#i ran out of the marker i use for his skin color like months ago

[teal-bandit]

A redraw of one of my older pieces

The implications of Pietro inheriting Erik's powers is still making me feel things.

#pietro maximoff #quicksilver #redraw #my god it feels like its been forever since ive done anything in color #i ran out of the marker i use for his skin color like months ago

[fullbushfemme]

Meeting the Mayans

word count: 1,804

summary: You thought you were prepared for anything. Growing up with four brothers, you had been bitten, beaten, thrown out of trees, concussed, stabbed, practically any violent act you could possibly think of, you had endured. For a kindergarten teacher, you were tough. You had the scars to prove it. That was, of course, until the day you met the Mayans.

unnamed mayan x fem!reader

warnings: brief mentions of blood, hostage situation, and a shooting.

author's note: I've had this idea in my head for ages now and I'm tempted to make it a series. The only issue is that I can't decide which Mayan I want to star (since they aren't named in this fic). I'm tempted to use this as a jumping off point for multiple fics, writing different stories from this initial incident involving different Mayans, but I'd love to hear any thoughts y'all might have :)

-I also haven't written anything outside of academic works in years so go easy on me <3

Santo Padre Septembers were always your favorite. It was sticky and hot, enough to make anyone want to jump into a pool fully clothed, but school was back in session, which meant you got to meet a new hoard of bright-eyed, eager five year olds. You had spent the last month preparing your classroom for their arrival. Nine am to one pm every day for four weeks was dedicated to decorating your classroom, making name cards, making sure every student had all the supplies they needed. Inside every desk you placed glue and markers and pencils and workbooks and scissors...everything a little kid would need to express themselves. And all of it out of your own pocket. You took it upon yourself to spoil these kids rotten.

Two weeks into class, you already knew everyone’s names, their favorite color, their pets, and whether or not they were allowed to watch TV after six o’clock. You knew who was friends with who, who couldn’t eat peanut butter, and who was most popular. This year’s class was going to be great, you just knew it.

It was a humid Friday afternoon. The room smelled like Elmer’s glue and pencil shavings, with stray scraps of construction paper strewn about the floor after the kids decided this week’s art project was going to be making dinosaurs out of construction paper and glitter. You were staying after class to clean up and vacuum, and to take the class rabbit home with you since no one had signed up to care for him this week, when you heard a knock at your door.

You looked over to the open door, squinting into the sun, trying to make out who it was. But no one was standing in the doorway. “Forget something?” you called out, thinking that a student must’ve left a lunch box or notebook and was feeling shy.

“Not exactly,” a deep voice responded, sending a twinge of fear through your body. You knew that voice. “I was hoping my baby sister could help me with something.”

A lump had formed in your throat that you tried to swallow, to no avail. “What are you doing here?” you choked out, standing from where you were picking up paper scraps.

“I need you to help me hide. Quickly.” Your older brother stepped into the classroom, gun in hand, pupils wider than you had ever seen them. He must’ve been high, you thought, panicked. What had he gotten into now? All four of your brothers were known to be trouble-makers to varying degrees. A few had been to prison for petty crimes, but the brother that stood before you had gotten wrapped up in drug trafficking years ago. He scared you the most. They had all promised your parents that they would keep their lives separate from yours, that they would never put you in harm's way. But it didn’t last. It felt like every other week you had a bruised or beaten brother on your doorstep, begging for help or a place to stay. And today, it was to ask you to hide them.

Your eyes flitted to the large windows overlooking the grassy courtyard where a few children sat waiting for their parents to pick them up. Hide. Hide from what? Who was coming after him? Would they hurt the kids?

“N-no,” you stammered, taking a step backwards. You couldn’t risk putting any kids still on campus in danger. “You can’t hide here. You have to go. You have to go right now.” You could feel a pit in your stomach begin to form as your brother took slow, long strides toward you.

“No?” he spat, completely dumbfounded by your refusal to help him. You had never turned him down before. He was family. You never said no to family.

You swallowed hard before repeating yourself. “No,” you responded, with more conviction this time, although you knew he could see right through you.

You took another step back, but ran up against your desk. Your phone was in the top drawer. Could you reach it fast enough? If you even could, who would you call? The police? That was a good way to get murdered and leave a teacher-shaped stain on the floor for the kids to come back to on Monday. Gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turned white, your brother broke the ominous silence before you could.

“I’m not asking you again, hun,” he spat, now so close you could smell him.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your eyes welling up. “The kids…”

He furrowed his brow for a moment, shocked at the idea that you could actually turn your own flesh and blood away. You had always helped him, no matter how many times your parents told you not to, no matter how many times your life was put in danger. He couldn’t grasp the idea that you would put your foot down when it came to endangering other people, when it came to endangering your kids.

“They’ll kill you, you know,” he seethed, looking back over his shoulder towards the open door. There was a low rumbling growing louder and louder, but that wasn’t to whom he was referring. He was talking about your other brothers. “I told them I’d go to my baby sister, that she’d help me. She always helps me. Why would she flip on me now? Why wouldn’t she help family?” His grip tightened around his handgun as he leaned in to threaten you. “If anything happens to me, they’ll know to come to you first. They’ll know you couldn’t protect your own family.” His breath was hot against your neck. “Now,” he sighed, “Help me hide. And tell them you haven’t seen me in months.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” a man shouted from outside, causing your brother to grab hold of your arm. Those tears you had been holding back finally fell down your cheeks as your brother pulled you in front of him, placing you between the stranger and your brother. You could barely make out any details of the man from outside because of the blinding sun, but you could tell he had a gun. And that gun was much bigger than your brother’s. As the man moved into your classroom, at least five more men appeared and followed him in, all with guns pointed at your brother.

At this point, you were frozen. The lives your parents had so desperately tried to keep apart were crashing together, their worst nightmare coming true. The two of you were stuck, with only one way out. And he knew it. He gripped your arm tighter, making sure your body could be used as an effective human shield. The barrel of his gun was shoved into your ribcage, his face buried into the back of your hair.

“See what you’ve done?” he seethed. You looked at all of the men placed around the room. Leather-clad men on top of a backdrop of crudely painted rainbows and dogs. You hadn’t brought these men here. You didn’t anger a group of gun-toting men. And yet somehow, this was your fault.

“We’re only here for you, kid,” a low, rough voice called out, a different one than before.

But he wouldn’t let them take only him. He was bringing you down with him. He was willing to sacrifice his own family to keep from going down alone.

The seconds ticking by felt like hours. Your heart pounded against your ribcage, desperately trying to break free. But you could do nothing besides stand still. All you could do is hope and pray that these men that had followed your brother here had enough decency not to kill a kindergarten teacher caught in the crossfire. But your brother refused to give them that opportunity.

“If I go,” he yelled, raising his gun to your temple, “she goes too.”

These words would haunt your every thought for the rest of your life. But in that moment, all you could think about was the weapon pressed against your skin. Your brother wasn’t just willing to bring you down with him, he was willing to kill you himself. And the thought of it made you sick. It made you want to curl up into a ball and scream on the top of your lungs. You opened your mouth to cry out, but your brother hit you across the head with the butt of his gun before you could.

The men opposing your brother yelled, harsh words were exchanged, but all you could hear was a ringing in your ears. Tensions rose. Guns were raised. Blood dripped down your face and mixed with your tears. Your senses were betraying you, one by one, blending every sensation into one incomprehensible nightmare.

And then, a single gunshot rang out, making you acutely aware of the severity of the situation once more.

A scream escaped your chest as you fell to your knees, free from your brother’s death grip. You brought your hands up to your ears and squeezed your eyes shut, hoping it would all be over.

But it wasn’t over. It wouldn’t end. No matter how hard you prayed, you were still on the floor of your kindergarten classroom. Your brother was still prepared to kill you if he felt threatened. Someone was shot...someone was shot but you couldn’t bear to look. You wanted to look, you had to look, to see if it was your brother that was shot. But before you could muster the courage to open your eyes, two arms wrapped around you and pulled you into an embrace. It couldn’t have been your brother, it was much too gentle. But if it wasn’t him, then who?

It took a moment to open your eyes, but when you did, you looked up to see who was holding you. His face was kind, with dark brown eyes filled with worry as he looked down at you. He opened his mouth to say something to you, and he probably did, but you couldn’t hear him over the pounding in your head. He was a stranger to you, and yet he clung to you to keep you from seeing the mess behind you. Like he truly cared for your wellbeing. He pulled you in closer to him, placing his chin on top of your head the way your father did when you were young. It felt...safe. And all you wanted to do was collapse into him and allow yourself to feel safe. You let your head fall into his chest. You let your head fall into this stranger’s chest. And just as you did, two white patches on his left breast caught your eye. Two patches that read: Mayans, Santo Padre.

#mayans mc #bishop losa #michal ariza #riz ariza #taza #taza romero #angel reyes #ez reyes #mayans mc fanfic

[thiswasinevitableid]

88. I dropped my watch in an open grave, jumped in to get it, and while you were visiting your dead grandmother, you saw me climbing out of the grave (credit to @enchantedcass)

Indruck, sfw or nsfw, please!

Here it is! This is technically SFW, though there's some discussion of sex and a bit of steaminess at the end.

“Here, these are fresh.” Indrid sets the wildflowers on the small, stone marker, so covered with moss and worn with age that no one can read it. He only knows where to find her because he watched from the Barrens as she was put in the ground.

Temperance Leeds. His grandmother, the one who narrowly avoided accusations of witchcraft, the only human who ever set foot deep enough in the trees to bring him food, to drape blankets over his shaking shoulders. She never forgot him, and he shall return the favor as long as he lives.

There’s a thump of earth behind him and he whirls; it’s midnight in a graveyard, who could possibly be here? The ghosthunters usually wait for darker nights to come. In his periphery, a hand rises from an open grave.

Great, if the dead rise he’ll probably be blamed for that too.

“Fuck” A young man pulls himself from the grave, staring at his cell phone, “c’mon, please don’t be fuckin cracked.” Light illuminates his face and sighs, “thank fuckin christ.”

The light disappears and he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark. Indrid, too caught up in working out why he’s in the ground, hasn’t bothered to hide as he should. The human notices.

“Uh. I. Uh. Dropped my phone checkin the time. I, uh, definitely wasn’t smokin in the off limits, uh, fuck, graveyard I, uh, I fuck, promise I’ll clean up my beer bottles I mean, uh, fuck.” He scratches the back of his neck, “please don’t call the cops?”

“Can you see me?” Indrid cocks his head.

“Yeah?”

“And you are worried about me alerting the police?”

“I mean, guess we’re both breakin the rules but I kinda figured you were staff here because of the clothes.” He gestures to the ensemble Indrid cobbled together from clothes lines.

Indrid stands, stretches his wings, flicks his tail and watches the human slowly notice the color of his eyes and the outline of his horns.

“Fuck. Look, man, whatever you are, I swear I won’t tell, I’m just tryin to keep busy, please, my folks are already worried about me-”

“I’m not going to harm you.” Lightning cracks through the sky, flashing his shadow across the frightened human, “I just wanted you to see me clearly.”

Rain patters on the leather of his wings. The man looks up at the sky, face seeming even younger as it fills with resignation. Indrid recognizes it’s source.

“You have nowhere to go, do you?”

“No. I, uh, decided I wanted to get outta town and never come back, made it as far as here before I ran outta money.”

Indrid offers his hand, watches the man’s face zero in on the claws, “You may spend the night with me, if you wish. My home is a ways into the woods, but it is dry and warm.”

“Okay.” The young man replies softly, letting Indrid help him up as the dirt turns to mud. Indrid shelters him as best he can with a wing until they reach the cottage. Indrid kneels by the fireplace, lumps kindling into a pile as the young man sets his backpack on a chair.

“Nice place. Gotta admit I was expectin somethin more dilapidated. On account of the whole, uh, y’know.” He gestures to Indrid’s horns and cloven feet.

“It was much like you expected, once upon a time. But a human named Arlo Thacker took pity on me and helped me build it with the aid of a few friends. There.” The fire flickers merrily, “that should keep us warm. You may--ah, what are you doing?”

The young man has removed his jacket and shirt, revealing what Indrid recognizes from human magazines as a sports bra. His hands are now on the fly of his jeans.

“You said I was supposed to, uh, spend the night with you?”

“Yes, in that you may sleep here to be safe from the weather and any who might wish you harm. Not so that you may keep me warm. So to speak.”

“You’re not gonna fuck me?”

Indrid flicks his tail, surprised, “You would offer yourself to me, looking like this?”

The man nods in a way that suggests he’s run a calculus in his head and decided Indrid’s desire was less abhorrent than some other option. Indrid crosses the small living room, bringing them face to face. He reaches out a hand, runs his claws through black hair until the human closes his eyes. Then his hand slides to cup his cheek, one nail tracing fond little shapes on the skin as the man sighs. Against his better judgement, he tilts his head down to nose the dark locks; smoke lingers there, just as alcohol hangs on his breath. He’s so warm, so willing and so very soft. Indrid wants nothing more than to undress him further, carry him to his cozy bedroom and discover what sounds come when he fits their bodies together.

“What’s your name?”

“Duck. It’s a nickname.”

“A charming one. But no, Duck, I will not take such advantage of you. I may be called a devil, but I do not believe in making one trade their body for basic kindness. Come along, the bedroom will allow you more privacy.”

“Thanks.” Duck sways, and Indrid senses a weariness he’s not certain a good nights rest will fix. Tomorrow he will be sure to be gone when Duck awakens, leaving his dry clothes and a map back to town outside his door so that he can do what Indrid can dare to; leave the Barrens and find a life waiting for him in the world beyond.

-----------------------------------------------------------

There are some days when Duck thinks his encounter in the woods was a dream. The hand-drawn map he keeps folded among his books tells him otherwise.

He’d come home after that night, made his peace with Kepler for a few years more, and often awoke from dreams where he was pushing through brush in pursuit of a strange shadow. He never cites these as a reason for his taking a job at a state forest in New Jersey that includes the Barrens.

Now, he’s decided to upgrade from his apartment to a house in the woods that’s been listed for over two years and is a goddamn steal because of that.

“As you can see, there’s another residence across the clearing; that’s why the company that built this lovely dwelling was able to do so. They intended to build a nice little community here.”

“The fact that ain’t happened got anythin to do with the reason I gotta stay the night before I make an offer?”

Ned’s smile falters, “Indeed, dear boy. I like you, so I’ll be forthcoming; we’ve never seen anyone in the other house. But they have most certainly seen us.”

Duck settles in for an uneventful afternoon and evening, reads his book and considers whether he could fit some windowboxes on the house for garden space. It’s not until it’s pitch black outside that it starts; footsteps on the roof, followed shortly by red eyes peering in through the living room window.

He opens the front door, the undergrowth rustling hurriedly to his left.

“Uh, hey there. You may not remember me but, uh, we’ve actually met before. About ten years ago. You uh, you let me stay the night?”

Only some crickets, unaware of the tension in the air, reply to him. Then the bushes grow two, ruby red flowers.

“Duck?”

“Yep. Y’know, you never told me your name. If we’re gonna be neighbors, feels like I oughta know what to call you.”

A shadow moves from the trees, stopping when it reaches the light spilling from the windows. He’s as Duck remembers him; short horns sprouting from a mop of silver hair, claws on his fingers and black wings folded on his back. His skin is a swirl of ashy grey and ember red. And his face, while striking, is human. That was the part that always tripped Duck up; the Jersey Devil was always drawn with a goat or horse face, making him question whether that’s who he met all those years ago.

“Indrid. My name is Indrid.”

“Nice to see you again, Indrid.”

The other man smiles, and Duck knows what will replace the mad hunt through the brush in his dreams, “Likewise.”

-------------------------------------------------

“You know, she had three more children after me. None of them suffered the same curse.” Indrid kicks idly at the long decayed remains of his family home. Their nightly walk brough them close to it this time around, and Duck had been curious. His interest is never prurient or morbid; Duck wants to get to know Indrid, not his legend.

“That fuckin sucks.”

Indrid chuckles, “I do enjoy how you put things so plainly.”

“I’m serious, what kind of folks put their kid out when it’s a baby? I mean, mine weren't always the fuckin parents of the year but at least they understood lookin after me was part of the deal.”

“It was a different time.”

“Fine, but I’m still judgin the hell outta them.”

Indrid looks fondly down at the human, “That’s as fair a fate for them as any.”

---------------------------------------

“It don’t weird you out?” Juno indicates Indrid’s house from where she and Duck are sitting on his front porch. The twin Adirondack chairs are a new addition, as the warmer months mean he and Indrid spend ample time trying to see the stars through the treetops.

“Nah. Indrid’s a real good neighbor when he’s around. He’s uh, from an old family so he don’t gotta work. Part of why he keeps such weird hours.” Duck wishes he could introduce them; it’d be nice for the three of them to have dinner before Juno heads south again. But Indrid has several centuries of shitty human encounters that dig under his skin like splinters, and Duck will never push him to ignore that pain. Besides, there will be other visits.

The summer and fall pass in much the same ways last winter and spring did. Duck works in the park, visits friends in town, runs errands, and generally goes about all the mundane moments that make up a life. Then he spends his evenings in one of the two cottages, or walking alongside Indrid on long-overgrown pathways.

The hardest part of it all is not mentioning Indrid in every single conversation; Duck is already tempting disaster being unable to lie and the neighbor of a cryptid. He doesn’t want to also drive his friends up the wall talking about said cryptids art, or his laugh, or the little herb garden Duck is helping him grow.

