on the ceiling. It was decorated in a way that made Bex feel as if she could spend a lot of time in here and not have it feel like a prison. There was a mini fridge, a bookshelf, a TV. Even the decorations were tailored to her-- leather maps and a few fossils, and an articulated skeleton. It felt so...nice. She sat down on the bed and let the rest of her tears out.

When she was done, she removed her clothes stiffly and put on the warm, soft pajamas, letting out a long sigh of relief. It felt so nice, so comforting. Slowly, she made her way back downstairs, finding Morgan back in the great room by the couch. “Thank you,” she mumbled, “again.” Sidled over and settled back onto the couch. “The room is nice.”

Morgan cleared the first aid stuff out of the great room and brewed some tea and brought the set down to the coffee table. She sent Deirdre a text, telling her about their unexpected guest, and if she felt up to having family time with Bex as well as the cats when she came home. It was hard not to picture it and will a pin through the image to bring it to life. Something good could happen here, if she could keep those parents away. If anyone ever deserved to be eaten, it would be them. Anyone who used their daughter as a thing, who could handle her so cruelly when they should be at least trying to love her…

Morgan felt the tension building in her jaw and pushed the thought aside. Bex was coming in, looking like she belonged here already. Morgan fluffed up the pillows around her and turned on the TV, sliding over the remote, and picking up one of the books she kept piled nearby. “I’m glad you like it,” she said. “We only know you so well right now, but we did our best. And, really, the shopping and the moving things around is fun, so you can ask to have it put different.” She poured the girl a cup of tea and passed it to her. “Put on whatever you want, okay? Just don’t judge me for how much trash TV is in my queue. It’s good comfort watching.”

There was something strange, yet wholly familiar about the scene playing out in front of Bex’s eyes. Tea on the table, fresh and piping hot; magazines and books piled on it as well; blankets and pillows and two cats wandering around. Pictures of family, of loved ones, of two women holding each other, happy, decorating the room. A house that felt like a home. It was only then that Bex realized it felt like something out of a movie. It was something she’d previously thought wasn’t actually really, all of this feel good, comforting shit. Who actually made tea for someone these days? Who actually sat on the couch and watched stupid TV shows all day? She’d never gotten to do either of those things, and so much more. The foreignness of it all was making her a little overwhelmed, and she couldn’t hide the fact that her eyes couldn’t stick to one place. Morgan had even cleaned up the first aid from before, instead of making Bex do it, to remind her of what she’d had to make her mom do. Of how she’d forced them to act. She sank back into the couch and let it swallow her as she clicked the TV on, flitting through the recorded shows. “You watch Grey’s Anatomy!?” she said, perking up just enough, despite the exhaustion in her muscles. “I love this show! I only just got into it recently, though. Can we watch it? I-is that okay?”

Morgan couldn’t find her words. Bex looked hopeful for the first time all night, and if it weren’t for the bruise on the side of her face, this might be some normal night in some other world, bubbled off in time where this was just another Friday night. Nothing more remarkable to it than people fitting together just right. Morgan looked her over and couldn’t shake away the similarities she saw, as if the girl had been transmuted from hers and Deirdre’s experiences with a little something extra, that was all Bex. And that was stupid and too much to hope for and something she could never speak into existence on a whim but… “Yeah, honey. That is way more than okay. It just so happens that Grey’s is my favorite. We can pick up right where you left off.” And Deirdre would come home and the cats would sniff and mewel and knead resting places on everyone’s lap, and maybe they would stay up all night, because that’s what she and Deirdre did when they were too distressed to sleep anyway. Maybe the sun would come up and Morgan would make breakfast and take out three sets of dishes instead of two. Maybe…

Morgan squeezed the book in her lap tight as she set it aside and scooted closer. She was getting carried away with herself and needed to reign in, get her priorities straight. But I want this. Stars know if I can ever make it happen, but I want this.

