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dilf-din · 1 year

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Safe Place to Land: Part 6

—A Frankie Morales Series—

WC: 3400

Rating: T

Warnings: mild descriptions of injuries, talk of panic attacks/PTSD, language

Chapter 5 // Chapter 7

June 2014

You came to on a gurney, eyes hazy, ears ringing. You could make out the noise of doctors. One locked eyes with you and said something you couldn’t quite make out. Then you felt it. Pain. Blinding pain. You couldn’t pinpoint it at first. It felt like it was coming from everywhere. Your caregiver must have seen the fear in your eyes, because you felt a gloved hand lace their fingers with you. You squeezed back. Your thoughts came quickly like your breath. One of your ears popped and you felt a rush of relief. A rush of voices, beeping, and indiscernible sounds flooded your ears. The nurse holding your hand noticed you looking around and slowly coming to, “Can you breathe for me, honey?” her gentle voice came out, “In through your nose, slow, out through your mouth,” she calmly guided you. You could do that. You took several deep breaths and could feel your heartbeat steadying. “Good, good, just focus on your breathing. Can you tell me your name?” she continued to prompt you keeping an eye on the monitors. You answered her questions with ease then suddenly panicked. “Frankie. Where—where’s Frankie. Is my husband okay?”

“Your husband sustained minor injuries, they are setting his wrist and he should be in here soon,” she explained calmly.

Frankie was okay you could relax again.

In a nearby room, Frankie sat on a small hospital bed, his leg shaking impatiently, his jaw taut. He was no stranger to being checked out and patched up, so he was trying to keep his composure while the E.R. nurse was doing her due diligence to release him to be with you. An X-ray showed his left wrist had been slightly fractured. She was wrapping it in gauze now to set it firmly in a brace. He could hear her instructions on the healing process, avoiding use, and everything in between, but every time he blinked, he just saw your limp body beside him. The jeep had landed upside down. His airbag kept him from any major injuries, just some gnarly bruising and cuts, his nose was fractured on the bridge they deduced, but yours had never deployed. You got tossed like a rag doll.

It took Frankie several seconds to regain his composure once the car stopped flipping landing completely upside down. He called your name and got no response. He started to panic reaching to unbuckle himself. The windows had all been blown out and he heard someone approaching the vehicle. A man in his late 40’s who saw the crash happen crouched down next to the window. “Is everyone okay? I’ve already called 911,” he called to Frankie.

“I’m fine, my wife isn’t responding though,” he called back, his voice thick with panic. He managed to find your pulse. It was erratic but it was there. “Baby, I need you to wake up,” he pleaded. He saw your leg caught in the mangled door, blood pouring. “Shit. Shit shit shit,” he cursed, his mind blanking on how to help you.

“Do you need a hand out?” the voice called again from outside the car.

“I’m not leaving her,” Frankie yelled, maybe a little too much emotion in his voice.

“Okay, that’s okay, the ambulance should be here soon,” the voice called back calmly. “My name is Gary, let me know if you need anything,” he smiled sympathetically through the window.

“Thank you, Gary,” Frankie flashed a quick smile, a lump in his throat as he clutched your face in his hands to try to keep your head steady.

“C’mon baby, we’re gonna make it out of here,” he promised.

The nurse dabbed some antiseptic on his nose making him wince and pulling him back to this moment.

“There’s not much we can do for it since it was a small fracture, it should heal on its own in a few weeks, but you’ll need a follow up X-ray to make sure it healed correctly,” she explained gathering his discharge paperwork. “Your wife is this way,” she said opening the door for him to follow her. “Thank you Chelsea,” he said earnestly, his heart rate spiking again, not knowing what he was going to walk into.

“Your husband is here,” the nurse said to you, you learned that her name was Roslyn. “Thank you,” you said with a final squeeze to her hand, Frankie quickly slipping into her place and taking your hand in his. You could tell he was nervous. You had antibiotics and pain killers rushing through your veins keeping you calm. Your right side was covered in bruises from fractured ribs, and your right leg sustaining a lengthy gash that was currently getting stitched and dressed. Your face and arms covered in small cuts like Frankie’s were. “Hi hermosa,” he whispered, the quake in his voice thinly veiled.

“Hi handsome,” you smiled weakly, “I’m okay.”

“I know,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to your own.

“Is your nose okay?” you drew your hand to his cheek.