They’re in the stretch of days between Christmas and New Year, and Indrid has just finished opening the gift Duck brought him; a thick, soft sweater that Duck stitched a “I” into the front of along with a few little pine tree patches. Indrid smiles at him and notices that Duck’s sweater is done in a similar fashion (in fact, everyone in the Newton family wears one like this). The grin turns bashful and Indrid rubs his cheek against the fabric.

“Thank you, Duck. I, ah, I’m sorry I do not have anything to give you. Holidays are not my strong suit.”

“Just gettin to see you is enough.” Duck stands to refill his tea, Indrid’s gaze caressing his back as he moves through the room. He almost hadn’t gone home, had offered to stay and keep Indrid company. But his friend insisted, reminding him that while it felt odd to be without each other, they both had spent plenty of time apart and been fine. All the same, when he got home yesterday Indrid was knocking on his door before he even put his bag down.

Duck didn’t mind at all. No more than he minds when Indrid sleeps with his head in his lap or strokes his hair while they read on the couch.

The cryptid stokes the fire as the snow gives way to sleet, streaking the windows with icy drops.

“Goodness, what a frigid night.”

“No kiddin.” Duck sets his mug down, turns just as Indrid gets to his feet, “can’t say I mind, kinda reminds me of the night we met.”

The colors of Indrid’s skin make a blush difficult to spot, but Duck’s learned which dip of his head and quirk of his lip means it’s there.

“‘Drid? Did you ever think about that night? Because I did. I, uh, I do.”

“Yes.” Indrid’s tail twitches.

“What do you think about?”

“I, ah, I...you first.”

Duck crosses the creaking floorboards, looking up into red eyes, “I think about how safe it felt when you brought me here. How when I woke up, I felt like this was some kinda weird sign, that I needed to rethink some things and that’s how come I went home, which turned out to be a good call. And” he smirks, “I think about how I was drunk and desperate enough to ask the fuckin Jersey Devil if he was gonna fuck me.”

Indrid blushes once more, studies the ground as Duck touches his shoulder, “I must say that is the part that dominated most of my thoughts. Not right away; for the first few weeks when I thought of you I only hoped you were alright. Then I would let myself imagine that I had been devilish indeed.”

Gently, Duck raises Indrid’s hand and cradles his cheek with it as they did that night, “What would you have done, devil of mine?”

A snicker, “I will answer that only if you tell me whether you are angling for the demonstration that I think you are.”

“Damn right.” He closes his eyes, heart swelling and skin prickling as Indrid steps closer and nuzzles the top of his head.

“I would have asked if you were tired of running. If you wanted a home. And would you like to make it here, so that we could keep each other company. I know in my heart this would have been a selfish offer. I am glad I did not make it, did not trap you here, resign you to a fate that was not what you would have chosen freely.”

“I’m pretty fuckin free these days.”

“And that all on it’s own fills me with joy. But yes, there were nights where I wished I’d been selfish.”

Duck tips his head up, brushing their noses together, “Say you made that offer and I accepted. What then?”

Indrid cups his face with both hands. The kiss is chaste, Indrid sighing against his lips as he twines his claws in his hair. Duck wraps his arms around his waist, lightly teasing the edge of one wing.

“Then” Indrid murmurs, “I’d carry you to bed.”

“Yeah, that part woulda been easier when I was seventeEEN” he laughs as Indrid scoops him into a bridal carry with ease. He’s never been in Indrid’s bed, so he giggles again when he discovers it’s ten times squishier than his own. The cryptid sinks onto it with him, guiding him so they’re face to face on their sides.

“May I undress you?”

“Knock yourself out, darlin.” Affection deep and warm as a thermal spring wells up in him as Indrid carefully removes his sweater and shirt before dainty setting his claws to work on his fly. When Duck is down to his boxers, hunger enters Indrid’s eyes for the first time.

“Oh you are divine.” One hand strokes his leg, pausing at the crease of his thigh each time it reaches there. The other curves along his belly up to his chest before caressing his face, the black claws making his skin seem oddly pale and very fragile in comparison.

Duck touches the hem of Indrid’s shirt and the cryptid freezes.

“‘Drid? Is this okay?”

“Do you...truly wish to see me unclothed?”

Duck surges forward to kiss him as he rucks up his shirt, the movement a sufficient answer for Indrid to raise his arms and let him pull the sweater and battered shirt beneath it away. His skin here is the same swirl of colors as the rest of him, but there’s a dusting of peach fuzz fur across it. It’s delightful under Duck’s tongue, though the little keen of pleasure from Indrid is even better.

“It’s strange” Indrid traces hearts and zig-zags with his claws along Duck’s sides as the human continues kissing his chest and neck, “I thought that seeing you like this would so overwhelm me with need that I’d beg to have you this instant. But it seems I feel much the same way I did in my fantasies of that night.”

“Oh” Duck reaches up to toy with the base of a horn and Indrid groans happily before continuing.

“Had you stayed, knowing you were now mine, I’d have taken my time. Nestled you under the blankets, opened you up on my tongue until you were weak from pleasure. That way it would be easy to take you when I was ready. Perhaps on your back, so you had me to hold onto if you needed. Or on your belly, so you would be even more sheltered from the cold, cruel world by my body and wings. And I’d stay there for hours, make up for decade after decade of touch starvation by glutting myself on your young, willing body.”

“Holy fuck, ‘Drid.” Duck pulls him down into a kiss, “christ that’s a fuckin good image.”

“Mmmm” the cryptid licks his cheek, “it is, isn’t it. But since you are not going anywhere, and we are not limited by the confines of my imagination, I am even less inclined to rush. Will you indulge me with just kisse tonight?”

Duck brushes silver hair from his forehead, planting a kiss there when he’s done, “Of course.”

----------------------

The morning brings several feet of snow and announcement that those who can stay in their homes and shelter from the ongoing storm should. The pines drop heaps of white across the ground, and frost makes the windows so icy it’s better to draw the curtains and stay curled up in the dark.

Duck doesn’t mind at all.

#indrid cold/ duck newton #indruck #meet ugly #monster boyfriend

[baka-monarch]

👉👈 soulmate au where whatever you write appears on the other's arm but one is smol and the other is the human who caught them. 👉👈

Was scrolling through my WIPs when I saw this thing I wrote at some point around the beginning of summer. It was supposed to have more chapters, and he gets caught eventually, but here's chapter 1. But then I remembered your ask and how I'd been having writer's block, so I hope this will suffice! Also, it has trans Patton, so don't freak out because of Logan's soul mate

Just A Little Emo

Chapter 1 (idk if I'm ever going to finish the other chapters if I'm being honest)

Virgil had just turned three not even a month ago, but loved to play with the marker tips his parents had borrowed for his present. He didn’t have any paper scraps to doodle on, but that didn’t stop him as his arm got covered with every color he could fit on there. He stuck out his tongue, laying on the ground, focused on his masterpiece. His oversized hoodie, from his mom, was discarded to the side, giving him full access to the canvas that was his skin. He was so focused that when suddenly a little flower was drawn out of nowhere, he jumped making a startled noise as he waved his hand around trying to get it off.

“Virgil, what’s wrong?” His mother spoke gently, as she came to investigate.

“Fower!?” Virgil held out his little hand showing her the illustration still being added to by an unknown hand. His mother smiled softly, knowing exactly what was going on.

“Honey, that’s your soul mate.” She picked him up, and held his hand so he could watch as more detail was added.

“Souw matt?” He looked at her curiously.

“”What you draw on your skin, your soulmate will see too, and when they draw it’ll be just for you!”” His mother quoted, booping him on the nose on the last word. “Your soulmate is your true love, the person you’re meant to be with. When you draw on your skin, you’re showing them that you care, and that you will always be there for them…” She trailed off sadly at the end.

“Daddy souw matt?” Virgil pointed to his mother’s hand, not noticing her change of mood.

“No, daddy isn’t my soulmate. I’m afraid neither of us have met ours yet.” She looked down at her hand, where there was currently a picture of a small four leaf clover, with its leaves designed like hearts. “Most borrowers don’t ever meet their soulmate.”

“Mommy?” Virgil squished her cheeks between his hands, getting marker ink all her face, smiling when she gave him a confused look. “Souw matt see wove now!” She giggled at his words.

“Yes, Virgil, they can see how much I love them now.” Some words were written on her arm making her chuckle, Virgil tried to make sense of the scribbles, but had no idea what they meant. “Why don’t you go draw something for your soulmate while I make dinner, okay?”

“Okie!” He giggled jumping off her lap. He grabbed his markers and started coloring in the flower that was being drawn. His mother smiled fondly at him.

Neither of them knew that this was going to be their last memory together. That, after that night Virgil’s father would leave her, taking Virgil with him.

⇔

Virgil spent two years without a mom. His dad explained that he’d found out his soulmate didn’t live too far away and had made plans in secret to be with her by meeting at a house close to where each lived. Unfortunately, they had miscalculated and Virgil’s dad had to take care of Virgil alone for two years. Throughout that time Virgil was left alone in the walls often, and had a game him and his soulmate would play. One of them would start a drawing and the other would finish it, they did that and many other things together just through their connection alone. Neither of them knew how to read or write yet, so when Virgil felt alone he would talk to himself, imagining that his soulmate was there with him, listening to all of his random little thoughts.

Little did he know that his soulmate was doing the same thing.

Roman King could remember that night clear as day. He had woken up from his nap time to find his arms and hands covered with all sorts of colors, with more still appearing. He had rushed out of the nursery, ignoring his snoring brother, and straight(lol)to his mom. “Mommy! Mommy!” His mother turned around from the cooking pasta at her son’s distressed voice, seeing tears pricking his eyes as he held out his arms with fear. It didn’t take her long to understand. She picked up her sniffling son, wiping his tears away. “Mommy, there color o-on m-m-me, a-a-and i-it’s sti-il coming!” 

“Shh, shh.” She rubbed the tears and snot from his face. “It’s okay sweetheart, it’s okay, it’s only your soulmate.”

“Saoul malt?” He looked at her confused, then back down at his arms, trying to see if there was something there, other than the colors. His mother chuckled fondly.

“Yes, your “saoul malt”.” She booped him on the nose. “”What you draw on your skin, your soulmate will see too, and when they draw it’ll be just for you!”” She tapped his arm as an example. “Your soulmate is drawing for you Roman, it means that they love you.”

“Wove?” Roman’s eyes widened and sparkled at the familiar word.

“Yes, love, like Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming.” She chuckled as he looked down at his arms with wonder and delight.

“Pwincess?” He held his arms out to her in question.

“Maybe, you’ll never know until you meet her, Prince Roman.” She smiled as he gasped with wonder. His eyes sparkled with excitement. “Do you wanna draw for her?” She grabbed a discarded marker off the counter and held it out to him.

“Mhm!” He snatched the marker and wiggled out of her arms as she set him down. As soon as he was back on the floor he fell to his bum and uncapped the marker. It only took him a few seconds to think of what to draw for his princess. A flower. It was perfect, what princess doesn’t like a flower?

⇔

For the next two years Roman always had a marker on him just so he could draw with his soulmate. You could almost say that they were inseparable. It was during these two years that Roman started preschool, while there he learned a little about writing, mainly his name, but that didn’t stop him from picking up the skill quickly as he wrote and rewrote his name on his arm over and over again hoping that someday he would know more about these scribbles so he could ‘talk’ to his soulmate.

One day as Virgil was coloring one of his soulmate’s doodles he saw a series of scribbles appear. Although he recognized them as words, he had no idea what they meant. Not knowing what else to do, he mimicked the scribbles to show that he saw them to his soulmate. In return his soulmate scribbled again, and Virgil in turn copied him. They kept doing this, scribbling and rescribbleing, each new scribble being more clearer and clean. At some point Virgil even ran out of room on his arms, so he listed his oversized hoodie and started scribbling there.

“What’re ya doin there Spiderman?” His dad asked as he returned from borrowing.

“Souw matt.” Virgil pointed at the scribbles, showing the red ink where his soulmate had scribbled and the black ink where he had copied them. Virgil’s dad recognized what the scribbles were and what they said easily.

“It’s your soulmate’s name Spiderman.” He explained as he picked up his son.

“Na-ame?” Virgil sounded out.

“Yeah, it looks like your soulmate is Roman.” His father smiled.

“Wroammin?” Virgil tried the name.

“Yeah, Roman.” His father said a little more hard, trying to help his son to understand the name.

“Raman.” Virgil smiled, proud that he ‘got’ the name. His dad chuckled at his son’s attempt, but still proud how close he was.

“Do you wanna write your name?” He gently took the marker tip, ready to help the kid.

“Yeah!” Virgil exclaimed with stars in his eyes. 

⇔

It wasn’t until later that night that Roman saw a series of scribbles appear on his arm, spelling out, what his mom claimed said, “Virgil.” Through the next two years up until kindergarten, Roman did all he could to learn about writing, as Virgil worked with his dad when he could to learn how to write in return. It wasn’t until the first day of kindergarten that Roman realized that there was more to reading and writing than just talking to your soulmate.

“Hello class, my name is Mrs. Parrot, and welcome to kindergarten.” Roman was five now, and was in kindergarten. Roman barely heard the teacher as he and Virgil tried to write each other’s names more fancier than the other. So far it seemed that Virgil was winning as he added all these little stars and curly letters, but Roman was determined to win. He paid no mind to the rest of the class or the teacher, as he wrote Virgil’s name on his arm in bubble letters, using all the markers he had to color them in, adding little spiders and skulls (he knew Virgil liked them from all the times they finished each other’s drawings), and making sure that there was more than enough purple. In fact he was so engrossed that he hadn't noticed the class sharing their names, hadn’t noticed all the eyes that had focused on him from his assigned table, hadn’t noticed the lesson, and had definitely not noticed the teacher's annoyance. Well, he hadn’t noticed until the teacher snached all of his markers away.

“Hey!” Roman glared up at her. It didn’t take long for her to see his soulmate’s writing on his arm.

“I understand if you want to write to your soulmate, but please pay attention.” She snapped before clicking back to her desk, depositing the markers into her desk. “You’ll get these back at the end of class.” Was all she said before returning to teaching. Roman only pouted, perfectly content with not paying attention until then.

“My soulmate also draws to me during school.” To Roman’s left there was a boy about his age, except he looked uptight with his hair made well and the little suit he wore. The boy fixed his glasses before holding out a hand for him to shake. “I am Logan.” As Roman went to shake the hand, he almosted wanted to laugh in surprise, despite Logan’s cold exterior his arm was covered in cute little drawings, most of which were goofy little cartoons. Roman hesitated to collect himself before taking the hand to shake it.

“Roman.” As their hands shook they noticed that their soulmates had stopped drawing momentarily. When they pulled their hands apart, Roman noticed that he had gotten some of his purple ink on Logan’s hand. Instead of Logan being distraught, his eyes widened in amazement as the word ‘Virgil’ appeared next to the smudge, he looked at Roman’s hand to find the word ‘Peggy’ written on his. “Peggy?” Roman questioned.

“She’s my soulmate.” Logan thought for a moment, “They must know each other.” he theorised.

“No way!” Roman exclaimed. “How do we know for sure?” Logan wasted no time in pulling out a marker of his own, keeping it and his hand under the desk. He didn’t normally break rules, but this was to test a hypothesis. He used Roman’s arm for reference as he wrote ‘Roman’ onto his arm. Only moments later did the word ‘Logan’ appear on Roman’s arm. “That’s so cool!”

“Indeed.” Logan breathed in surprise.

⇔

Virgil’s dad had recently found a small borrower settlement in an abandoned sewer pipe not even five feet away from the house they were living in. So when his dad was busy for the day, he left Virgil with one of the shop owners there, she had a daughter about Virgil’s age as well. Her name was Peggy, and Virgil got along with her well. It was on this particular day that Virgil and Peggy were left in a backroom of the shop unattended with some marker tips, and Virgil was doing all he could to write Roman’s name in the most magnificent way he could, as Roman was writing his name just as grand. Peggy watched from the side with intrigue as she drew little cartoony puppies every now and then on her arm. They didn’t really think much of their different arms, until Peggy brought up a point.

“What if our soulmates know each other?” She wondered aloud.

“There’s no way.” Virgil deadpanned, not looking up from his writing even though it seemed Roman had stopped. “It’s basically impossible.”

“Did your soulmate stop drawing?” She noted.

“We were writing, but yeah.” He stopped his scribbling for a moment to actually look at it.

“Well, my soulmate usually stops drawing around this time as well.” She explained. “Maybe they live together?”

“It’s probably just a coincidence.” Virgil tried, but there was no denying it when suddenly the splotch on Virgil’s hand was mirrored onto Peggy’s hand.

“See!?” She bounced with excitement and grabbed a marker tip. “What’s your name again?” 

“Uhm-”

“Nevermind!” She cut him off as she used his arm for reference, she quickly wrote his name next to the smudge on her hand, before grabbing Virgil’s hand.

“Hey!” He tried to pull it back, but there was nothing he could do as she wrote her name on his hand. “What was that for-” The words were lost on Virgil’s tongue as Roman’s name appeared on Peggy’s arm. “How…” 

“See! They do know each other!” She bounced.

“What’s your soulmate’s name?” Virgil asked.

“Logan!” She chirped.Virgil nodded and wrote Logan onto his arm. Moments later there was a little check mark next to the name, showing that Roman had seen it.

“Looks like they do know each other.”