Despite all the ache in her body-- her arms, her legs; her chest, her face, her heart-- Bex found that in this moment, things didn’t hurt so much. Even if the bandages were tight and there was still blood and bruises, it was easier to ignore when she had a comfortable couch to sit on and hot tea and someone beside her who had promised to make the pain less and not more. And although maybe her mind didn’t fully believe it yet, her heart wanted to. She settled closer to Morgan, until their shoulders touched, and tucked her legs under her, leaning against the older woman. Being in close contact with people had usually always made her feel so uncomfortable, so tense, but not here, not now. Even if it was just for tonight, Bex wanted this. And as the title card began to play and the show flicked on, Bex thought that just maybe, she might want this more often.

#chatzy #wickedswriting #dreamkeepers #dreamkeepers part 2 #chatzy: morgan #domestic abuse tw #self harm mention tw #morgan

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straymackerel · 4 years

Note

19 and Dazai? I really liked all of the words uwu it was hard to pick! Also, congrats :) I don’t remember if I already congratulated you or not! Much love, friend 💕

dazai + boketto || ぼけっと (japanese, v.) to gaze thoughtlessly and vacantly into the distance.

➽─{thank you mod! i wanted to play with the idea of an annoyed reader responsible for wiping dazai’s history clean, supposing that ango was not the only one involved. this is a year into his disappearance.}─❥

warning(s): some angstiness, references to suicide

Your latest client is, in a word, uncooperative. He flakes on your appointments, dodges your questions on the occasion that he shows up, and jokes around relentlessly when you attempt to discuss the more serious aspects of your work. For the most part, you don’t mind his blithe disregard for your services so long as you get paid—but lately, he’s making it damn near impossible for you to do your job.

It is exactly because of his unamenable ways that you find yourself in a quiescent corner of the city on your one evening off. It seems that all but the moss and the sky have forgotten the lone building you’ve arrived at, a decrepit once-white manor that bathes in golden hour afterglow. You march up the square stone path that your troublesome customer has mentioned many a scheduled meeting, though you never imagined walking it yourself. It curiously leads straight from the forest right up to the front door. (Part of you thought he made this place up. Part of you still wonders if it’s real or not, even as you slip through the entrance and scale up the stairs.)

“Dazai? Anyone?” Both your voice and the sound of your footsteps resonate throughout the spacious halls, but they garner no response in turn. You meander past lattice windows and beyond marble columns, wondering if your intuitions were off the mark. It takes the sparkling crystals of a sunlit chandelier to reaffirm your gut feeling that Dazai is, in fact, here tonight.

The ballroom. Of course. He never shut up about that ballroom.

You step into the tiled floor of a high-ceilinged ballroom, half expecting to see bandaged arms flailing around in a silly dance or swinging back and forth from chandelier to chandelier. Instead, you see crimson curtains—all of which are drawn back—lining long floor length windows, one of which is propped wide open for none other than the suicidal maniac to dangle his legs over the edge of the floor. He sits in unusual silence, not so much as stirring as a light breeze blows matted bangs out of his face. You can’t help but pause at the view of a quiet, unmoving Dazai, but eventually you force yourself to walk towards the unsettling sight.

“Dazai, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day,” you say as you approach him. You expect an excitable performance; you expect a grand gesture of welcome. You expect wrong.

Unstartled, he never turns away from the woods, nor does he flinch at your silent appearance. You crane your neck in hopes of seeing what he’s looking at, but there’s nothing in the distance but trees upon trees. You ponder the situation, his favorite pastime coming to mind immediately.

“...You’re not thinking of jumping, are you?” Dazai gives a dry laugh in response.

“And falling only two floors? That sounds more than painful than deadly,” he scoffs.

“Oh, good then. There’s no point in erasing the history of the deceased,” you say, an edge creeping into your voice. I’ve walked all over Yokohama today, you wanted to add. I’m not getting paid to babysit you, you wanted to add.

“Any other guesses for me, oh great intelligence agent?”

“I’m not here to entertain you, Dazai. I have no idea what goes through the mind of a self-destructive freak at this time of day,” you shoot back, but your deadpan only seems to egg him on.

“Maybe that’s just it,” he says, swinging his legs now. “Maybe it’s just nothing.” 

“Nothing?” you ask, seating yourself beside him with a thud. His eyes never shift to meet yours; you follow his gaze to nowhere in particular.