“Just a little fracture,” he murmured.

“My ribs hurt,” you winced adjusting slightly on the bed. He lifted your gown to take in the deep purple painting your side and cursed under his breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, his head dropped as a tear slipped out.

“Baby, it wasn’t your fault, we got side swiped. No one could have seen that coming.”

He knew you were right. It was a freak accident. But carrying on knowing something had caused you harm while you were in his care was no easy burden to bear. He could already feel the tendrils of guilt snaking themselves through his ribs and around his lungs making it harder to breathe. A sheen of sweat already glistening on his forehead as his heart started beating erratically in his chest. You felt his hand go limp in yours and craned your neck to see him. His face drained of color, sweat beading down, eyes screwed shut as he drew shallow breaths.

“Frankie, baby,” you called nervously, “I think he’s having a panic attack,” you said louder. Roslyn, the nurse who had been comforting you was by his side in a second. Lowering him to the ground and coaching him through steady breaths like she had for you.

You could see the weight that had already settled on his shoulders. Two black claws holding him hostage in that moment, the monster of regret whispering in his ear. You ached desperately to be the one cradling his face, bringing him back down. You leaned back against the flat pillow and a tear slipped down your cheek. You were out cold for most of the accident, but he would be haunted by it for the rest of your lives. One more thing to shadow him, one more thing to mask with that smile that felt like home to you. Your heart cracked in a new way thinking of him being in the thick of a jungle somewhere suffocating on humid air and bad memories. You wished he didn’t have to leave you so soon again.

August 2014

You both tried to ignore the growing ache in your chest as your summer together was winding to a close. You had grown accustomed to all the little ways he fit perfectly into your life. The clutter of his razor and cologne on the bathroom counter, the way he faithfully followed you through the grocery store, clothes of his mixed in with your laundry that actually smelled like him unlike the worn out ones you clung to. Loving him was like living with a ghost. When he was away, you could catch glimpses of him drifting in the afternoon light. Hear echos of his laugh beside you on the couch. At night you drifted to his side of the bed. The magnetic pull of him transcending space and time, your heart aching to be next to his. Having him next to you for real always felt too good to be true, like a bubble careening towards a blade of grass, one wrong move and it would be gone forever.

It felt the same way to Frankie. He brought pieces of you with him on all of his missions. Anything to grasp to to ground him when the weight he carried was particularly heavy. There were many nights he would stare into the fire turning over the edges of a keychain that used to hang on your lanyard, pressing it into his fingers, remembering the sound it made jingling against your keys on your late night trips to get junk food from the local gas station. It was a silver ‘03, you had all gotten one when you graduated. His was long gone, but he found solace in the weight of yours between his fingers.

Next to the keychain in his pocket, he kept a photo from your wedding of the two of you laughing while you cut the cake. A piece of your shared past next to a promise of your shared future. The edges were worn from the thousands of miles it had spent in his pocket, the countless nights he pulled it out to stroke your face and pray you were sleeping soundly without him even though he knew you weren’t.

You hadn’t talked about him leaving yet. It was like the elephant in the room that you both danced around, desperate to hold onto the other’s hand just a little longer.

He had spent the past few days helping you gather everything you needed for your last classroom. He was standing on top of a rickety blue chair holding a Shakespeare poster against the wall while you stood back and gave him directions.

“A little up, a little more, perfect,” you handed him the stapler and he secured it to the wall before jumping down beside you. His wrist had healed perfectly weeks ago, and the swelling across his nose had gone away completely. The scars from the crash were all internal for him, a mirror of your external ones.

“It looks good,” you smiled fondly, mind flooding with memories of your time spent in this little room. You had chosen some updated posters of your favorite authors covered in quotes to decorate the walls. Your bookshelf was lined with some of your favorite novels as well as the textbooks you used each year.

Your best friend at the school popped her head in. Jenae Reeves was an honors history teacher. She was kind and firm, the kids respected her. She was hired on a few years before you and immediately took you under her wing, showing you where the good creamer in the break room was and introducing you to the maintenance staff that actually cared when things went wrong. She hopped up on the desk next to the door and swung her legs back and forth. “Looks good Morales, ready for one last hurrah?” she smiled, her voice low and smooth.

“Yeah,” you smiled, “It’s bittersweet though, all of it.”