#sander sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #prinxiety #g/t #giant/tiny #borrower Virgil #ask #request #promt #soulmate au #just a little emo #trans patton #kid roman #kid virgil

[darklingduke]

Finding the Write Words

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Author Note: So, I originally wrote this fic back in July/August of 2019, but I wanted to revamp it with my updated writing style, show my growth as a writer, etc. (And I’m in the process of editing it in order to get it bound in a physical copy because I’m still really proud of this fic) And I figured I would share it here. The original blog I wrote this in was @/probablynothumanish, which has been since deactivated and someone else has that blog title ^^

Summary: In a world where everything that happens on your soulmate’s skin, happens on yours, Virgil Sinclair hides as much of his skin as he possibly can. He believes that it is too good to be true that any one person could be meant to be with him for life. 

Ships: LAMP/CALM, Demus/Intruceit

Chapter One: Ink

Virgil was ten years old when he saw them for the first time. He was sitting at the back of the classroom, staring out the window rather than actually paying attention to the lesson - not that it was anything important. It never was. 

He felt a tingling warmth rise to the skin on his arm, and his first instinct was that his arm had fallen asleep from propping his chin up, his elbow pressed to the hard top of the desk he sat at. But when he moved his arm to try to regain feeling in the limb, something caught his eye. Brows pulling together, Virgil watched as a patch of pink appeared on his skin. 

It looked like…

Paint?

But that didn’t make any sense. 

When was the last time he had painted anything? Art class was yesterday and he didn’t have it again until next week. And even if it had been today, he usually tried to steer clear of pink, not wanting any of the other students to pick on him for using such a “girly” color. 

Deciding he was most likely imagining it, Virgil shook his head and tugged his sweater sleeve over his arm, covering the offending mark before turning his attention to the front of the classroom. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe he’d spent too long daydreaming, and he was imagining things in real life now. 

He would ask his grandma about it when he got home. 

The tingling warmth persisted, despite the fact that he was no longer looking at the skin, for another half hour before it ended abruptly, and Virgil found himself freezing without it. He pulled his arms further into the sleeves of his sweater, seeking out some sort of warmth to soothe himself. He bunched his shoulders until his hands disappeared into the soft, warm fabric, but even that wasn’t enough. 

The rest of the school day went by even slower than usual, which was really saying something. It normally dragged on at such a sluggish pace anyways that it was hard to imagine it being even slower. Virgil had a hard enough time under normal circumstances concentrating on what the teacher was saying, but with the memory of the mark fresh in his mind, it was nigh unto impossible. 

By the time he was called to board the bus, he was absolutely certain that he was going to go insane. The entire bus ride home, his eyes scanned his arm, trying to see the mark through his sleeve, as though it was some magical thing that was going to be visible in any circumstance. About halfway home, he caved and pulled his sleeve up, only to see that there was nothing there. 

What?

So… he had been imagining it, after all. 

He was a little disappointed, to say the least. A part of him had hoped that he was special and had magic powers or something. Maybe he would ask his grandma about it anyways; just explain what had happened, rather than showing her. 

When the bus pulled up to his stop, he ran off of it and right into his grandma’s arms. She was one of the very few parents or guardians who actually bothered to wait at the bus stop; most of them didn’t want to stand out in the cold, so they would either wait to drive up until the bus left, or they would simply have their kids walk home if they were close enough. 

“How was school today, sweetie?” his grandma cooed in a voice that felt like honey. It was always able to wash away his worries, and as they walked home, he was able to forget about the ever-pressing worry that he was hallucinating. 

“It was okay!” he chimed, jumping over a pile of snow on the sidewalk, only to slip on a patch of ice when he landed. His breath caught in his throat as he anticipated his butt hitting the sidewalk full-force, only for his hand to be grabbed in an instant by his grandma, catching him before he fell. 

“Are you alright?” she cooed, though she didn’t stop walking, having been confronted by Virgil last month about babying him out in public. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, heat rising in his cheeks as he hunched his shoulders until the lower half of his face was hidden behind his scarf. His shoulder hurt a little from being yanked, but he was glad that she had stopped him from falling. His pride hurt more than anything, but he knew logically that it wouldn’t last. 

It didn’t take long before they walked into their house - a small two bedroom ranch-style house that somehow always managed to give Virgil the same feeling as eating a home-cooked meal or drinking hot chocolate after a long day of snowball fights. It was just… warm. 

“Gramma, can I talk to you about something?” Virgil asked as he hung up his coat and scarf, his earlier embarrassment forgotten. 

“Of course,” she replied simply. It always amazed Virgil how she never got anxious when he started a conversation like that, but as soon as she did the same to him, he was filled with an undeniable, inexplicable sense of panic. 

“Earlier today,” he started, taking a seat on the couch, “when I was in class, I saw this… thing on my arm. It looked like… almost like… paint?” He rolled up his sleeve to show his grandma the spot where it had been, even though he knew it wasn’t there anymore. “My arm got all tingly and stuff, but then when I looked again later, it was gone.”

“Ohhh,” his grandma nodded in understanding, taking a seat beside him. “Virgil, sweetie, that’s just your soulmate. I guess now is as good a time as any to give you that talk,” she chuckled, such a sweet sound that brushed away his worries. “You know how I told you not to draw on your skin?”

He nodded, remembering the conversation they had had last year when Virgil had doodled all over his skin rather than paying attention to his homework. 

“Well, that’s because everything that happens on your skin happens on theirs, too. Every time you fall and skin your knees, every time you get marker or paint on your hands, every time you get a bruise. And it’s there for them as long as it’s on your skin. Since the paint is gone from  your arm, that just means your soulmate washed it off. No big deal. Their art class probably just ended is all.”

“What’s a soulmate?” he asked curiously, cocking his head to the side. He had heard the word before, of course, on television and in movies, but had never had it explained to him and was always too nervous to ask. 

“It’s one person - or multiple people - that you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with. Normally it’s as partners, you would get married to them, but sometimes it’s just as friends.”

“But…” His brows pulled together. That made him more confused than he had been before he had known. “I don’t get it. Someone meant to be with me? How do I know?”

“Well, you see, the universe - or God, if you believe in that - saw that person, or those people, and thought that they would be a perfect fit for you, so you were paired with them.”

It seemed almost too good to be true, and he had learned in his short years on this earth that if something seemed too good to be true, it most likely was. After his parents had died in a car accident a few years ago, leaving him to be raised by his grandma, Virgil had stopped believing in the fairy tales that claimed happily ever after. 

That was all they were, he came to realize. 

Fairy tales. 

“Were my parents soulmates?” he asked after a moment. 

Sadness flitted over her face at the mention of them, and Virgil inwardly cursed himself for bringing them up. He hadn’t done so since shortly after the funeral. It was just better - easier - to not talk about them. It caused less pain in the long run. 

But she nodded, the sadness dissolving from her face as she forced a smile to her lips.  

“And you and grandpa?”

Another nod.

“Then… then how come he died if you two were perfect together?”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she grabbed a tissue from the coffee table, dabbing at her eyes before they had the chance to fall. “I don’t know, Virgil. But I’m sure it was for a good reason.”

He didn’t believe it. 

He couldn’t.

There was no way he would believe that any of this could be real.

Soulmates - the idea that there was someone who was supposed to be perfect for you. It seemed insane. The fantasies of a child. There was no way that whoever this soulmate was was going to be perfect for him. There was no way. People had differences, and they argued, and they fought. And if they didn’t, one or both of them died. 

Virgil didn’t want anything to do with the person who was supposedly “perfect” for him. 

He didn’t want to chance the pain his grandma went through when his grandpa died. 

He didn’t want to get his heart broken the way she did. 

Virgil decided right then and there that no matter what happened, he didn’t want a soulmate.

#finding the write words #fic: ftww #ftww #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ts au #sanders sides #sanders sides au #soulmate au #soulmates #human au #human sides #poly sides #lamp calm #lamp #calm #ts lamp #ts lamp fic #snake writes #darkling writes

[highqueenofelfhame]

All I Ask Of You

Oh, don't say that it's over Oh, no, say it ain't so Let's let the stars watch, let them stare Let the wind eavesdrop, I don't care For all that we've got, don't let it go Just hold me Eavesdrop - The Civil Wars

Two Weeks Later

“Ace?” The sound of the voice, too far away to pinpoint with of them it was, echoed through the warehouse below the apartment she had acquired set her teeth on edge. Her tongue ran over her teeth as she debated locking the apartment door, then decided he would bust it down anyway. It was like this every few days. One member of the Cadre would come back to her apartment. They would take turns coming to ask her how she was doing. Was she okay. Fenrys came most often, sometimes with Connall. Vaughan came occasionally. Gavriel had come a handful of times. At one point, they’d even flown Aedion in from the base he was on in Wendlyn to try to talk to her. 

A knock. 

“Aelin? Galathynius, open up.” Lorcan. That was new. When she said nothing, the knob jiggled and after a beat, the door flew open. He didn’t even bother to pause, just stalked into the apartment like he owned the place and dropped into the chair next to her. 

“By all means,” she said flatly, “make yourself at home.” 

“My dislike for you is mild on a good day. You’re arrogant, self absorbed when it comes to so much shit. Sometimes you are such a bitch that I just.” Lorcan closed his fist and tapped it to his forehead. “But you’re a good soldier. You are my soldier, and I’ll be damned if you don’t take my job from me one day. But you have to stop.” When she didn’t say anything, her staying focused on the map, he leaned forward and rubbing the bridge of his nose, then turned his head to really look at her.

Aelin had never looked worse. She knew that. Turns out that getting shot in the shoulder really fucks you up. Even worse was when she woke up, choking on the tube and throwing her arms around, she’d ignored the pain that had burned through every place on her body in her panic. That had only made the injury to her right shoulder worse all over again. Now, having had a second surgery just eight days ago, there was intense amounts of pain despite the obnoxiously uncomfortable sling she had to wear most of the time that gave her shoulder extra support. At present time, she had such limited use of her right hand because of the damage to the muscles and tendons in her shoulder. Less severe was the shot to her back, because by some grace of Mala, had been a clean bullet wound through the skin, missing anything major. In truth, she had been lucky. 

“You didn’t show up for physcal therapy today,” Lorcan finally said, finger trailing over some of the notes that she had scribbled all over the map. Things were color coded, there were stars drawn on other places, more than one big red X. 

“I didn’t care to know what a shit job my body is doing at healing. You won’t let me help find him despite the shit job you’re all doing.” 

“Aelin. Gods above. We’re trying to find him and you know that. I get that you’re having a hard time and I know what he means to you but what the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish? You can’t use your dominant hand for shit, your bullet wound still bleeds when you use too much energy because you won’t just calm down and rest like you’re supposed to.” Aelin’s eyes fluttered shut, silent tears falling down her face

It wasn’t a new revelation. She hated herself. Hated that she was hurt, hated that Rowan had been taken when it was her that was supposed to have been. It was Hamel’s face on the security tapes, a man she’d managed to take down in a sex trafficking ring. When Hamel had been hit with a bullet to his arm, he’d fallen, and his apparent lover had stormed at Aelin, screaming and drawing a gun in the process. So Aelin had fired, hit the woman in the heart, and put the entire thing out of her mind. Hamel had been arrested, put in prison, and had broken out six months later. For awhile, Aelin was paranoid. Watched her back. But at some point the fear dissipated. Fear that Rowan kept at bay by holding her through the night. 

Aelin knew that all of this was why she was being targeted. Why Rowan had been taken. An eye for an eye. She would be lying if she said she had much hope left. Hope he was coming back to her, hope that he was even alive. 

These days she was just thankful she hadn’t opened a box with his head inside. 

“One of the first nights after you had shown up on base as our newest member, despite his anger Rowan came to my quarters. I’ve known Rowan for a long time, Aelin. And after you left him I had never seen so much pain in a person. He deserved it, absolutely. But the night he came to my quarters, sat with his head in his hands, and made me promise that if there was ever a moment when it was him or you, that we save you. The tone of his voice, the way he sounded. It was raw and rough and I could tell how serious he was. There was a certain level of threat to his voice that told me if I did the opposite he’d  throttle me. So I said okay. During the first week of us being here, he made me promise again. ‘She is all that matters. I don’t care about anything else,’ He’d said. So I made good on that promise. I had to either get you or him out. And I chose you because it’s what he’s asked—begged me to do more than once.” 

She didn’t say anything, just shook her head a single time, pressed her lips together in a thin line, and left the room. A few moments later, she heard the front door open and close, and she collapsed on the floor and cried until there were no more tears in her body. 

~*~

It took longer than she cared to admit to shimmy into her black stealth suit. The pain in her shoulder made her see stars, but she finally managed. She had strapped guns and knives to the left side of her body, only one knife on the right side for desperate measures. She was fully capable of taking down men with just her left arm, but she refused to let herself be completely defenseless if someone came up on her right. She knew it would hurt like hell but she found herself incapable of caring about whatever pain she would be in. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Rowan. 

Aelin was also smart enough to mark where she was going on the map on her table. It was the only location circled in thick black marker, the actual address scribbled to the side. Hamel wanted Aelin, that much she knew. Knew he would want Aelin watch him kill Rowan. And knew he would do it the same place Aelin had killed the woman he had been with. She didn’t even remember her name. Maybe she should have, but it was just another thing she didn’t care about. Couldn’t care about. Either way, she would give him what he wanted, except Rowan wasn’t going to die.

 Aelin was. 

~*~

By the time she’d reached the piss poor excuse for a house, the moon was at its highest position in the sky, the stars bright and vibrant this far out of the city. It was well past midnight and under it would have been beautiful under different circumstances. 

Getting into the house was too easy. They weren’t even trying to defend the space and she was an expert at picking locks. It was silent inside, so silent that she would have heard a pin drop. Aelin had never been more thankful for the boots that went with the suit because they were completely soundproof. It was perfect for missions such as these, when she needed to be as undetected as possible. 

She heard a creak of a floorboard somewhere above her, and decided to start there, silently making her way up the stairs. She flattened her body against the wall, the mask over her face and the hood over her head making her nearly invisible in the darkness. With clenched teeth, she proceeded down the hall, stopping at the first door. Carefully -- so, so carefully -- she turned the knob and opened the door, slipping her thin body into the room. She shut the door behind her with no sound or resistance. Aelin was hardly breathing as she took in a sleeping figure in the bed. Soundlessly, she pulled one of her knives from a sheath on her hip, approached the figure, and slit their throat from ear to ear. His eyes flew open for a single moment and then he was dead. The man didn’t even have time to choke on his own blood. 

When she approached the door again, she pressed her ear to the wood to listen for any sign of movement outside. When she heard nothing, she cracked the door open and slid back out into the hall, making her way to the next room down the line. 

It was the same story: Sleeping man, slit throat, no time to choke. It was impossible to not be more suspicious of how easy it was. Almost too easy, but she supposed they would have to sleep at some point, and someone would have to be guarding Rowan, which couldn’t be an easy task. 

Unless he’s incapacitated. 

The thought made the blood in her veins absolutely boil. 

There was movement in the room with the dim glow, and before searching the room she knew had people, she decided to search the rest of the house. She couldn’t imagine a prisoner being kept in a room that was so easy to escape. It would have been too easy for him to escape. 

She crept back down the stairs, careful to be as light on her feet as she could. The rest of the house was seemingly empty, but in the kitchen there was a door. It was padlocked and likely lead down to a basement. That door seemed the most likely place that Rowan was being kept, so she began to pick the lock, eyes fluttering shut when the click of the lock was too loud for her liking. Frozen, she waited to hear any sort of sign of someone coming downstairs. When she heard nothing, she removed the lock from the latch, pocketed it so no one would be able to easily lock them back in, and slipped into the room. 

She was greeted by a set of stairs that she followed down into the ground. The glow from the light was so dim that it took her a moment for her eyes to adjust. Aelin had been right about it being a basement --  it took a moment for her to get all the way down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she was absolutely breathless. 

Rowan was tied to a chair with rope. His head was hanging down like he was some sort of unconscious, whether he had been knocked out or sleeping, she didn’t know. Aelin didn’t hesitate to run over to him, her hands cupping his face. 

“Come on, baby. Wake up. Please wake up. We have to get you out of here,” she whispered, fingers careful to avoid bruises and cuts that covered his face. It took a moment of her patting the side of his face before his eyes slowly cracked open, and when they did they were filled with tears. 

“What -- Aelin no. No, you can’t be here,” he ground out, but she shook her head, saying nothing as she moved to untie him. 

Aelin had just began to pull a knife from her thigh holster when splitting pain exploded in her head as someone knocked her unconscious. 

~*~

When she woke up, she had the worst headache she had ever had and her shoulder was on fire. Dizzily, she lifted her head and met Rowan’s eyes. Part of her was relieved; the other part angry. They were sitting close enough that their knees were almost touching. Like Rowan, her hands were tied behind her back. That explained the shoulder pain. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering closed. Tears slipped down her cheeks, from both pain and guilt. 

“What could you possibly be sorry for, love?” He asked softly, his foot nudging against hers the best it could despite the rope tied around his ankles. It was the only way he could touch her, the only way he could reach her. 

“The last conversation we had. I was telling you not to touch me. And I feel so, so guilty. I just. I’m sorry.” 

“Gods above, Ace. I don’t blame you for that. I could never blame you for that,” he said, his voice heavy with his lilting accent that she loved so much. Aelin nodded, but still felt the guilt in her gut. She had been replaying that conversation in her mind for weeks now, wishing she hadn’t said it. In truth, she had never felt so desperate to touch him. 