“Nothing at all. There comes a point where it is too tiring to even contemplate one’s life,” he replies.

“Dazai, you’re way too young to be having a midlife crisis.”

“So I’ve heard.” Your bluntness is rewarded with a short silence. “…You know, being raised in the Port Mafia forces you to grow up fast. For most of my life, I believed in war and bloodshed and little else. It was all that I clung on to. So tell me something.” His legs cease their needless movement, feet digging into the building’s outer walls. “Do you believe in your line of work?”

“What do you mean by that?” 

“When you erase someone’s history, do you truly believe they can start over anew?”

“Well, that’s the general idea,” you say, eyes trained on the fevered skyline. The sun proceeds to slink back into its nightly slumber. “Do I believe in it? Well, I’ve seen the most violent of my clientele adopt mild and uninteresting lives, if that answers your question.”

“Not really,” he says curtly.

“Then help me out here.” You fold your arms. “What are you getting at?”

“…It’s exhausting, trying to become the person I want to be.” Pause. “Pretending I’m this lighthearted and upbeat guy, pretending I give a damn about right and wrong. Pretending I have any semblance of humanly affects—be it joy, sorrow, or motivation. And soon, I’ll have to pretend I’m not as acquainted with evil as I really am. It is all I can do to maintain the disguise. It is all I can do to show up at your office.”

“You’re asking a different question, then. You’re asking if people can change.”

“Is it really all that different?” Dazai asks.

“Look, my work deals with a person’s background, not their minute-to-minute image nor their inner turmoil. I’m not your psychologist,” you say.

“I thought you might say that.”

“Yeah, well, this is what happens when you bring your baggage to the wrong place,” you reply coldly. The last rays of sun sliver into the oblivion. “Tell you what. Our next session will be our last. I just have a few remaining questions about some... mishaps that can be traced back to you.”

“And what makes this different from any other session?” Dazai finally faces you, gaze steely. You turn your body to face him as well.

“If it really takes that much energy, save your self-actualizing efforts for later. You still have a year in hiding left to work on your appearances, and maybe even your inner self.”

Nightfall cloaks the room in shadow. The neutral, all-too-serene face Dazai had worn is replaced by a look of true and utter hollowness; all pretenses seem to fall away under a lack of illumination.

“What’s different is, you can keep the mask off this time.” He lays down in response, falling back as though he were a rag doll or a scrap of fabric, all traces of emotion leaving his voice:

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

If you’re in crisis, there are free and confidential options available to help you cope.

24/7 USA National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255.

Lifeline Web Chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/

USA Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741. It is silent, it is private, you can use it anywhere discretely on your phone.

List of international crisis lines:

http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html

#dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bsd scenario #dazai osamu scenarios #bungou stray dogs fanfic #dazai oneshot #500 followers event

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ussgallifrey · 4 years

Note

Hi Katie! From the prompt list, can you do “Quit it! You’re hogging the blankets!” Thank you! 💙 :)

Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader x Steve

Warnings: Implied sexual content, language

When on a mission, it is common practice to refer back to Murphy’s Laws.

It’s not something he ever had to deal with prior to breaking free from Hydra’s control. But now that he spends his time working on the good side of things, he’s found himself going through a mental checklist every single time he gets sent out on a mission with Steve.

Only ever with Steve.

1. In any field of endeavor, whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.

“What do you mean we lost their signal?” Your voice is veering on fury, after straining to get a lock on AIM’s jet at the beginning of the chase - which was haphazardly flying and turning its cloaking on after only the first twenty miles in - to lose it now made all that effort completely wasted.

The scanner in front of him has gone blank, no more red triangles or helpfully annoying pings to be heard.

“Uhh…”

You swivel your chair around, storming off to the back of the jet to vent your fury out.

Steve watches you go for a moment before leaning over his scanner, “No traces?”

“Fucking nothing,” he wants to slam his hand on the instrument but settles for curling it into a fist on his armrest instead.

The engine thrums under his feet as the jet continues flying without a clear destination. Minutes tick by as Steve tries to find anything of use on the airways, while Bucky works through satellite images of the area to locate any relevant place for AIM to be traveling to.