Behind her back, her fingers fumbled with the rope having seen the knot that had Rowan’s hands had been tied with. Luckily for both of them, they both knew how to untie it. Even luckier, the idiots hadn’t found the knives that were concealed under her sleeves. Aelin had a very small blade  just above her palm, and if she could just --

The door to the basement flew open. Heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs, and Aelin couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Whoever Hamel had working for him were flat out stupid which had led to their original arrest. Even dumber for them to not pat her down thoroughly enough. With a slight flick of her wrist, the little blade shot down into her hand, cutting her skin in a long gash. Forced to grip the blade to try to work it down into her hand, her fingers and palm screaming in pain. It took everything she had to not cringe. Rowan, noticing the slight change in her face, furrowed his brow and Aelin made an imperceptible nod with her head as Arobynn Hamel himself stepped off the bottom step into the basement. 

Aelin’s face was school into neutrality as she arched a single brow at him, waiting for him to speak but the words never came. Instead, he pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants, the idiot, and caressed the trigger the way a lover caresses a cheek. 

“Can I help you?” She asked him, licking her lips slowly. There was a gash there, the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Arobynn let out a low laugh the same time Aelin began to saw through the rope that bound her, careful to be prepared for the rope to loosen and fall into her hands. 

Another person hopped off the bottom step, a man she didn’t know. In his hands he held two daggers, twirling them between his fingers. She rolled her eyes, doing anything to make it look like she wasn’t scared. Truthfully, she was terrified. Terrified that if she wasn’t quick enough Rowan would receive a bullet to the head and she would be left with the guilt that she had never told him that she forgives him, had never told him she loved him one last time. 

“You know you have the wrong guy, right?” She quirked a brow, looking over at Rowan with distaste, her hand still working to cut through the rope. Her shoulder was begging her to stop, begging for that sling she hated so much. “This piece of shit cheated on me. We haven’t been together for years. So do me a favor and put a bullet through his brain so I can get out of here and never have to see either of you ever again.” The rope finally snapped and she was able to shimmy her hands out before it fell to the ground. 

“Why come for him then?” His eyes narrowed, and Rowan’s face was indecipherable. 

“Because it’s so much easier to ask you to do it than me. I could offer you a pretty penny,” she drawled, watching as Arobynn caressed that trigger again, clearly debating the offer. Aelin cocked her head to the side as, once again -- the idiot -- knelt down next to Aelin. He didn’t look at her or Rowan, just focused on the gun in his hand. 

It was all she needed.

Aelin whipped her hands around, stabbing the knife through Hamel’s neck with her right hand. White hot pain shot through her arm and back, but she didn’t let it slow her down as she wrapped the rope around his neck, ripping out the knife and swiping down Rowan’s leg to unsnap the rope. 

She had moved so fast that the man with the daggers had barely made it to Rowan by the time he was on his feet, swinging his free leg around to knock the man to the ground. Aelin tightened the rope around Hamel’s neck the same time Rowan managed to jump backwards, effectively landing on the crumpled assassin. The chair shattered beneath his body and he rolled backwards until he was able to push onto his feet. 

Aelin slit Arobynn’s throat and kicked him in the chest, his blood spraying across her face. It was then that they heard footsteps up above, the floorboards creaking under the weight of whoever was up there. Rowan turned his back to her and she cut his hands free of it’s bindings, jerking her gun from her thigh holster and preparing to shoot whoever came through the door. 

Except it wasn’t more of Hamel’s associates. It was the Cadre, pouring down into the basement with guns drawn and eyes blazing. 

“You’re late,” she said flatly, moving over to Rowan and searching his face to make sure he was okay as he could be. Lorcan rolled his eyes, Fenrys was trying not to smile.

“You know you could get discharged for this, right?” Lorcan asked, and Aelin shrugged her left shoulder, wincing in pain as the movement of her muscles shot pain across her upper back. 

“I’m okay,” he said softly, run his fingers along her cheek. She turned her face to kiss his palm and leaned her forehead against his chest. 

“Can someone get me a medic?” And then she was falling toward the floor, completely unaware of Rowan catching her before she hit the ground. 

~*~ 

Once again, she woke up to the beeping of machines, but this time there was no tube down her throat. There were two hands wrapped around hers and something pressing against her thigh. When her eyes cracked open, she let out a sigh and tears immediately poured out of her eyes. 

He looked like hell. His face was swollen and bruised and he had stitches above his eyebrow. The hands that encased hers had gashes on them as well, and Aelin wondered how bad it must be hurting for how tightly he gripped her hand. She couldn’t help but wonder how bad the cut on his leg was from when she cut the rope, knowing it had cut into his flesh. It couldn’t have been too bad, as he was able to move with agility when she cut him free, but she was still worried. Still felt horrible.

“Ro,” she croaked out, and his head immediately shot up and then he was standing and smoothing down her hair. Rowan’s eyes searched her and flicked down to her shoulder, looking for any sign of anything that would hint to her not being okay. 

“Hi baby,” he breathed, satisfied with his inspection. His lips pressed to her forehead, her cheeks, and finally her lips and she let out a quiet sob when he rested his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. For everything. For all of it.” 

“I know. I know.” He kissed her again, a little harder this time until she let out a slight whimper. Her lip was still split, but she shook her head when he opened his mouth to apologize. “I love you,” she said quietly, bringing her good hand up to run through his hair. “I love you so much.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Gods, baby. I love you. I love you but you deserve so much better than me.” Aelin frowned then, shaking her head quickly. She knew what was coming as she shook her head harder.

“Don’t say it. Rowan Whitethorn, don’t you dare. Don’t.” The tears she  had been crying flowed freely, soaking the gown she wore as they dripped from her chin. Every word, her voice as shattered as her heart.

“I love you, but I can’t let you be with me. I’m not good for you.” He spoke slowly, his voice breaking over his words. All the while his hands smoothed down her hair. Rowan was crying just as hard as she was. 

He brought her hand up to her lips and kissed her knuckles, then leaned forward to kiss her one last time. “I love you.” He kissed her forehead one more time, released her hand, and disappeared out the door. 

Aelin couldn’t help but think that the pain in her heart was infinitely worse than the pain in her shoulder. 

**Tysm to my love and muse @musicmaam bc i couldn’t do anything w/o her tbh

#i dont remember who i'm supposed to tag SRY #all i ask of you #aiaof #toxic au #military au

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 12/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Flashback: A bad day and an even worse decision.

Notes: So, I'm sorry. This kinda sucks, but here we are. This is for the amazing @thatravenclawbitch on the occasion of her birthday. Love you, babe. For the Writer's Month prompt #22: summer.

Warnings: Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags. No additional warnings for this chapter.

[AO3]  Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

1 week ago...

The revelation that there were two killers had been confirmed once the shoe print evidence had been reexamined. They’d spent the better part of the last week trying to track down Nick Branson’s connections and coming up dry every time. The summer heat wasn’t helping either, and the old building’s air conditioning had been on the fritz for the last two days. It had gotten so warm in her office that she gave up on her usual layers and was down to a silky cream colored camisole, her gray skirt, and no stockings.

Weaver had been in a mood all day, snipping and snarking at every other thing she said. They couldn’t agree on what to do next, and the frustration of the case and the lack of acknowledgement of what had happened between them boiled over. They’d had a pointless fight over the dry erase markers and the layout of the board now that they had two suspects, after which she’d stormed out of the office.

A few minutes later, when she came back in, he’d rearranged the board. That had been her tipping point.

“What the hell?” She pushed him aside and scowled at the board. “This isn’t going to make any sense.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “This is how I always do it.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “Whatever, fine, you do the fucking board.”

He rolled his eyes and threw the marker down on the table. “What is this really about?”

Belle spun on her heel, folding her arms over her chest. “What the hell does that mean?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re not seriously mad about the fucking colors of the markers and the way I’m taping paper to a whiteboard. So what is it?”

“I’m just -” She paused and huffed. “I’m just so fucking tired of you having to be right. I’m the one that figured out the shoe prints were different, and you’ve been acting like a huge dick since then. Are you pissed that I noticed it and you didn’t?”

Weaver let out a short laugh, and shook his head. “Why would I care who figured out what?”

“I don’t know, Ian!” She said, spreading her arms to either side before letting them fall to her sides. “I don’t - I don’t know what the hell this is. What are we doing here? You’ve been a jerk all day, and you won’t just fucking talk to me.”

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back for a moment. “I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” she asked. “Were you going to tell me about your visit to Branson’s ex-girlfriend yesterday? Or how you threatened her to try to get information? Because I don’t remember you saying anything about that.”

He sighed and ran his hands over his face. “I didn’t threaten her -”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Right. I’m sure you were a perfect gentleman and that’s why she called the station to tell Graham that she didn’t know anything and not to send ‘that asshole cop back here again’?”

“Why do you care how I get the information?” he asked, the volume of his voice increasing. He shook his head and took a few steps towards her.

“Because someone needs to protect you from yourself!”

“Why?” Weaver could feel his entire body tense. He moved forward again, and she backed away, shuffling until she collided with the wall beside the sofa.

“Why?” she repeated, clearly as angry with him as he was with her. She wasn’t unsure if she was more annoyed that he wasn’t denying it, or that he seemed to think it was no big deal. “Because you -” She stopped and shoved roughly at his chest, “keep trying to commit career suicide. Because you’re better than that. Because you’re - a - a friend - and I don’t want -“

Her words were cut off when he lunged forward and put his hand around her neck, applying just enough pressure to get her attention. She froze, but she didn’t try to pull away or knee him. Instead she just stared up at him with those big blue eyes, her pupils so dilated he could barely see the color around the rim. Her throat flexed as she swallowed, and he could feel everything tighten between them, the air heavy and thick.

He pressed close and put his mouth close to her ear. “We’re not friends, and you fucking know it.”

She licked her lips, and his eyes trailed down, watching as her breasts rose and fell in short little breaths. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her camisole in spite of the heat of the room, and her back arched slightly. There was something incredibly erotic about the feel of her skin against the pads of his fingers, about a hold meant for violence and pain causing arousal and pleasure.

Her head tipped up. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell me to stop,” he said, the same as he had done just a little while ago when they were in a similar situation and about to make a huge mistake. His hand slid down over her chest to cup her breast, squeezing gently.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding far more certain than she felt. She knew this was wrong, but for some reason she’d decided she didn’t care. She inhaled on a sharp breath, her hands fumbling for his belt.

He leaned forward with every intention of kissing her, but instead he just brushed his lips over hers teasingly, until she pushed off the wall, straining for him even as she tried to work his jeans open. When he finally pressed his lips to hers it was wet and rough, a kiss that ravaged as much as anything. She whimpered into his mouth, her body pressing into his touch. He played with her while he kissed her, running his knuckles over her aching nipples.

Belle broke the kiss and gasped, and he pushed his leg between hers. She nearly sobbed at the friction as she moved against him, his jeans rough against the thin, damp material covering her pussy. Her arousal soaked through onto the denim, the two fabrics sliding over each other, rubbing her clit just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her skin. He nipped and licked at her neck, his left hand still playing with her nipple while the other slipped into her hair. “Come for me. Come before I even get my cock in you.”

Then he pinched her nipple hard, sending a shock of pain and pleasure running through her. She cried out and then bit her lip as the tension broke suddenly.

“Ian -” she managed, unable to string any more words together after that while her cunt contracted and her hips rolled against his leg, riding out her pleasure.

She hadn’t quite come down from her high when he moved his leg, and she nearly cursed him. Before she got the chance he was reaching beneath her skirt. His fingers found the sodden material and cupped her. “Fucking Christ, Belle.”

Belle looked down and could see the wet spot on his jeans as he took hold of her underwear and pulled hard. The sound and feeling of the fabric ripping was lost in her gasp. His hand ran up her thigh to feel the heat of her, and slipped his fingers in where she was already wet and aching. She reached out and grabbed at his shirt, wishing she could touch more of him, missing the feeling of his skin beneath her hands.

Weaver drove one finger hard into her pussy, pushing deep and pulling out a cry of pleasure. She lifted one leg to his hip, trying to get closer, get more.

“Ian,” she begged.

He added another finger, stretching her, and she immediately began riding them, her hips to match his bruising pace.

“Is this what you want?” he asked. “Hard and rough?”

Her teeth sunk into her lip and she managed a ragged, “Yes.”

She was so close to coming again, her body already desperate for it. Her nails dug into his shirt, pulling at the fabric. She wished she could give him the same pleasure he was giving her.

“Please,” she gasped.

He smirked and nipped at her earlobe. “Please what?”

His fingers left her, and she keened, the peak she was so close to falling over fading with every second. She hated that she was this easy, that he knew how to push every single one of her buttons and get what he wanted. And that he knew she wanted it too. “Fuck me.”

Weaver fumbled with the buckle of his belt and the zip on his jeans, managing to free his cock. She looked down at his erection, bobbing obscenely between them. Her hand wrapped around him, her grip loose and almost teasing as she moved up and down his length. Every grunt and curse was music to her ears, and when she brushed her thumb over the head of his cock, he jerked in her hand. Her pussy throbbed as she recalled the feeling of it inside her.

“Belle - fuck -” He swore as she let go of him, and took a moment to catch his breath.

He wanted her naked, wanted the warmth of her skin and the soft press of her curves. He wanted nothing between them, but instead there was everything. Clothes, hurtful words, and too much time.

Weaver bent and hooked his hands beneath her knees, lifting her up off the ground. She let out a surprised little noise, and he pushed her back against the wall, pinning her with his body. Her hand reached down to take him in hand.

He swore again, and she leaned her head forward to kiss him as he slid into her with one long, hard thrust. She bit his lip and cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he pounded into her. Their movements made a soft thud against the wall, and she prayed that the late hour meant everyone had gone home. He pressed his mouth to the base of her neck, sucking hard on her skin, using his teeth and tongue to scrape and soothe.

One of her hands began tugging at the short strands of his hair, and he felt the first flutters of her cunt around him.He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, but he didn’t want to stop, couldn’t imagine ever doing anything but sliding in and out of Belle’s hot, wet cunt while she begged him to give her more.

“You feel so fucking good around my cock,” he said, burying his face against her neck. “Wanna feel you come again.”

Her only response was a strangled cry and a jut of her hips. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other hand he reached between them to find her clit, hard and slick with her juices. His fingers rubbed across it, and she swore loudly, bucking against him as he flicked the swollen nub.

Belle was about to lose all control, his fingers almost bruising everywhere they touched, his cock bottoming out inside her. She gripped the back of his neck, her blunt nails digging in, and she thought about what she used to do his back when they were like this, the sting of his hand on her ass, and how they left each other with marks for days.

She came hard and fast on his cock, her shout of pleasure cut off as her breath left her, liquid dripping down her legs as he pulsed inside her. Her head fell against his chest, and she swallowed hard between pants.

None of this was right.

Fuck.

She’d done it again, and suddenly the pleasure that had been coursing through her made her feel sick. Her stomach dropped and she pushed against him, forcing him to let her down. She tried to breathe slowly through her nose, in and out. This was how it had happened before, this was how she’d gotten pregnant and made everything fall apart. They fought and they fucked and they broke.

“Belle, don’t do this -” He bent to pull up his jeans, and then reached for her.

“No,” she said, turning away from him.

Weaver caught her arm and yanked her to him. “Stop walking away from me!”

“Let go!” She pulled back, but he refused to give, his fingers digging into her arm until she hissed. “I can’t - I can’t do this Ian.”

He dropped his hand, and stepped back, the disgust on her face a clear enough message. “You’ve already done this. Twice.”

She opened her mouth to try to explain, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. “Don’t bother.”

He stepped passed her, and she whirled around, slapping her palm against his shoulder in anger. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

Weaver stopped at the door to the office, and turned slowly. His eyes were dark and hard, and she swallowed.

“Why?” he snapped. “It’s all you’ve ever done to me.”

The door shut behind him, and her eyes closed as she dropped to the floor, her palm catching the sob when it left her throat.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #killing time #fic #my woven beauty fic #lemon fic

[awakeningofthedeath]

Awakening of the Death: Chapter #30

A day and a half passed on as the Swift and Armor train cars that contained the two rouge assassins in one of the empty cattle cars. Jack and Hellen spent most of the travel time in nothing but the sound of the tracks clanking and the feel of their beating hearts. Hellen loved to have Jack close to her. She never minded every scar and flaw that he felt upon her. She wanted to be nothing but close to him without interruptions; yet the mile markers indicated to them that they would be approaching Kansas City as soon as the sun set.

As the miles gotten closer to the stockyards stations, Jack and Hellen had to put on their clothes and hide behind the giant hay pile in case of any rail inspectors, which had happened before in several stations along the way. None of the inspectors were harmed or killed whilst the couple hid. The only bloodshed the had one time was when a train hopper tried to load in the car and saw the naked couple. Jack only had to push the hobo off to where the man fell too close to the rail and the sound of cracking bones and a dying man’s screams made both Jack and Hellen shiver to the core. They both kept quiet holding each other until they saw the sight Hellen had not seen in years. The observatory buildings of the Kansas City stockyards were of a mass that Jack had never seen, with the rich smell of livestock and smokes from the factories around the city area across the river.

When the train ceased to a halt, Hellen and Jack took several seconds to grip their sacks before darting towards the exit, and barely got off intone before the men would see them before lowering the loading ramp. Seeing their breaths in the chilled air, Jack followed Hellen through a labyrinth of wooden panels and fences, the smell of cattle laced thick in the air, a scent Jack found it surprisingly strong. His only experience with cattle was during his stay in India, where the cattle were worshiped, decorated, and respected. These cattle, to which Jack passed by as he and Hellen traveled towards the observatory docks, were larger and more muscular than any he’d seen. Some of them had horns as thick and as long as Jack’s arms stretched out. Hellen climbed upon one of the beams to the deck, with Jack following behind. The wood creaked as they snuck across.