You return with a steeled expression, carefully avoiding his eyes as you take your seat with a purposeful calming breath.

Steve works with you to triangulate a location, checking with Bucky on the maps. But you refuse to direct any of your questions his way as if this was all somehow his fault.

2. Left to themselves, things always go from bad to worse.

Visibility was decreasing as the jet traveled further across the northern part of the Yukon. What the hell AIM wanted all the way up here was uncertain, but thoroughly annoying. It reminded him too much of the lost years of his life, existing in the KGB’s homeland for far too long. He never viewed snow the same way since.

“Well, this is great.”

You’re sitting in your seat still, but with your legs brought up to your chest and your arms wrapped around them. Chin resting on the top of your knees as you watch the snowstorm throttling the windshield.

“It’s fine,” Steve assures from his standing position - hand resting on the window frame at the nose of the jet. “We’ll fly through it in no time. The facility’s only another sixty miles out.”

There’s a grumbling sound from you, probably swearing off him and Steve for everything and anything.

Steve’s eyes trail down from the storm, landing on your face, and Bucky can see his eyes soften. They get that stupid lovesick aura anytime he looks at you. Bucky wants to punch him for more than just the failing mission now.

3. If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will go wrong is the one that will cause the most damage.

“Remind me to never go on a mission with you two again!” you roar, moving to the gunner’s station as the jet is rocked by another unknown blast.

Steve calls back to you over his shoulder, trying to find the invisible aircraft that’s firing on the jet, “Noted, sweetheart!”

“Steve…”

The sensors are going out of whack. Dials spinning, buttons flashing, screens glitching out.

“Fuck.”

He knows it’s bad when Steve swears.

“Cap!”

Steve’s out of his chair in an instant, striding over to you as Bucky concentrates on the failing systems.

You’ve got a perfect view of the white vastness of the storm and not much else. But you lean your head towards Steve when he approaches.

“Watch my 2.”

Steve focuses on the storm and then -

A quick flash of a ship, before your own jet is rocked violently to the side by a sudden blast.

“Buck!”

“Already on it!”

You focus all firepower on the sneak ship, but in the end, it doesn’t matter much at all. Your comms are down and the systems are already failing.

4. Nature always sides with the hidden flaw.

It’s clear how badly you want to punch them both right now - not that it would help any. You all look a little worse for wear from the crash landing. The jet’s smoking and the emergency lights are flashing. And there’s absolutely no signal to the outside.

Steve’s hands deep in wires and machinery as he tries to hotwire the main systems.

Bucky, deciding to be useful in the moment, emerges from the back of the jet with the emergency equipment.

You’re scowling on the bench, but you’re also shivering. The storm is battering the sides of the jet - an absolute white-out all around.

“I wasn’t made for the cold,” you mutter as he sits down next to you on the bench.

Unfolding one of the blankets, Bucky drapes it over your shoulders. You gratefully tug it closer and pinch it under your chin.

“I know, darlin’.”

He drops a kiss to the top of your head before going to see if he can’t help Steve at all.

5. If everything seems to be going well, you’ve obviously overlooked something.

The heat’s back on. So, there’s that. But you’ll still have to wait on SHIELD to pick up on your trail and lack of check-in before anyone gets out of here unscathed.

He’s been fiddling with his phone for a bit, trying to configure a way to boost the signal. But to be honest, he’s not making much headway with it. You’re almost two hours in and no one’s handling it well.

There had been a suggestion floated around of braving the storm to the AIM facility, but that had been quickly quashed when the ramp lowered into the biting cold tundra. It felt like fucking needles going into his skin. The wind was too strong and the temperature stole your breath away.

Ultimately, it was decided that the best course of action was to remain in the jet until rescue. Which was fine and dandy, if not tediously boring, but then the power blinks out.

“What the fuck, Steve?” you’re sauntering over to where he’s hopelessly staring at the main panel.

“I don’t know,” he responds coolly, hands resting on his hips.

Bucky decides to be helpful, and pipes up from his seat, “Engine cooled down.”

You both whip around to look at him. Steve groans.

“Fuck.”