“This place has gotten bigger since I was last here.” Hellen commented on the expanse viewpoint of pens where cattle cried out to one another

“So if this were the cattle area, the horses can’t be too far.” Hellen made a turn to where other panels were set.

“Kansas City here is the biggest in the horse and mule market, My pa used to come here to buy horses to train them, only to sell them again for more than what he paid for. I went with him a few times. First time I was possibly 5 to 8 when I snuck away for a bit and road an ass bare assed. Surprised my pa never gained a grey hair with all the hell I’d given him.”

Jack chuckled, which surprised Hellen.

“Seems to me you tried to be Lady Godiva.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She was a noblewoman from long ago who stood for what was right against her husband’s poor decision making on taxes by riding in the streets naked upon her horse. Legend even said that a man named Thomas watched her ride and was struck blind or dead.”

Hellen gave a cheerful laugh. “Oh I like her! She’d be good company. Maybe perhaps, I could be your lady bare upon a horse when away from the bull’s viewpoint.” Jack gave a signature smirk, thinking the beautiful image of Hellen on a horse’s back. 

The couple found the horse and mule area where the equines munched upon what hay remained in each of the pens. Some of them contained a maximum of four to five in each pen. Jack watched as Hellen observed each pen looking upon the animals. He could hear Hellen’s frustration as she failed to find a stead that would possibly carry both of them. Whilst she searched, Jack’s eyes wondered to the pens behind him, where there in a large pen with only by it’s self was a beautiful buckskin mare with a white sock on it’s left hind contrasting against the other three blackened legs. It’s eyes meet Jack’s as she walked towards his position. 

“Seems to me I have competition Jackass.” Hellen’s chuckled as Jack turned to face her.

“I don’t suppose this one could work.”

Hellen slipped between the fence gaps as she examined the mare. She lifted her hooves, checked her teeth, and examined her back. “This one is well conditioned. Probably one of the handler’s horses. Still, we’re going to need a saddle and the gear. I’m going to check the tack area. I’ll be back.” And Hellen pecked a kiss on Jack’s lips as she went towards the building again. Seeing that Jack was alone with the horse, he leaned on the fence, his mind thinking about the recent few months he and Hellen had been together, and asking himself, why is he here? Why didn’t she come home sooner? 

Minutes later, Hellen came back carrying a saddle with a bridle with a snaffle bit on top of the saddle’s horn. An old red blanket was held from underneath the saddle as well. Jack managed to grab the woolen horse blanket as it slipped in between when Hellen hoisted the saddle upon a railing to keep in shape. She slipped back into the pen and grabbed first the blanket and the bridal. Wraping the mare’s neck with one of the split rings, Hellen kept her in control as she gently pushed the head down to have her thumb into the corner of it’s mouth, where the horse’s mouth opened and Hellen snuck the snaffle into the mouth and positioned the bridal. Testing the horse’s ability to ground tie, to which was successful, Hellen took the woolen blanket, folded it around to a half as big as the saddle and positioned it onto the horse’s wither’s in the correct position. She then grabbed the saddle and placed it upon the blanketed back. Hellen first handled the front chinch before the rear, and to finally finish bu adjusting the breast collar. Hellen then took each of the strips, measured them by comparison to her arm, and fixed them to the correct length. Hellen patted the mare’s neck, she led her to the gate. Jack opened the gate allowing them to walk through. The sound of the horse’s shoes echoed on the brick pathway. 

Hellen grabbed the horse’s mane and hoisted herself into the saddle. “I suppose you’d never rode a horse before.” Hellen asked.

“Only when I needed to. A few times while I was in India. Knew how to drive a carriage though.” Jack answered, feeling slightly embarrassed. 

“Get on the fence, I’ll side pass this horse to you so you can rise double. Thank the heavens above she’s a strong looking mustang. Big for her average height.” Hellen used her legs and slight in and out of the pressure on the reins to have the mare’s legs cross over each other as Jack climbed the fence. As Jackcarefully packed himself behind Hellen, he wrapped his arms around her waist, making her sink into his chest. 

“Better not tempt me Jackass, or we both will fall off this...”

“Oy! Jesse! Marcus is dead! And the tack storage was opened! Check the horse pens!” 

The sound of a man’s shouting echoed into the darkness. Lanterns were lite, and moving towards the area.

“Hold on tight Jack. Not sure how fast this gal can go with the two of us, but we have no choice.”

Hellen soured the mare into a short trot transitioning into a gallop. The sound of hooves on brick echoed in a familiar pattern Jack knew in London at times when Jacob would drive. The difference being feeling the moment of this valiant’s beasts mussels as she left those behind the dust. Then suddenly, without warning, he felt Hellen leaning forward with him following as the mare jumped over a broken part of a vacant pen. Hellen steamed past other workers, with Jack kicking some of them whop tried climbing onto the beast. When they escaped the area, Hellen ran the horse for a good distance for a mile, until they stopped at the base of the Missouri River. 

The River looked so peaceful and still, that it never seemed to have a current. Hellen later explained to Jack that the Missouri was actually more deadly when entering in, known for the under toes and deadly looking driftwoods. As Hellen guided the horse towards the docks of a farrier rafts, Hellen pointed towards the upper part of the river. “Collin told me a story once of how he and my pa almost got a rich templar on a mission on a steamboat called the Arabia back in ‘56. Unfortunately, the Templar escaped due to a stuck of bad luck on his part when the boat struck a tree stump floating in the river, Sad that the only victim in that was a mule. That and loads of cargo meant for many towns. Might be a kings fortune.”

When Hellen halted the mare, Jack slipped off, feeling rather tender in the thighs, but managed to stand upright. He turned and held the horse for Hellen as she dismounted. They walked to the assumed farrier, an older gentleman with a grizzled beard and blue eyes the color of ice. “What can I do for you kind folks?” He asked in a southern accent.

Hellen pulled out some silver dollars and handed it over to the man. “We need to cross to the Missouri side as soon as possible!”

The man looked at the money then back to the couple. “Funny for the woman to talk matters of sales instead of your man here.”

Before Jack could say anything, Hellen slightly tabbed his boot with her own, signaling him to keep quiet. “He can’t speak sir. His tongue was cut off during the war with the red skins.” 

“Is that so?” The man asked, looking at Jack with a questioning look. “What she say is true boy?” Jack nodded. “Did you lose it before or after this lovely bride of your allowed her horse out of the barn?”

 Jack gave a glare and gave him a hard punch, causing the man to tumble into the banks of the river. He stood back up, blood and water dripping. Hellen held Jack back with her hand, giving a secret wink. “Now darling, you know the man is possibly a loose canon on the tongue. Oh!” Hellen gave a gasp. “Jack I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for! Forgive me?” Jack smiled, and gave her a gentle kiss. This kiss was the softest Hellen experience, not that it was for the facade, but genuine in tenderness. When they parted, the man was pressing a handkerchief on a blood spot on his cheekbone. 

“I begin your pardon ma’am, and to you sir. Your very blessed to have a gal to speak for you.”

Jack responded with a nod.

“So yes. I can get you two and your Hoss to the other side. I can tell you two must of just took the train in order to buy a horse.”

“Yes we did. And I must say, she’s worth a steal.” 

Jack smiled at the joke Hellen made secretly for their situation.

The couple lead the mare to the large raft big enough for a covered wagon and a team, and the man guided them through the currents. Hellen left a little uneasy in the stomach as they made the passes, but ignored the small discomfort as they grew closer to the Missouri shores. 

Home.

For the first time in over thirteen years. She was back in her home state

#awakening of the death #jack the lad #jack the ripper #Assassin's Creed #Assassin's Creed Syndicate #hellen patterson #kansas city #missouri #kearney #homestead #jeremiah patterson #assassin #templar

[hereliesbitches--me]

“You really think we should be celebrating that now?”

Valentine’s day in the Zompocalypse! ( Always accepting) 

“ As good of a time as any. I don’t think we’re gonna have a break like this again for a while.”

       After a weeks of travelling, avoiding the dead and other scavengers, sleeping with one eye open, and rotating in shifts when they had to sleep in the open, this was one of their rare opportunities to sit and sleep in a house that wasn’t tainted by any of the dead. They hit the jackpot. They found sanctuary in one of those gated communities that seemed clear enough to use the house without fear of waking up to a herd caging them in. The suburbs of New York had a sparse population of the undead in comparison to the congested cities. Here, Rosie comfortable let her bag fall into the kitchen, let the dogs roam about and sniff out for pests, and from the corner she watched as the kids excitedly pulled out a collection of colorful papers, scissors, markers , and glue to set out over the dusty table to work on once Eddie had left for some scavenging and clean up in that day. What he came back to find was a mess of paper clippings and cutouts all over the floor, the kids hiding their little projects away from his sights with a whine that it wasn’t ready – more Mia than Thursday, as her brother timidly tried to hide his creation under a dscolored manila folder he found. It was Rosie keeping Eddie in the living room, checking over what remains of supplies and what had been added. 

“ It’s Valentine’s day, ya know.”  She spoke up suddenly, softly, peering up from the collection and smiling briefly at him. “ That’s why they’re making projects. We used to have a tradition to make gifts for each other, just in case things don’t go so well at school.. ”Rosie settled for a moment, letting herself sit in the worn cushion that had once belonged to some unknown person that was probably among the wandering dead outside. It only took them a few months, but they were finally beginning to get along.. comfortable enough to speak with a little more ease. Sometimes she just talked.. sometimes he would listen, sometimes he wouldn’t, but it didnt matter to her (or did it?) , as long as she could just let it out. Those rare moments he actually conversed back, even if it was just a few words, she savored and kept in mind. The mother let her shoulders sink back for a bit, leaning into the groaning seat as the springs threaten to give, and she looked aside to where she could hear her children quietly chatting in hurried voices. The feline features at the top of her head stood tall and rotated to better catch their words. Her smile was always a tired one, but at least hearing them happy brought a warmth to her soul.. 

 “ Don’t ask why I know its Valentine’s day. Its an amazing worthless sixth sense I have for vital dates to keep in mind. I get its probably stupid to you, but its really important for them to still have a chance to keep good memories alive..”  Though Eddie asked for no explanation, she felt the need to defend it even when no one else would think it wise.  There was a conscious self awareness in her soul that always existed even before the end of the world. She was off in many ways, confusing and nonsensical to many, even before her spiral against mental illness after years of service in the military, and the police force. So few bothered to understand.. She knew something was strange inside her.. Something so very wrong that she just couldn’t fix, but she tried her best to hide it. The only one who had ever seemed to accept it was her Rocky… but just like everything else she touched, her illness was the very thing that killed him. She lived with it every day.. Could Eddie see how she wilted in that moment? How her eyes seemed to sink into her skull and hollow out as her racing thoughts remind her of her loss on a supposed day of love..? She practically ran in a state of autopilot, wearing an empty smile while her tired eyes stared off. 

 Wake up, Rosie. Wake up, you’re drifting. Don’t be so insensitive, you’re not the only one who’s hurting.

Suddenly, she blinked again. That’s right, she thought, he had a wife before too.. 

Rosie turned her head back to Eddie, and she mustered all her energy to offer him a warm look as she dug around her back for something that crinkled loudly as she pulled it out, “ I know it’s not much but..you won’t believe the fact that I found really good chocolate not too long ago to share on this day- ”Then, she was cut off by a chirping high pitched voice.

“ ITS DONE! ITS DONE! We finished- EDDIE, EDDIE, LOOK! FOR YOU!! ”Mia practically skid across the floor, her voice much too loud in a world of deathly silence as she skipped towards the two adults with her colorful crafts in each little hand. Even Rosie winced, and her heart spiked up in paranoid fear at the crowd the volume could arouse from outside. The look alone, sharp on her mother’s slim features, was enough of a warning for Mia to realize her mistake. The 8 year old gasped quietly, a warmth rising in her colored cheeks as she gave Eddie a sheepish grin. She lowered her voice in a quiet apology. In each hand she held a small, hand made card with the artistic eloquence of an elementary schooler’s work. To each adult, she offered her mismatching cards with an eager brilliance in her eyes. “ For you.” 

Eddie’s was a cutout heart much like Rosie’s, decorated in small doodles of hearts and stars and other little images in colorful marker on the front, titled ‘ Happy Valentine Day! ’ in bulky, slanted handwriting.  ‘ From: Mia! To: Awesome Eddie!  ’          Signed off with a heart.Mia was practically bouncing on her toes, eyes shining in anticipation while her restless little tail wagged. Rosie held her card, but her eyes were drawn curiously to Eddie’s card more than her own. “Open it!” Mia urged him, impatience clear in her voice. Rosie found her lips switching slightly in their corners. When the hard opened, It was a mess of glitter, stickers, and drawings. A true arts and crafts work with an explosion of color all around the lopsided heart she cut out of the card. In the center, her bulky little words were written with clear attempt to make it formal, though her hand writing send to change direction as she went. It read: 

      “ Dear Eddie, Don’t let mommy read this.        Happy Valentine’s day to the coolest superhero ever!         Thanks for staying, and making Mommy happy.           And you make me happy! And Thursday happy!          And the doggies happy! (Yes, even doggies are happy)          You make everyone happy, and we have lots of fun together!

          I love you lots, and think you’re so cool.          Thanks for not letting the monsters get us.We protect you too!

         I want you to stay forever. Can you stay forever please? 

         P.S. Mommy likes you a lot. I like when you don’t fight.         P.P.S. Keeping secrets are super hard.

             Love you! And Goop!   - Mia   ”

Drawn on the other half of the heart was their little family, made of triangles and circles. There was Mia in the middle, a lovely rectangle and triangle with a circle head, and little triangles that marked the ears on her head and tail. Besides her Could be assumed as Thursday, made of circles and ovals, with a head full of squiggly lines much like Mia’s own picture self. Mia’s doodle held onto a much larger catlike person, made of circles and triangles that made both her body and cat features. Rosie stood on one side, while on the other, holding onto the Thursday doodle, was the large Dorito-bodied persona that was Eddie. He was composed of bulbous circles and rectangles that make his arms and legs, towering above the rest of the family, with a triangle knife in his stick figure hand. Of course, complete with the dogs on the side, tied together with hearts, and dead bodies of green skinned zombies all around. And the family crudely colored in color pencil to complete the master piece.  “ What does it say?” All Rosie could see was the picture, her brows quirked curiously at the long paragraph her daughter had written, but Mia would not have it as she hopped in between the two and pushed for Rosie to read her own. 

Off in the corner, 6 year old Thursday stood quietly, bashful of the two cards he had in hand. They were not as elaborate as Mia’s… he couldn’t draw like her.  His handwriting was still shaky and in the works.. and worst of all, he decorated his cards with the flowers he picked from outside. Boys dont pick flowers.. men don’t like flowers.. He chided himself and felt the need to sulk away in embarrassment. Eddie would laugh at his card..He was about ready to crumble his creations, up until his mother noted her silent son hiding behind the wall.“ Honey, do you have cards too? What are you doing over there?” Rosie looked at him expectantly, smiling affectionately as she waited for her youngest to come over.. Thursday was startled that she mentioned him. A fearful feeling rose in him suddenly, a horrible ache in his muscles that didn’t let him move. The little boy felt his stomach drop under the eye of both adults, his face growing hot that showed blatantly on his pale freckled face. With wide eyes, he found himself frozen like a deer as they all turned to look at him. Especially Eddie… The light look became concern from Rosie when she noted the fearful shake that overtook her young son. How his breathing changed.. and his body shook like a leaf with the signs of tears that already threatened to fall. Rosie was quick to stand and hurry over to him , but by then he had already taken cover behind the kitchen wall and curled up. The two had vanished for a time.. Thursday whimpering and crying, Rosie’s hushed voice quietly soothing, until they both could talk low enough to not be heard. Mia frowned a bit as the attention was taken away from her card but she turned her attention to Eddie with a shrug of her shoulders. “ Sometimes, Thursday can be so weird. I can never tell why he suddenly cries..”

Rosie emerged once again with her son after a few minutes had passed, holding him in front of her, while Thursday timidly held his card desperately behind his back. His mother already had her pink card in hand, and smiled  gently as she ushered him towards where Eddie sat, “ He made you a card, Eddie. But he think you won’t like it because it has flowers. Isn’t that silly? Everyone likes flowers, right?”Thursday seemed to shrivel even more the closer he came. The boy dropped his head as he grew even smaller than he already was before his idol, stricken with fear that couldn’t make him stop his shaking. Rosie pursed her lips, and looked at Eddie expectantly for some comfort for her son. Her eyes expressed her desperate plead that he say something to encourage Thursday. As they stopped , Rosie knelt down and gently tapped on Thursday’s arms to bring them forward. From his mother’s touch, he nearly recoiled. Rosie grew more worried than before as she carefully put her arms around him, “ Thursday, please.. You didn’t work hard on it just for Mr.Eddie not to see it, did you? ” “ He won’t like it..”“You won’t know that unless he sees it. And I don’t believe he thinks flowers are bad, baby.. It looks so pretty. I bet he’ll keep it forever.”