“Engine’s down, a storm raging, killed our power.”

You look between him and Steve, hands thrown up in frustration, “Well, fuck us, right?”

It only takes a few minutes to notice a change in the internal temperature of the jet. Steve’s trying to work something together, but there’s really no point in trying to force the frozen parts to magically start working again. Your breath is visible now.

Bucky disappears into the back to dig through the emergency supplies. Taking the previous blanket from the bench, he drapes it over your shoulders. And then another one over that.

Another thirty minutes finds you sitting on the floor, teeth chattering as Steve warms your hands with his breath. He’s got you situated over the main engine core, trying to pull some of that lingering heat through the metal grates. Bucky piles on another blanket.

Twenty minutes more, Steve’s lips are starting to pale - reminding Bucky of the winter of ‘36, when Steve was hit with a real bad case of pneumonia. Bucky’s chest aches at the sour-tasting memory. But he imagines he’s not looking his best right now either.

But at least you’re doing better. The solar blankets are heaped over the regular fleece ones, a giant cocoon around you and two super soldiers to steal heat from. But your teeth are still clattering, and your breath is still visible, and your fingers peeking out from the blankets are like ice.

“C-come on,” you stutter. “Warm me up b-better under here-e.”

He looks at Steve. Steve looks at him with a worried expression. And then they both look down at you, looking absolutely miserable. He shrugs at Steve.

They join you under the blanket cocoon.

“Agh!”

You startle back when Steve’s hand briefly touches your own. Probably colder than you were expecting. Bucky’s mindful to keep his arm as far away from your own as possible, considering himself lucky to be sitting on your left side.

“Sorry,” Steve shrinks, trying to keep himself as small as possible.

“S-stop, just… n-no h-hands.”

Steve nods numbly.

Your face is contorted into a pained expression as you try to grab them both with chilled hands, “N-now come he-ere.”

They both shuffle in a little bit closer to you. Steve wraps his arm around your shoulder, tugging you closer to his chest. But the movement pulls the blankets his way, exposing you all to more of the cold air.

“Hey!” he yelps, grabbing the blankets to pull them back in place.

“Y-yeah, Steve.” You chide through a stutter. “Quit it! You’re hogging the blankets.”

It manages a chuckle out of the blonde, which is a small victory in itself. He relents, “Okay, my bad. My bad!”

You settle in, squished between them both. Lost in a super soldier sandwich under a pile of blankets, waiting for a rescue.

After a moment, “I’m still mad at you two.”

Your stutter seems to be dissipating now that they’re in here to leech heat from. Bucky feels the tingling of a smile as they say in unison, “We know.”

Another stretch of silence follows. Only to be broken a moment later when you slowly suggest, “You know, I think there’s this great way to share body heat…?”

It has Steve saying a fast no and Bucky eagerly responding with a yes!

Prompt List

#bucky barnes x female reader x steve rogers #bucky x female reader x steve #stucky x female reader #marvel fan fic #my fic

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kkachi95 · 5 years

Text

New canon information from The Rise of Kyoshi

Alright, so I’m little bit over 42% through The Rise of Kyoshi and I’m HOOKED.

This book does a lot of worldbuilding and the new characters are well-developed.

I’ll be consolidating new information I find from this book on this post. I’ll keep updating the list as I progress through the book!

SPOILERS, obviously

1) KYOSHI

Kyoshi was abandoned as a child by her parents, who were leaders of an underground criminal organization.

Her mother was a rogue airbender hailing from the Eastern Air Temple. Yep, you heard it right, Kyoshi is half air nomad. Her mother apparently became a master at young age and fell in love with Kyoshi’s father, an outlaw, while traveling. Kyoshi’s mother modified her arrow tattoo into a serpent and her airbending ability lost its power due to her attachment to worldly concerns. She compensated with a pair of fans, which Kyoshi inherited.

Kyoshi’s father is from a family lineage that traces back to Royal Theater School in Ba Sing Se. Kyoshi inherited her make up and headdress from him.

Kyoshi was very tall even in her young age. In her teenage years, she is constantly described with terms like “giant,” “massive,” and “towering.” Since she’s taller than most men, I’m going to assume she’s at least 6 ft.