Her assurance seemed to work to some extent. Thursday raised his head up just enough to look at his mother, and Rosie gave him a nod in return. He felt fragile and pathetic.. more than normal as he was put on the spot. But Rosie was right.. he wouldn’t know unless he tried. If Eddie liked Mia’s.. then he could like his own, right? Right. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and mustered all the courage he had in his little body to will his arms forward, to offer the black card of hearts.    “.. I-I hope y-you like it.. “

Yes, it was simple. It was not like Mia’s , who’s card looked like a rainbow threw up all over it with her abundance of stickers, glitter, and drawings that made it up. No, Thursday kept his card simple and clean. To the true nature of a fan, he kept it black and white themed, having written in chalk ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ on the cover with each letter a struggle to keep at the same size, and decorated the outside with an array of little flower blooms from lavender to yellow. Inside were drawings much like Mia’s, however oriented around action as ‘Venom’ kicked Zombie ass and protected them all. His text was much simpler, and expressed all he wanted Eddie to know :

    “ You’re my favorite Hero.        You make me happy. Please dont go.

       I love you.” 

Just like Mia’s, Rosie had taken the hint enough not to look.. Perhaps she’ll glance in later when the kids sleep. Satisfied with the scene, Rosie sat down on the couch, and pulled both her little ones into the seat besides her before once more reaching in to pull out a silver bag for them all.The Jackpot: Half melted hershey’s kisses. 

The sight of chocolate drew both the children’s attention onto the crinkling bag with slack jaws gaping. Chocolate had not been seen.. in months. almost  a year? Not edible chocolate at least. The fact that they let out audible gasps of excitement was enough to earn a rare titter of laughter from Rosie as she grinned,

“ I say since we passed out the cards, its about time we get into the chocolate.Dessert before dinner sounds good.

Anyone disagree? ”

There was not a word of protest from the children as golden smiles lit up across their faces. This would be a good Valentine’s day..

Even with their new friend.

#osteum #:V: The last stand: #Eddie got a Valentine's card from both the kids #He can be a grouch about it but they love him #long post #Catch me crying because Thursday is my emotional son

[avasilvugh]

repeat the sounding joy

superbabies christmas special, pt. 2

find it on: ao3 ff.net

. . .

2020

. . .

“Kara?”  Lena’s hoping that her wife is home or, at least, in range to hear her—she was supposed to be done with Supergirl duty by now, but a little wiggle room is always penciled into the schedule Lena’s memorized, kept logged in the back of her mind.  Except—well.

This particular event is not wiggle room applicable.

Finn is nearing seven months and they are entering their first holiday season with him and Lena will be damned if their holiday card is not perfect.  Kara was the one that talked her into matching sweaters to begin with and now that Finn has managed to both vomit and poop all over his outfit, it’ll be Kara that comes up with a solution.

So long as the photographer Lena’s arranged to come by their apartment isn’t running early.

She’s not sure why she worried; Kara’s never been late without either calling ahead or having Alex do it for her and, so far, Lena’s not gotten a call.

“Alright, little man,” she sighs, fixing the top snap of the clean shirt she’s just dressed him in.  “Maybe Mama won’t notice that you’re a little out of sorts, hm?”

Finn coos back, parrots, “Mama!” and wiggles in Lena’s arms, obviously aiming to get back to his toys on the floor of his room.

There’s a brief rush of wind, a cool draft, and when Lena turns, Kara’s next to her.  And, bless her, holding a clean Finn-sized sweater.  “I figured it would be a good plan to keep extras on hand,” she says, stepping closer to tickle one of their son’s feet, grinning as he shrieks with laughter.

“Always so smart.”  Lena kisses her wife’s cheek, passes Finn off to her seamlessly.  “I need to wash up before Lenore gets here and I believe someone was missing his mama and would appreciate some quality time,” she says cheekily.

“How’s my man?” Kara asks, shifting her son to rest on her hip as Lena slips out of the room.  “How’s my Finster?”

Lena hurries in the bathroom, the doorbell ringing just as she reaches the bottom step of their stairs.  Kara’s just about to answer it when she notices Lena, turning quickly to flash a smile and a thumbs-up at her.  The movement elicits a giggle from Finn—they really lucked out with him, Lena thinks.  He’s always smiling, always happy.  She’d always been nervous thinking about having children, both for fear of a perpetually fussy baby as well as what her name would bring down on them.  But Finn?

Finn is wonderful, even smiles at the photographer when Kara opens the door for her.

“Hello handsome,” Lenore greets him before focusing on Kara and Lena.  “And hello moms!  I love the matched set.”

/

The shoot goes smoothly, with Kara and Lena selecting three shots for the Danvers family holiday card, as well as one for the L-Corp newsletter Lena started a few years earlier as a way to humanize her with her employees.

“Admit it,” Kara says later, after they’ve gotten Finn down for bed and are getting ready themselves.

Lena turns to raise an eyebrow at her wife, carefully pulling the backing off her snowflake earrings and setting them on the dresser.  “Admit what?”

Kara floats over, wraps her arms around Lena’s waist and rests her chin on her shoulder.  “You loooove the matching sweaters,” she teases, pressing a kiss to the skin exposed by the fallen strap of Lena’s nightdress.

“I will admit no such thing,” Lena smirks, turning in her wife’s arms and leaning up for a real kiss.  “We did the matching sweaters this year and never again.”

“Mhm,” Kara hums as she steers them both to bed.  “Whatever you say, babe.”

. . .

2022

. . .

“Finn, honey, please put your markers down.  Auntie Lenore is coming over so soon!  Don’t you want to be nice and clean then?”  Kara leans down to pull the offending items out of Finn’s death grip, whipping around to glare at Lena when she snorts at the exchange.  “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all, sugarplum,” Lena responds, saccharine sweet even as she narrows her eyes in challenge.  It’s not her fault that Kara chose to be on Finn watch this year; Lena would have been more than happy to switch with her, barring feeding Maia who had apparently developed a distaste for bottles recently, but Kara had insisted.

The funny part, Lena thinks, is that same trademark stubbornness reflected in Finn is what’s starting to get on Kara’s nerves.

But Finn is sweet at his core, even if his terrible twos mask that sometimes.  He lets his mother wrestle the pens away with minimal fuss, even if he does look over imploringly at Lena, knowing that she’s the ultimate pushover when it comes to his baby blues.

“Nuh uh, kiddo,” she says firmly.  “Mama said coloring time is over.”

“Draw,” he whines, jutting out his bottom lip in a horrifically accurate recreation of Kara’s puppy dog pout.

“C’mon honey,” Kara huffs, picking up their son.  “You know that’s not fair—Mommy can’t resist that look.”  She pokes his cheek lightly, earns herself a damp raspberry from Finn in return.  “Where’s that smile, hm?"

Finn does start to smile a little begrudgingly, always an easy win even now.  Looking at them, Lena starts to understand that appeal of the matching sweaters—snowmen this year, as opposed to the previous theme of snowflakes; Kara and Finn look like a matched set, Maia looking much the same in Lena’s arms.  All bright and blonde and beautiful, all strong, all powered—sometimes Lena feels a little left out of their club, sometimes feels a little out of place when Maia and Finn fly up out of her reach to play, when only Kara can join them easily.

The sweaters are a tangible reminder that she’s not a separate entity from them, not really.  She may not be exactly the same, but she is part of the family, a part of these giggling, happy children.

Maia coos happily, begins to play with Lena’s fingers and rings.  “Are you excited for the photos, love?” Lena asks her, smiling when Maia turns her big blue eyes on her, a wide toothless grin her answer.

/

The card turns out a little messier than previous years, not quite as picture perfect as their first holiday card with Finn—he was grumpy through the process, so Kara had to tickle him to get a smile.  The movement sent Kara’s glasses slipping down her nose and she tried to catch them by turning her head up.  Lena’s a blur, caught half in motion as she turned to look at what was happening next to her.

Maia, of course, was the only one looking at the camera.

. . .

2025

. . .

Their first card with Stella is a different ballgame—quite frankly, Lena is close to just calling it.  It wouldn’t be a tragedy to miss one year, especially with Stella still so worryingly small, still so colicky and fussy, with them still so sleep deprived.  They had enough photos from the months leading up that could easily sub in for the card.

“It’s going to be fine,” Kara assures Lena when she voices her same argument for what has to be the fourth time today.  “Finn and Maia are pros at this and Stella took a nice, long nap, so she’s should be good.”

“I just—,” Lena starts, pulling her hair out of its bun.  “It just feels wrong to be focusing on this so much, considering how difficult this year has been for us.  Is that ridiculous?”

“Of course not,” Kara says soothingly.  “But this is our normal, right?  We should try and stick to our normal as much as possible, that’s what Dr. Neuhaus said.  Babies can sense when people are stressed and we have been so stressed.  Besides,” she grins, pulling an earlier abandoned bag out of their closet.  “I had these customized.”

The sweaters for this year are reindeers, a family of five; Lena saw them when they arrived and burst into tears.  The transition from four to five was much more difficult than they’d ever anticipated and part of her was still worried that the final paperwork for the adoption, stuck somewhere in the grinding gears of bureaucracy, would be denied even when their case worker had all but assured it.

Maybe that had more to do with her hesitance for this card than anything else.  She’s not sure she’d ever recover if they lost Stella now.  She is sure, however, that she’d be a wreck every time she saw the card if they did lose her.

“You’re overthinking,” Kara says at the same moment Stella starts wailing.

Lena still swivels to where, until a few weeks ago, Stella’s bassinet sat, tucked in a warmly lit corner of their bedroom.  They’d just moved her into what had used to be their home office, recently renovated for their unexpected addition and it still feels wrong to have to cross the hall to comfort their crying daughter.  Still feels too far.

“I’ll get her,” Lena tells Kara once she’s reoriented herself, heading to the hall.

Some of this extra fear, Lena’s sure, is because she never had to worry with Finn and Maia.  Finn never ran a temperature, virtually never fussed or cried, slept soundly from the very beginning—all credit to Kara’s genetics.  Maia’s powers manifested so early, Lena hardly had a chance to worry about her, at least not in the way she worries for Stella.

Little Stella, still so small and sickly.  She catches colds and stomach bugs with ease, runs fevers like she’s been training for them.  Lena and Kara hardly slept the first few months with her.

And now, as Lena steps into the low-lit room, Stella’s wails ratchet up an octave.  That’s normal, at least—she always gets worse before getting better.  Her crying sustains even when Lena picks her up, only beginning to quiet when Lena holds her close.  They’ll have to figure out a better pose than they were planning; it would have been Finn holding Stella, Maia on a step behind them, and her and Kara at the back, but that won’t work if Stella’s fussing.  She likes being close to her or Kara.  Small adjustments, Lena figures.  All worth it.

Stella calms quickly enough, allows Lena to change her and dress her in the family sweater.

By the time Lenore arrives, they’ve all sort of gotten their collective act together.  Kara holds Stella on her hip, Lena seated on the floor with Finn on one side, Maia on the other.  When they’re reviewing the shots after, Lena spots a The Shot, a candid snapped when no one was paying attention.  Finn’s telling her something, his arms a blur as he gestures animatedly; she and Maia have twin looks of concentration as they listen to him, though Lena’s smirking.  Kara is resting her forehead against Stella’s, both of them smiling.

/

When the call comes in from their case worker that their final paperwork has been approved, she makes sure to send everyone involved a copy of the newly expanded and legalized Danvers Family Holiday Card.

. . .

2054

. . .

“Moms?” Finn calls, holding the door open for the rest of his family.  “We’re here!”

“Finn!” Maia hisses curled up next to Beth on the couch.  “Why are you so loud?”

“You’re one to talk, sis,” he shoots back with an eye roll.

Nasrin sweeps in, pushing her husband out of the way with a gasp.  “Oh, is that her?” she asks, ignoring Finn’s surprised laugh.  “Boys,” she scolds when her sons scramble for the couch to see their new cousin.

“She’s awake,” Beth assures her, shifting the bundle in her arms so that the newcomers can see her face.  Beth turns, asks her nephews, “Can you be really gentle?”

Cyrus, already taking tentative steps towards the trio on the couch, nods.  His brother, Jasper, follows him closely and says, “Is she gonna break?”

“Yes,” Maia answers just as Beth says, “Of course not.”  Finn glares at his sister as Beth continues.  “She’s just really small still and you guys are so strong!  You just have to be careful and support her head, if you want to hold her.”

Jasper looks back at his mother, easing herself into one of the armchairs.  “Is the new baby going to be this small?” he asks her, eyes on her ever-growing belly.

“Yes, love,” Nasrin hums, leaning back and resting her hands atop her stomach.  “You should start practicing gentle hands now.”

“Where’s Charlie?” Finn asks Maia as he sets his family’s bags down on the kitchen island.  “I have a question for him.”

“He’s supervising—.”

“Allie and Leo?”

“Mhm.  Snowball fight in the backyard.”

Cyrus bails at that, makes a dash for the back door and ignores his mother calling after him to slow down.  Jasper hesitates a moment, looks to his parents for approval and, after Finn laughs and tells him “Go!”, runs after his brother.

“Stell?” Finn asks finally.

Beth looks up again, smiling slightly at the mention of her wife.  “Laying down,” she answers.  “Lena just went to check on her, actually.”

“I’ll go—.”

Before Finn can finish his thought, Kara rounds the corner into the living room, arms piled high with holiday sweaters (this year’s theme, according to his mom’s email, was penguins).  “I thought that was you guys,” she says, smiling brightly at her son and daughter-in-law.  “Did the kids head outside?”

“Maia said the magic words,” Nasrin answers her.  “Snowball fight.”

Kara laughs, sets down the stack of sweaters on the coffee table.  “Good,” she sighs, stepping back to analyze the pile.  “They can work all their wiggles out now.  Have you seen your mom yet?” she asks Finn.

“Not yet.  Maia said she was checking on Stella?”

His mom swivels on her daughter then, eyebrows raised.  “What’s happening with Stella?”

“She’s fine,” Beth cuts in.  “Just healing up slower than she’d like and refusing to slow down at all to accommodate.”

Kara tuts and shakes her head.  “She’s always done that,” she grumbles.  “You too, Birdy.”  She swats at Maia’s shoulder accusatorially.  “Giving me grays, I swear.”

“Gee Ma,” Maia rolls her eyes.  “I wonder where we picked that up from.”

“I have never—!”

“Let’s not tell lies, love,” Lena hums, coming down the stairs.  “Credit where credit’s due and all that.  Have we got the sweaters sorted out?”

“Almost.”

“Perfect.  Lenore’s set to come over in twenty and Stella’s just washing up, so we should be on track.”

“Hi Mom,” Finn says, perched on the arm of his wife’s chair.

“Hi sweetheart,” Lena responds with a grin.  She hugs him tightly before leaning down to hug Nasrin.  “I thought I heard you all come in.”

“We’re sorry we’re late,” Nasrin apologizes.  “Cyrus’s game ran long and I wanted him to clean up before we headed over.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Lena assures her, squeezing her shoulder.  “We always plan a little wiggle-room into these things.”

“Okay,” Kara interrupts.  “We’ve got an extra sweater.”

Beth looks up from her conversation with Maia and asks, “You’re not double counting the newborns?  One for Tess and one for Finn and Nasrin, right?”

“Maybe the company made a mistake?” Lena suggests as she joins Beth and Maia on the couch, arms open to accept her granddaughter when Beth hands her off.

“Actually,” Maia says quietly.

All eyes turn to her.

“Charlie and I, uh, were going to wait a little longer to tell everyone, but I forgot I’d changed the order,” she says sheepishly.  The back door opens and Maia calls, “Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m about to tell them about the thing.”

“Oh!”  Charlie, covered in snow, rushes into the room, grinning wide.  “Really?”

“I forgot I changed the order for the sweaters.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

Kara, resting her arms on the pile of sweaters, extra and all, clears her throat.  “Your news?”

“Right!” Maia laughs.  “You all know that we had already put in the paperwork to adopt again when we got pregnant with Leo,” she explains.  “And, well.  We got a call a few months ago about a match.  We’ve been meeting with her at her foster home for the last several weeks and it’s looking like she’s going to be joining our family pretty soon.”

“What?”  Beth glares at her best friend.  “I’m getting another niece and you haven’t told me?”

“We haven’t really told anyone,” Charlie promises.  “We weren’t sure it was happening.  Josie’s older than Allie was when we adopted her, so we wanted to make sure she had some say in everything.”

“But it’s happening?” Kara asks, starting to tear up.

Maia nods, grinning.  “Yeah, Mama, it’s happening.  She’s coming home with us next week.”

Kara starts crying openly, dropping onto the other side of the couch and hugging her daughter.  Each grandchild’s announcement was met with tears and joy and this arrival would be no different.  Lena, on the other hand, quietly pulls out her phone.

Beth notices the small movement and raised her eyebrows.  “Researching?” she asks jokingly.

“Rescheduling,” Lena whispers back.  She dials before asking Maia, “Do you think she’d be up to meeting everyone then?”

Maia wipes her cheeks and nods.  “She’s been asking about that, actually.  She’s really excited to have a big family.”

“And how would she feel about matching sweaters?”

/

The final product, a sprawling, joyous shot that Kara and Lena frame for their mantle, features all fourteen and a half members of the family.

Nasrin holds the extra newborn sweater in front of her belly, Finn grinning proudly behind her.   Josie, already adored by every member of her newfound family, sits in Lena’s lap, her arm looped through Kara’s.  She took to her grandmothers quickly, but Lena’s memories of her time at the orphanage informed her care and words towards her new granddaughter and earned favor immediately.

Stella’s relegated to the couch with her mothers and Nasrin, a decision she’d protested loudly up until the day of, when she’d collapsed into her seat with a sigh of relief.  Tessa, in her arms, is yawning.  Cyrus managed to avoid his parents’ keen eyes and so Jasper has a pair of bunny ears—Allie sits on Charlie’s shoulders, Leo seated on the arm of the couch, his hand in Maia’s.  Beth’s found gazing down at her wife and daughter, her smile and adoration for them alone at the time.