She spent her early childhood as a street urchin in Yokoya and was neglected by the villagers until she was discovered and taken under the care of an air nomad named Kelsang, who was a companion of Avatar Roku. She was, and still is relentlessly bullied by other children in Yokoya.

Kyoshi is initially very shy, non-confrontational, has very low self esteem, and inept at earthbending. Kyoshi is extremely strong for her age as she lifts a man by his neck without any trouble. Also, she has distinct freckles!

She is an extreme clean freak with a constant urge to “maintain order and minimize clutter." She starts out as a serveant assigned to clean up after the (misidentified) Avatar.

I believe Kyoshi is 16+ years old in this story.

Kyoshi’s outfit has chailmain armor underneath it, and she started wearing gloves after suffering major lightning wound on her hands.

2) KYOSHI’S COMPANIONS

As a teenager, Kyoshi has two friends: Yun and Rangi, who are both her age. I won’t go too much into their plot.

Yun is the ‘misidentified’ Earthbending Avatar who is a former street urchin. He is said to be handsome, playful and flirty. He has brown hair and jade green eyes.

He is extremely talented in earthbending and is loved by everyone. He ships Kyoshi and Rangi but also flirts with Kyoshi too (and basically everyone)

He was discovered ‘late’ as the Avatar and genuinely wants to do his best as the new Avatar.

Rangi is a Fire Nation noble girl who is sworn and honor bound to serve as the Avatar’s bodyguard. She is military-trained in the Fire Army Junior Corps. She is intimidating and hot-headed, but also very protective of her friends.

She is said to be beautiful, with delicate skin, porcelain doll face and jet black hair. She has a “charred rasp” voice and “dark bronze” eyes.

She is the "straight man" character of Kyoshi's entourage and takes things very seriously, but she's also the unintentionally funniest character of the group. She eventually becomes Kyoshi's swon bodyguard and depite her best judgement, she's dragged into many questionable situations by Kyoshi. Rangi is definitely my favorite new character. Think of her as a more sane, less murder-y version of Azula.

Her nickname: topknot, hairpins, and hotwoman

Rangi’s mother, Hei-Ran, was a companion of Avatar Kuruk, who gave up her commission in the Fire Nation Army, then later her position as headmistress in the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, to teach the Avatar. Hei-Ran and Rangi are said to be spitting image of each other.

Kyoshi is romantically attraced to both Yun and Rangi.

Kirima is a young female waterbender from the outlaw group Kyoshi’s parents founded.

She has wolf-like features and piercing blue eyes. Kirima is also said to be lithe and light on her feet.

She’s easy-going and likes to tease people, especially Rangi.

Wong is a huge male earthbender in his 30s from the outlaw group Kyoshi’s parents founded.

He is very tall, thick, and has smooth, clean shaven face. He has a very prominent protruding gut and isn’t the most loquacious type.

Lek is the youngest male Earthbender member of the group and is said to be 14-15.

He is from the Si Wong desert and was brought into the group by Kyoshi’s parents, whom he thinks very highly of. This caused Kyoshi to resent him initially.

He values his family and likes to tease other people just like Kirima. Lek has very precise control of small earth projectiles, which he uses as bullets.

Lao Ge is an old, mysterious Earthbending assassin who is said to be hundreds of years old. He pretends to be a drunken fool and only Kyoshi knows of his true identity.

He travels with the group and goes off on his own to kill people he deem unworthy of living. Kyoshi asks him to be her Sifu.

3) THE AVATAR CYCLE

Avatar Kuruk died at the age of 33. He was said to be one of the greatest Pai Sho players in history and a highly-skilled bender, but lacked leadership and diplomatic skills. He spent his time traveling around the four nation seeking pleasure. He was also one of the best hunters to have ever lived.

Two of Avatar Yangchen’s friends and teachers died protecting her from the enemy.

Each nation has its own way of discovering the Avatar and identifying a toddler’s ability to bend

Being the Avatar’s companion was considered to be an honor beyond reckoning that only few got to experience. Those who taught the Avatar held massive influence over the world.