Small things, little imperfections that Lena, as a child, was taught to hate—they make up the soul of her family.  The pulse, the breath, the things that remind her that this is real, this is the family she and Kara built together.  This is the reality she allowed herself all those years ago when she finally said yes.

#supergirl #supercorp #lena luthor #kara danvers #superbabies #its pretty sappy my dudes #and i literally said i wasnt going to write a christmas special but then on LITERAL christmas eve i was like hmmmmm #i should write a christmas special #so i revisted the superbabies! #and yall might get some trimberly christmas fluff soon too who knows #ill rebagle in the morning too #or later in the morning #merry christmas and happy holidays!!

[iambwhatiamb]

Becoming Meredith

I saw my face on the news again.

Welcome back. Our top story: Anthony Wood, 29, has escaped a federal prison. Authorities are conducting a manhunt for Wood, who was sentenced to life without parole for multiple first-degree murders. Authorities believe Wood is unhinged, armed and dangerous. If you see him, call 911. And now to Seymour with the weather.

I yawned, running a hand through my buzzcut. The family who owned this house had great taste. What a shame that they were all lying in chunks on the floor of the basement. It was too easy, really. Children were so soft, so fragile.

I would sleep here tonight, I decided, and flee to Cuba tomorrow. With the satisfying taste of death on my lips, I fell into a deep sleep.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"W-wuh?" I awoke with a start, pushing long blonde hair out of my eyes. I hadn't set an alarm, and- wait. What?

I scrambled to my feet, shoving a plush duvet to the floor. What was I wearing?

"Mer! Come set the table!" a warm voice called.

I plucked at the matching silk pajamas before noticing painted fingernails.

A mirror. I needed to find a mirror. I stumbled desperately across the room, where a small pink vanity awaited me.

Where was my face? I watched petite hands touch rosy cheeks, blue doe eyes staring back at me.

"What's happening?" I whispered, jumping when a girl's voice escaped my mouth.

"Meredith Thompson!" said the same voice, louder now.

I heard footsteps approaching and I looked around desperately for a place to hide. Just as the door was opening I dove under the bed, curling up to make myself smaller.

"Mer? What're you doing under there, silly?" A woman knelt down to meet my eyes.

I opened and closed my mouth silently like a fish. Of all the ways I'd imagined getting caught...

"Come on out, Meredith. You're old enough to set the table." The woman offered me her hand. "It's time for brunch."

She wasn't screaming in terror. I was Anthony Wood, the most infamous serial killer of the decade, but she wasn't running. She, too, was seeing only a blonde girl with painted fingernails, cowering under the bed.

The realization struck me like a physical blow and I felt a sudden urge to laugh. I was safe. As a child, the worst they could do was jail me, and then I would just escape again. I crawled out from under the bed and silently followed what I assumed to be Meredith's mother.

"The Zhaos are going to be here at 11:30," I heard a man's voice from the kitchen.

"Move!" I was shoved to one side and then the other as two teenagers sped past me. My instinct was to memorize their faces and watch their expressions as I slowly, tantalizingly removed their limbs one by one. I could do it. I should do it.

But... I glanced down at bare feet and scabby knees, my heart sinking with the weight of new limitations.

"Who are the Zhaos?" I asked Meredith's mother.

"The family that's coming over for brunch. I'm sorry, you won't have a playmate. Their kids are all the twins' age."

"How many are there?" I asked innocently. Meredith's mother bought my act.

"Only the youngest is coming, so it's just the three of them." She pinched my cheek. "Look at you, asking questions. Such a smart cookie!"

I smiled brightly at her praise. I wanted to taste her warm blood on my tongue.

"Now go on and set the table."

I needed to scope out the rest of the house anyways, so I walked in the direction of what I assume to be the kitchen. A broad-shouldered man was standing over the stove.

"Hey, Mer-bear. Can you make sure you set the good plates?"

I narrowed my eyes. How dare he try to tell me what to do. I could sever his spinal cord and make him watch, helpless, as his wife and children were slaughtered. I could tease him playfully by chopping off his fingers one by one before drowning him in his own lifeblood.

Meredith's father handed me a set of dishes and I nearly toppled over under their weight.

"Careful, honey." Mer's father steadied me.

I wanted to slice the condescending smile off of his face.

Straining under the weight of the dishes, I toddled to the dining table and carefully set plates on each placemat. As soon as I finished, I scampered back to Meredith's room. I needed time to think, to plan, to take control.

With a pink marker and a bit of scrap paper, I wrote careful notes. Meredith's parents and twin siblings made four. The family coming for brunch added to seven. It would be the most I'd ever toyed with in one session, but taking them all at once was far from impossible if I was careful.

Strategy. I tapped my chin thoughtfully. My typical MO was to use knives. It was sacred, an almost sensual moment when I could use a beautifully sharp blade to slice and sever. However, knives required close combat skills and brute strength... impossible when the body I controlled was so pathetically weak.

I felt an itch in my fingers. I ached for the sweet release that came with spattered blood and choked whimpers.

There was one possibility- a method of murder that even the incompetent could pull off. And there was a statistically high probability that it would be almost easy.

Meredith's family was bustling about in the kitchen. There was nothing to stop a curious little girl from exploring.

I poked my head into every room I could find, stopping only when I discovered what had to be Meredith's parents' bedroom.

"Hm..." I lifted their heavy duvet to check under the bed. Nothing. Equal disappointment awaited me at their dresser and behind their bookshelf.

It was when I opened the closet doors that I knew I'd struck gold. A heavy safe buried beneath coats greeted me, and the only thing keeping me from my prize now was a flimsy padlock. I located the key in a bedside drawer and fit it into the lock.

A loud buzz startled me just as I withdrew my treasure. My eyes darted to the clock on the wall. 11:30 exactly- the guests had arrived. I gripped the semiautomatic rifle in my hands, Meredith's lips pulling apart in an animalistic grin. The next few minutes consisted of an intense feeling of euphoria that I thought would never fade. So much color and a symphony of screams lent themselves to unrelenting pleasure, and I feasted upon that pleasure for hours, taking my time with blades once the twitching stopped, savoring each step while blood ran through my fingers.

I sighed contentedly as I sat against the wall, my fingers stroking the hair of a disembodied head. Pure bliss...

I jolted awake, moving to push my hair out of my eyes. My head felt noticeably lighter. I rose, standing on creaky wooden boards, my back sore from the discomfort of sleep. Why did the floor look farther away?

I took in my surroundings as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I was standing in a windowless wooden hut, a small briefcase and TV set the only additions to the room. The TV was already on, broadcasting the news.

...At twelve years old, she may prove to be America's youngest spree killer. Meredith Thompson is now in custody after being found by police late last night at the scene of this terrible tragedy.

Well, Hannah, surely this is a mental health issue.

We'll see, Todd. Thompson has been assigned a public defender and is awaiting trial. And now to Seymour with the weather.

I sat back, at a loss. With my eyes now adjusted to the daylight, I was able to recognize my familiar Cuban safehouse. How did I get out of the country? Certainly not the little girl... with a shake of my head, I banished the thought. If I questioned what had happened, I would go insane.

I kept a low profile over the next few weeks as Meredith's story unfolded. I'd never been able to see my work as an outsider before.

Through news coverage of her trial, I could see Meredith through my eyes rather than hers. Her greasy hair hung around her, her blue eyes sunken, her skin sallow. Her lawyers were trying to go for an insanity plea, but the prosecutors pointed at the detailed notes I'd made as well as my flawless execution to prove Meredith's competence and dismiss the plea. Unbelievably it worked.

During my months of aimless dawdling while her trial persisted, I realized something. The Thompsons, the Zhaos- they were my last kills; they had to be. I would never be able to top becoming Meredith Thompson. After two years of trials, Meredith's sentencing made history. At least, it would've.

Welcome back. Our top story: Meredith Thompson, the fourteen-year-old spree killer who was convicted for the murder of seven people, has been found dead in her cell. Thompson was slated for lethal injection, with the date set for three weeks from now. Preliminary reports suggest Thompson committed suicide. Thompson made history last year as the youngest person to have been tried and sentenced as an adult under U.S law.

I mean, she has to have been mentally disturbed, Hannah.

Well, Todd, if she wasn't two years ago, she certainly is-was- by now. Let's go over to Seymour with the weather.

#angst #scary #writing #fiction #creative #poetry #writeblr #iambwhatiamb

[persephones24]

Love of my Life: Part 3

AN: Here it is, my lovely potatoes. Sorry it took me so long to post this. Hopefully it is to your liking. I am going to have an epilogue for this story. I have an request in my ask box that is perfect for the epilogue so I will combine the two. I hope you like the final part to Love Of My Life.

Pairing: Reid x Reader

Word Count: 2700

“Guys, are you sure that this is where he is keeping her.” Spencer asked looking at a map with a location circled in bright red marker. The team bustled around, strapping in their FBI vest and gun holsters, preparing for what may come when they find you. “How did you come to this conclusion.”  

The team looked at each other, contemplating on telling him. Rossi was the first to confess.

“Garcia pinpointed where the kidnapping and the phone calls came from. The three areas that the west side phone tower is where he most commonly retrieves his victims and used his phone. It took a little bit of time to find out which phone tower he used but we got him.” Spencer eye brow knitted together, shock and confusion taking over him.

“There are six different abandoned warehouses in the perimeter of the tower, we pinpointed it to be the one farthest from any main roads and access to any camp sites.”

“Are you sure this is the place where he is keeping her. It doesn’t fit his profile.”

“Reid, we have no choice. The women that you love, that we all love is missing and this is the only lead that we have. We are desperate for anything at the moment.” JJ replied, stretching her hand out towards his arm, squeezing it gently.

“Yeah, I get that. But this guy has been living in closed proximities his whole life. Any space that is any bigger will likely cause him to have mild panic attacks. There has to be another location close that he would use.”

“Well, figure it out Genius.” Morgan said, leaning against a table, his arm folded across his chest. The team sat around Spencer as they watched him work.

Spencer’s eyes scanned over the map, analyzing the landscape, looking for any indentation of unrecognizable land. Looking at ever centimeter of the map, praying that he finds what he is looking for. Until his eyes spotted a small brown speck, a small house sat to the far left side of the uncharted area, some ways away from any of the other abandon warehouses. Grabbing a colorful blue marker from the table, he circles the area.

“Marcus Leonards wouldn’t use a big warehouse to do his bidding, something smaller and comfortable would be suffice for him. There’s an old house a few miles away from the warehouse. It’s more likely for him to be there.”

Hotch looked over the map, his face scrunches up as he thought about the new found evidence. After a few seconds, he nods his head. “We leave in 2.”

They ran out of the bullpen, taking the elevator to the ground floor and to their SUV’s. Spencer quickly put on his FBI vest and gun holster, sliding into the backseat, with Hotch and Morgan occupying the front seat. Turning over the SUV, Hotch pealed out of the garage, speeding to the uncharted area where you awaited. Morgan turned around and looked at Spencer.

“Let’s go get your woman, kid.”

“Okay, break time.” Hearing the knife hit the floor with a thud, you let out a breathy sigh. Feeling the cool air hit your exposed muscles, you hiss in pain. You whimper, your body going rigid, the blood from the open sore on your back leaking in your panties, dripping down your legs and joining the dried up mud on the ground. The restraints cutting in your bruised wrist, the lack of skin becoming infected.

You took in a shaky breath, trying to get your barring, but the pain in your back was too great. You head hung low, you wanted to cry but it never came, too dehydrated to shed tears. You wanted to die, you just want this pain to be over. Why doesn’t he just kill me already? What is he waiting for? This is fun to him. The sick fuck. The bastard.

Your thoughts wandered to Spencer, he is trying his hardest to find you. You need to be strong, he needs you to be strong.

Right?

God you missed him. The cute way he would ramble of facts when he was nervous, the blush upon his face when you tell him he’s adorable. The quiet nights you shared at your house, cooking dinner for each other, drinking wine, enjoying each other’s company. Snuggling on the couch, everything and anything not a secret to each other. Even when you would self-hate on your body, he would praise you, giving you the confidence that you needed to feel good about yourself.  

Marcus pulled a chair from the wall, setting it in front of you. As he sat down, his eyes never left your lifeless face, a smirk upon his face.

“So, you’re a plus size model. I have to say that you work is superb. The photo shoot that you did for dove was breathtakingly beautiful.” Lifting your head, your eyes bore into his, the hatred for this man showing. His smirk only grew, his eyes twinkling. “No wonder I find you fascinating. The others were always afraid to even look at me. But you, you don’t even hesitate.”

“I dealt with bullies that think they could break me. Your no different from them.”

“I’m different.” His face faltered into a deep scowl, eyes burning into yours. You could feel a violent shiver about to erupt from you, but you kept your ground, not wanting to show him any weakness. But deep down inside, you were terrified. You need to buy more time; Spencer will find you. His team always finds their victims.  

“Please. You might have been bullied but you turned into one. Taking innocent women and torturing them for your own fun. How pathetic can you be?”

His chest raised rapidly raised, his anger getting the best of him. Running a hand over his face, he took a deep breath, leaning on his forward resting on his knees. You felt the anger and emotion that you been holding on to for so long coming out. You really don’t care that he will kill you, but you will get your point across. “Don’t you think that I do this for a reason.”

“I know that a troubled childhood can start it. But what really made you start killing fat women?”

Marcus chuckles, running his hand through his hair, his blue eyes softening a little. “You don’t know what I have been through. You don’t know my life.”

You scoff. “oh boo hoo. Let me get a tissue right next to the strip of skin that you pulled from my back. I was tortured by my dad when I was little, to a point where I was physically hurt every other week. But you don’t see me going around killing innocent women because they remind you of your mom. Be a human being and get over it.”

Marcus shot up from the chair, the momentum making the chair fall over. He towered over you, his face so close that you could feel his breath on your lips. His breath came out in spurts, making his chest raised and fall rapidly. His eyes were blood shot, his face is tented red, hands balled up into fist. The feeling of rage rolling off his body in waves.

“What are you going to do, hit me? You already have me hanging, a chunk of skin gone from my back. What else can you do?”

He hesitated before his face fell, and you swore that you saw tears his eyes watering. But just like his emotions, it changed back to the carefree smile.

“My mom used to burn me with an iron. Arms, legs, stomach, and back. Every piece of my flesh has been touched by that iron. And yet no one cared to question it. When she died two months ago from pneumonia, that set this killing spree off. I was so mad at her for dying so easy. All the shit that she did to me and she dies from something so simple, it’s insulting to me.”

“Insulting. To you. Wow. You’re an ass. My dad physically abused me since I was 5 years old, throwing me against wall, breaking bones, making me feel like shit. My mom never stopped him, letting him do whatever he wants to me. And then, being the piece of trash that he is, while I’m at school, he killed my mom and then himself. Everyone has problems that happened in their childhood, but they deal with it. They make things in their lives better. Make this shitty world better for you. So stop acting like a fucking spoiled brat and get your shit together.”

His usual smile upon his face fell slightly, his eyes crinkled at the ends forming deep lines. He lifted his hand, taking notice that you haven’t flinched at all. He caressed your cheek, gently. He stared lovingly at you, the expression on his face more relaxed and more genuine.

The sound of tires moving against dirt ground broke him of his trance. He chuckles to himself, shaking his head while looking at the ground. Multiply car doors closed, and the sound of a door being broken into filled the dark and dank room. Marcus ran a finger down the side of your face before taking hold of your cheek between his fingers.

“Looks like your boyfriend found us.” He leaned forward, pecking your lips with his. You fought the urge to throw up, instead you shook away from his grasp on you. “If only we met in different circumstances, I believe that we would be perfect for each other.”

“The love of my life is Spencer. Nothing can ever be as perfect as our relationship. Nothing.”

Your head became dizzy, your eye beginning to get blurry. The blood loss finally taking its toll. Is this where you are going to die? Alone with a psychopath? Alone? Without Spencer. Your heart ached, the last time you talked to him, you got into an argument over something so dumb and stupid. You never wanted to end a conversation on a bad note, unsure of the possibilities of the other dying and the last thing they remember was your argument.

You silently prayed to whoever is up there in heaven that you would see him again. Just seeing his face one last time will put you at ease. You will be ready to die.

The door to the far end of the cellar burst open and the sound of yelling filled the room. Through your blurry vision, you saw two men take hold of Marcus, dragging him away from your body.

Seeing a shadow appear in front of your eyes, you felt your head being lifted by two very soft and comfortable hands. Your eyes focused on the face that appeared in front of you, connecting with tired and red brown eyes. His face filled with relief after seeing you, tears coming down his face, he kissed your cheek softly, sobs raking through his body. And just like that, everything turned black.

You woke up to a brightly lit room, the white walls making the light even brighter. The taste of medicine in your mouth. You shifted slightly and regretted it immediately. Pain filled your limbs, making your head throb, your eyes watered. You lifted your hand over your eyes, feeling soft material on your skin. You noticed that both of your hands were bandaged up, the soft like material wrapped around your whole hand.

Surveying your surroundings, you notice that you were in a hospital, the sound of a machine beeping somewhere in the distance. You moved slightly, feeling padded material on your lower back. You turned your body a few inches, and felt the burning sensation coming from your lower back. You yelp, quickie turning your body to its side.

“Y/N. Hey, it’s okay.” Spencer came into your vision, taking hold of your bandaged hands. He pressed a button on a remote control, releasing medicine into your system. The pain in your back subsided partially, not fully going away but making it bearable.

Spencer stroked your hair, pushing some strands of hair behind your ear. He looked horrible, his eyes still bloodshot red, white streaks along his cheeks from crying, his hair having a thin layer of grease, his clothes wrinkled. His eyes scanned you’re your bruised face, the purple mark covering your nose, your swollen eyes. His eyes filled with tears again the pain of seeing you beaten up and broken becoming too much for him. Using your clothed hands to gentle wipe away his tears, you opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Taking a plastic cup from the bedside table, Spencer tipped your head back as the cool water went down your parched throat.

Spencer set the cup back on the table, he pulls up the chair he was sitting in, setting it beside your bed. He set his hand over yours, he hasn’t left your side since they found you. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, your heart fluttered, his presence relaxing you. Licking your chapped lips, you finally spoke, your voice raspy.

“What happened?”

“Um… You fainted as soon as we arrived. You uh... you went into hypovolemic shock, a condition where none of your organs were getting enough blood for them to function. We had to rush you to the hospital before it became too late. Your nose is broken but it will heal properly. The wounds on your wrist became infected, but it’s not too bad, eventually they will heal but it will take a while. Your back…” he let out a sob before sniffling, fresh tear trickling down his cheeks.  

“T-the s-s-skin that he peeled off you was too damaged and the cells died, so they couldn’t put it back. Just like for burned victims, they use foreskin to help the skin cells regenerate. But it won’t heal properly and it will leave a permanent scar.”

You inhale, holding back the tears that so desperately wanted to come out. Your career is over. The time and money that you spent modeling. Your hard work and dedication to this impossible job, one in one-million people will only make it big in the modeling industry. Ten years of sacrifices paid off and you finally got your break. All of it went down the drain in only 24 hours.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect you. This is all my fault. If only I was there with you.”

“Don’t you dare do that. Don’t blame everything that that man did to me on you. None of this is your fault. None. It’s okay. This scar on my back will be a reminder that I survived a traumatic experience. Don’t be beat yourself down because of what physically happened to me. Be overjoyed that I’m a live, breathing. I’m here to stay, Spencer.”

A small smile broke out over his tired face. Standing up, he leans over you, his face coming closer to yours. His chapped lips meet yours in a sweet and tender kiss, the fear and despair that he had slowly melting away. Being overtaken with joy, delight, and love. When she was kidnapped, his whole being felt like it was going to tear apart, ripping his heart up. He felt like he fell into a dark abyss, nothing and no one could bring him out of it. But just having her here, breathing and alive, set him at ease. The love of his life is safe.  

Separating, Spencer sits back down in the chair, using the back of his hands, he wiped away his tears. Your eyes began to get heavy, the medicine putting you to sleep.

“You should get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Nodding your head, you closed your eyes. You sigh, flexing your stiff legs.

“You know what weird?”

“What that?”

“That I have men penis skin on my back.” Spencer burst out in laughter, he doubled over, holding his stomach, as tears of joy fell from his eyes.

“God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You mumble before sleep took over you once again.

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #Matthew Gray Gubler #fluff #criminal minds one shot

[dontlookatmeitwashim]

Teach Me To Love: Part One

woah look I actually wrote something thats not sad!

Her brother had moved to live with her three months ago, after he said he wanted to have a taste of freedom. Their parents and Marinette agreed to let him live with her in Paris. She got him in one of the best schools, easily paying for the tuition herself and she even design him a dream room… but with all the benefits of living with his sister? There were rules. Do your chores, get good grades and don’t cause any trouble. Marinette had warned her younger brother twice before about causing trouble in class, twice she warned him and this made the third time his teacher had called her.

The call had woken her up; it was ten in the morning, too early to deal with her brother. The twenty-seven-year old design groaned, she had a late night at the offices, designing and sewing all the way into seven in the morning. So, when she heard her cell phone ringing at eight? She wasn’t pleased. “This is Marinette.”

“Ms. Dupain-Cheng? Your brother Aaron’s teacher called and would like for you to come to school right away.” The office lady explained, her voice becoming more of a morning wakeup call than anything else. These calls were becoming frequent enough that Marinette knew her first name; Karen.

Marinette groaned, but nodded; getting out of her comfortable bed. “What did he do?”

“Mr. Agreste said that Aaron had cut his tie in half, then a girl’s hair and finally? Wrote crude words in permanent marker on the white board.”

The designer rubbed her forehead as she opened her large closet, taking down a pair of black skinny jeans and a red blouse that was held by only two straps and flowed to her belly button. She put the phone on speaker as she changed. “What color of shirt is Mr. Agreste wearing?”

There was a pause over the phone before Karen answered hesitantly. “White with grey pants.”

“Thanks.” She hung up the phone, putting on some white heels and went to her office.

She threw open the French doors. The back of the office was a wall of windows, the walls painted white and there were clothes thrown everywhere. One wall was filled with shelfs, all of them labeled with different types of clothes; a ladder that would slide across to one end to another. She climbed the ladder and pulled open the drawer that was labeled ties, she rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a burgundy tie with a delicate pattern hand stitched into it.

Marinette grabbed her purse and walked out of her apartment. The school was only a few blocks away, she was there under ten minutes. The school was large and was home to only the most prestige members of society. Plenty of politicians, actors, Ambassadors and business men send their children to the school. Aaron was lucky that he could get in so late in the semester… The only reason they allowed him was because he was unbelievably smart. That was same reason he got away with so many pranks.

Walking into the office, the office workers already knew who she was because they had seen her face plastered all over the world, but they also knew her as Aaron’s guardian.

The office lady gave her a visitor’s tag and room number with a sigh. “Better hurry, Mr. Agreste has been trying to clean off the white board ever since school started.”

“Wish me luck,” Marinette groaned, stalking past the office.

She ran up the stairs and turned right, walking to the very last door and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” A male’s voice called out.

Opening the door, the designer walked in. The teacher had his back to her; he was blonde with black glasses propped in front of his green eyes. He had taken off his tie, leaving his collar open. He was trying to clean off the permanent marker that was all over the white board, but he wasn’t successful.

Marinette’s eyes moved away from the teacher and started scanning the row of students for her brother. She found him within seconds, his black hair styled and his blue eyes wide with fear. It was obvious that they were brother and sister. “Aaron Ren Dupain-Cheng!”

“There isn’t anyone here by that name!” He ducked under his desk, terrified of the fire in his sister’s eyes. “Please leave a message at the beep!”

Marinette glowed and stormed forward, grabbing her brother by his ear and forced him to stand; started shouting in Chinese. She dragged him to the front of the room, to stand in front of Mr. Agreste. Not caring that her brother’s classmates were gawking at her. “You will apologize to Mr. Agreste and to the poor girl that you had given a haircut, now!”

“I don’t want to!” The fourteen-year-old snapped back.

“You will and if I get one more phone call from the office? I’m sending you back to China with Mom and Dad. I can’t keep coming over here to pick you up or having a teacher conference, I have fashion week coming up and the magazine deadline, plus I have to start ideas for the spring line!” She glared, her sleepless night catching up with her and her brother could tell. Her skin was pale, there was dark circles under her eyes and her hair wasn’t in their usual pigtails. Then there was the fact that she had no makeup at all; something fully rested Marinette would ever do. “If I knew having you live with me would give me insomnia? I would have never agreed to this!”

The teenager swallowed hard, feeling sorry for making his sister lose sleep over him. He never liked seeing her in pain, but she was never home and was always too busy to do anything with him. Never, he never wanted to see his sister so tired and stressed because of his sad cry for attention. Aaron turned to his teacher and deeply bowed. “I am sorry for what I did, Mr. Agreste and I promise that from here on? I will do my best to behave.”

This was the moment understood why his star student was always acting out. The teacher studied his student’s older sister, trying to understand what she had done to earn such a love and respect from Aaron. But there wasn’t anything that gave it away on the surface. He turned back to his student. “I am still going to give you a week worth of detention, Aaron…”

“I understand, sir.”

The school bell rang and all the students jumped into action, even Aaron, scrambled to gather their things and run out the door. Marinette just watched the teenagers leave the room, before letting out a sigh. She ran a hand through her hair and met the teacher’s eyes. “Sorry for the scene, but I told Aaron that I would make him regret it if I got a third call this week…”

“I think your method was very affect.” He laughed, putting down the cleaning supplies on his cluttered desk. The blonde turned around and leaned against his desk, watching the woman in front of him. She was simply beautiful without all the makeup and fancy dresses; it made him wonder why she wouldn’t go natural more often. “So, you’re the famous Ms. Marinette Dupain-Cheng?”

“Call me Marinette, Mr. Agreste.” She held out her hand which he took carefully; his hands were rough and warm in hers.

The teacher laughed, letting go of her hand and waved her off. “Please, call me Adrien. It’s not every day that a famous fashion designer walks through my classroom door… I think that has been the most awake my students have been ever since the school year started.”

“Always glad to help,” Marinette shrugged, moving closer to the blonde while she dug through her bag; taking out the burgundy tie. She ran a hand over it before holding it out for him. “To replace the one Aaron destroyed… A Dupain-Cheng original, one that will never hit stores.”

Adrien took the piece of clothing from her hands and turned it over in his hands; noticing the famous DC letters stitched onto the label. It was an exquisite piece, clearly carefully planned to the smallest stitch. “You didn’t have to; this tie alone is probably worth hundreds of dollars.”

Rolling her eyes, the designer stepped forward and buttoned up his shirt; propping up the collar. “Please, I have plenty of ties that can replace this one, besides… every handsome man should have decent tie.” Marinette stared into his eyes, tying the tie as she did. His eyes captured her completely, making her feel as though they were the only two people in the world.

“So, how did you get your little brother to respect you so much?” The teacher raised an eyebrow, curious to know the answer since she had gotten him to apologize.

Her hands stopped moving, swallowing hard before tying again; only slowly now. She was no longer looking at him, her eyes falling to the tie. “Before I became a famous fashion designer? I was my brother’s only friend and he was my greatest supporter. Every day I would pick him up from school and every day I would have to chase the bullies away… We didn’t tell our parents because they had enough to deal with at the bakery. Then my business started, then I moved to France; leaving him to defend for himself. We texted constantly, keeping me updated on everything. He told me the bullies would mostly tease him because he was smarter than him.”

Adrien watched her eyes become darker from the memories. “How did he get here?”

“I went back for a visit two months ago, and went to pick him up like I used to… when I found him beaten and bloody. I was going to call the police, but he made me promise not to. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble; he only wanted to run away.” Marinette’s hands clenched his tie, taking slow breaths as her anger raised from the thought of her little brother beaten. She hated that she couldn’t do anything more than help him run away. “So, I helped him. I gave him a room any teenager would be envious of, paid for his tuition.”

“No, that’s not what got him to respect you; that’s what made him love you.” The teacher observed, putting his hands over hers; gaining her full attention. “What did you do to earn his respect?”

“I don’t know,” The designer shook her head, moving her hand out from under his and started to tie his tie once again. “What do you like to do besides teaching?”

“Piano, fencing, reading; a lot of things.” Adrien’s hands ached to wrap around her waist, but he resisted; focusing on her hands and her voice instead. “What about you? What do you like to do beside designing?”

Laughing, Marinette looped the tie around and tucked the other end in the loop. “I like reading, going to concerts and running; but designing is my whole life… well designing and my family.”

“Do you ever go on dates?”

“Yes,” She finished tightening the tie, resting her hands against Adrien’s chest; looking up at him with a smile. It had a few weeks since she last went on a date with a handsome man her age… She missed being romance, the hours of getting ready just to see her date’s jaw drop. Marinette raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me?”

The teacher blushed and nodded slightly, not yet used to her being so close to him. “If you say you will go, I am.”

“I’ll go.” Marinette went on her tippy toes and kissed his cheek, taking a step back and getting a good look at him. The tie looked good on him…

Adrien grinned, fixing his rolled-up sleeves and turned around to write down his number on a piece of paper. He held out the paper, stuffing his other hand in his pocket. “Tomorrow at seven? I can pick you up from your house?”

Taking the piece of paper and tucking it in her bag, the designer nodded. She was still smiling, walking backwards to the door. “I’ll text you and let you know, okay?”

“Okay.” Adrien watched her leave.

See??? Happy! :)

#ML #ml art #ml fanfiction #ml au #ml oc #ml fanart #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #miraculous ladybug headcannon #miraculous adventures of ladybug and chat noir #marichat #adrien #adrienette #adrinette #adrien agreste #adrien x marinette #Marinette #marinette cheng #chat noir #ladybug and chat noir #ladybug #miraculous ladybug au

[bungou-stray-dogs-indulgences]

Oda’s with you, as he always is, when you wander into the modest cemetery a stone’s throw from his apartment. Except this time, he’s on the wrong side of the soil.

I feel a little guilty that this isn’t a request, but I've been sorting out details with my brother’s headstone and going through his things etc, so I needed to write something for myself. Hopefully you’ll understand why I prioritized my own projects, just this once.  Filled scenario requests are coming, but I needed this right now.

Pulchritudinous. The letters rise unbidden, curling steam roiling off a pot of feelings you can’t quite force into words, to the front of your mind, and your eyes start leaking long before you expected.

It was the first word that Odasaku penciled in your mental dictionary after taking it upon himself, as an aspiring writer, to grace your ears with language’s most rhythmic offerings. The syllables rolled smooth like whiskey off his tongue about three months after he’d first dragged you along to a curry joint that served food far too spicy for anyone who valued their gastrointestinal tract.

He was staring into your eyes after your twenty-first kiss when that word-pulchritudinous- broke the silence lingering between your damp and swelling lips. And, as soon as he explained what it meant, waxing poetic about the universes that sparkled in your eyes and the velvet of your skin, praising you the way only writers can, it meandered into your twenty-second kiss and past that, sliding tenderly into your first time rolling around the sheets together.

Now, as your form strikes a lonely line in the graveyard where your feet used to lead sometimes when you wandered the sidewalk with him, the word swirls behind your eyelids, mingling with the heat of tears. His gravestone strikes a shadow across wilting flowers scattered, months ago, across the sod blanketing him. It stands austere among the other faded stones, their names long scraped away to a code of dips and scratches by the rain. The sun sets slow as molasses, sinking behind the hill the marker juts from, bathing the cemetery in a gold too warm for legions of biers, hidden only by grass roots. Pulchritudinous? Yes, perhaps. But sickeningly so.

Through the shutters of moisture masking your eyes, you examine the stone. The characters of his name crawl across the speckled rose, standing stark and white and sickeningly permanent. Beneath it, a description sums his life, neatly but disturbingly succinct: beloved best friend, companion, big brother. That last part was for the orphans. After Oda’s service, you had crawled, for half a sob, from behind the solitude of soggy tissues to suggest it, and Dazai had stilled the plastic fork stabbing the complementary funeral luncheon just long enough to manage a stiff nod. 

It’s a nice stone. Nice. That wasn’t a word that had rolled off of Odasaku’s tongue, breaking the darkness of those three A.M.s when neither of you could keep your eyes shut.

Denigrate; to criticize unfairly, or attack. That one, he had explained one drizzly May sunrise while you rested your head on his chest and complained about your bitchy coworkers. It was a word he liked to pull out of his mental dictionary when pettiness ran through you, coloring your speech and inspiring a few too many swear words. Now, with the soles of your shoes sinking into the carpet of grass that should’ve been mowed at least two weeks ago, something achingly close to the sandpapery melody of his rumbling voice tickles at your mind: “Don’t be so denigrating. Nastiness doesn’t suit your voice.”

 If Oda, wherever he was, could see your shoulders trembling like the last withered leaves of autumn as you searched for any flaw in his headstone to cling to, he wouldn’t mind your head filling with poison, just this once.  

The russet granite is tasteless. You decide this shortly after your legs give out and bits of gravel are gnawing at your knees, scraping through the tights you wore on the last date to his beloved curry joint. The copper’s a twin with what coated Dazai’s hands when he stumbled, unsteady, through your doorway, eyes rolling with storm clouds that spilled out over his paper-pale cheeks. 

The column of your neck crumbles, sagging under the weight of thoughts swirling through your mind, sinking and sticking like anchors. Forehead bumping the slab, you slump, letting limpness crawl through your limbs until your body dents the grass. Hesitant, your arms slither out to circle the stone. You squeeze. It’s a hug nothing short of arctic.

There are no torrid clouds masking the peacock-blues fading into peacock-greens as nightfall stumbles slowly across your head, but the granite slab, clawing from the earth in a perfectly haunting square, runs with tracks of damp anyway. When your mouth opens to let a scream fly free, your voice burrows back in the pits of your chest, poking at your bleeding heart. A strangled ‘Odasaku’ breaks out instead. 

Deleterious; harmful or damaging. The last vocabulary lesson he’d ever given you before storming off, his beautiful soul shredded to ribbons and the ocean waves of his azure eyes lapping steely with blood. He never did teach you how to spell that one, like he promised, chuckling, when you scrawled one too many ‘e’s. It’s alright, you decide. When you roll over in bed, and bump into nothing but a frigid, bunched-up sheet, you understand the complicated syllables well enough.

A single star snoops, its luminous fingers cracking through the night sky’s curtain when your arms unravel from a headstone that can’t embrace you back. All of the praising words Oda flung at the sky while the two of you stargazed on the roof of his apartment building come flooding back at once. None of them stick as your wobbly knees straighten to stand. The winding syllables might as well be meaningless if Oda’s not the one to unravel them. 

Without Oda towering over your shoulder, fingers wound through yours like tangled yarn, pulchritudinous is just another word that means nothing.

#Bungou Stray Dogs #Bungou Stray Dogs Imagines #Oda #oda sakunosuke #Bungou Stray Dogs Scenarios #BSD Imagines