Period between the death of the previous Avatar and discovery of his/her successor is often filled with political turmoil. The Rise of Kyoshi is set in a politically turbulent time as Kuruk died in young age and the new Avatar was discovered much later than usual. This led to the rise of many opportunist criminal factions.

4) BENDING

Unlike the show, bending is openly depicted as being LETHAL in this book. People are impaled, burned, crushed, buried, sliced, and so on.

Seismic sense is a skill shared by all earthbenders, not just Toph. Most people’s skills are extremely rudimentary, though.

‘Dust stepping’ and ‘mist stepping’ are abilities practiced by certain earth and waterbenders to create floating platforms that move with them, which allow them to run through thin air. Rangi mimics this move with firebending after having witnessed it.

Firebenders have naturally warm bodies and they can project heat, which allows them to do things like increasing a room’s temperature by several degrees.

Firebenders' "inner fire" allow them to resist poison.

People in the Fire Nation identify bending ability of their children by placing a bowl full of highly-flammable materials to see if their children can resonate with it. This is done as early as possible to prevent accidental fires as young children don't have good control over their flames.

Lightning bending is a skill so rare that people thought it of it as a folktale or a long lost knowledge. Barely any living witnesses who can confirm its existence exists.

Airbender are seemingly immune to the weather.

5) EARTH KINGDOM

Earth Kingdom is highly fragmented and has multiple kings. This is attributed to Ba Sing Se’s failure or unwillingness to actively assert control over the continent.

Bandits and pirates plague the countryside. Small settlements and towns have to form militias and fend for themselves as the official Earth Kingdom military seems to neglect their plight.

Earth Kingdom’s Northern and Southern dialect are said to be so different that they might as well be different language. People of the Si Wong Desert barely share any culture or custom with rest of the Earth Kingdom.

Beifongs were known for their wealth even in this era.

Kyoshi Island was originally known as Yokoya. Farming yields little and people scrape by to meet end’s meet. People here are said to wear blue clothes despite their earth kingdom heritage. Kyoshi was left here as a child and initially grew up as a street urchin because the villagers neglected her for being an outsider.

6) FIRE NATION

Apparently, firebenders are notorious for always talking about honor.

Fire Nation was involved in a conflict with the Earth Kindom in the distant (?) past.

Fire Navy is the most capable Navy in the world.

Royal Fire Nation Academy for Girl holds Agni Kais and there are many “accidental” kills.

Firebending instructors used to maim their students for insubordination.

Hair is heavily linked with honor. Losers of Agni Kai would shave parts of their head bald as sign of humility but would leave the top knot alone since it’s considered sacred. It was never touched except in circumstances akin to death.

7) WATER TRIBES

The Souther Water tribe is said to be poor, undeveloped, and vulnerable. It’s significantly behind the rest of the world in terms of development. Southern Water Tribe doesn’t have a legitimate Navy because it doesn’t have trees necessary for shipbuilding. It is a peaceful nation, though it is involved in a territorial dispute over an island with the Earth Kingdom. It’s ruled by multiple chieftains.

“Tui’s gills!” - Water Tribe equivalent of ‘Oh my god’

8) AIR NOMADS

Air nomads are regarded with great respect and reverence for their wisdom and spirituality.

Head nomad of an air temple is referred to as an Abbot.

9) DAOFEI (BANDITS)

Daofei plays a huge role in the story. A vast underground criminal scoiety with its own code of honor run deeply throughout the Earth Kingdom, which is "too big to police" for the Earth Kingdom Army.

As mentioned earlier, Kyoshi's parents were leaders of a prominent Daofei group and Kyoshi herself officially swears her Daofei vows to learn bending skills from her parents' old colleagues. Kyoshi absolutely despises Daofei, though.

Several years before the novel’s start, these bandits staged what is known as the Yellow Neck Rebellion, which is an analogue of the Yellow Turban Rebellion (184–205 AD) during Han Dynasty China. In real life, the rebellion led to the tumultuous time period known as the Three Kingdoms Period, where various warlords fought over control of China.

#the rise of kyoshi #Avatar The Last Airbender #avatar #atla #the last airbender #kyoshi

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