She nodded in understanding, “When do you leave?” she asked Frankie.

He looked down at his feet, toeing a scuff mark on the tile floor. “Three days,” he said softly.

Jenae could sense the heaviness that hung between you two. “Don’t let me intrude on your time together,” she said with a sympathetic grin. “I’ll see you at syllabus night?” she confirmed locking eyes with you.

“Can’t wait,” you smiled as she backed out of your classroom and into her own.

You decided to spend the next day prepping for Frankie’s departure so that you could spend the weekend together with no worries. You washed and organized his laundry, making sure he had plenty of clean socks and underwear. You stocked up on his favorite soap bars and made sure he had an extra toothbrush. You ended the evening with his packed bag and boots waiting by the door like an omen.

You decided on ordering Chinese for dinner and soon had a spread big enough for four people taking over your coffee table. Frankie ate everything with chopsticks and teased you about your inability to do so. He stifled a laugh as you tried to grab a dumping over and over, watching it slip from your grasp. You let out a huff and stabbed it through only for it to fall again.

“I’ll get you a fork,” he said softly, effortlessly popping a piece of spicy tuna roll into his mouth.

“Laugh it up Morales, you’ll miss me,” you sassed.

“Of course I will, amor,” he said softly taking his place back next to you. You leaned your shoulder into his and he pressed a kiss to your temple. Your ribs still ached when you moved your body against his, but you wouldn’t let that get in the way of drinking up these last moments together.

The next 36 hours slipped through your fingers and you found yourself standing in an airport on the edge of a breakdown. You knew he would come home to you. He always came back safe, but the fact that this could be the last time you saw him alive hung heavy in the air. The tension thick between you as you danced through your goodbye.

“I’ll be safe, amor,” he whispered into your hair, pressing tender kisses to your head, getting drunk on the smell of your shampoo for the last time.

“And I’ll be brave,” you breathed back in a shaky voice. He pulled away to look you in the eye, stray tears already painting your face.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered with a smile.

“You’re always good on your word, but I’m really counting on it this time. I want that baby you promised me,” you smiled back.

He linked his pinky with yours and pressed your foreheads together, “I promise.”

“I love you so much, Frankie,” you choked out, the real tears coming now.

“I love you, more than anything,” his voice faltering on the last syllable.

You heard the boarding call for his flight and pressed tender kisses to his lips, fingers laced together, breathing deep his scent.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he reassured between kisses.

“I love you, princesa,” he said reaching down for his bag.

“I love you,” you echoed. He gave your hand one more squeeze before backing away and heading into the unknown again. He didn’t look back, because it would break him to see you fully falling apart. Tears pricked at his own eyes as he flipped his switch into work mode, trying his best to mentally disconnect from his life here with you. His heart ached in his chest as he glanced out the window of the small plane. Thankfully no one was seated beside him. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and let the tears come. He hated this part. He always hated this part. But this was the last time, and that knowledge brought him comfort. He took in a shaky breath and tried to center himself for the months ahead.

In the terminal you cried openly. You didn’t care who saw. Your mind filled with worry and longing already. The ride home was filled with tears. It always was. The ache of the obviously empty spot next to you like a tangible reminder that part of you was missing. You felt him like a phantom limb, something that should always be there, that you were incomplete without.

Your legs felt heavy as you trekked up the stairs to your apartment door. The scar across your right calf still bright in color and tender to the touch. Your keys jammed in the lock and a small smile danced across your lips when you thought of how frustrated Frankie would’ve been. Rocky rose to greet you by the door. His nose wet against your hand. He pressed his big head into your leg in what felt like a hug. He was always so in tune with you when Frankie was away. Laying on the couch with you or climbing up in the bed beside you when the tears inevitably came. Today would be a bed day, you decided kicking your sneakers off by the door. You gathered some snacks and headed into the bedroom clicking your tongue for Rocky to follow.

You stripped out of your own clothes and pulled on the sweatpants and tee shirt Frankie had worn around the house that morning while Rocky climbed onto the bed and settled down on your side. You settled into Frankie’s pillow and pulled the blankets high around you trying to wrap yourself in his scent. Tears pricked your vision again as you let out a shaky breath. You flipped to a rom com that was halfway over and opened a bag of pretzels, mindlessly eating and passing pieces to Rocky. He settled right up against your back occasionally grunting. You fell asleep after a while, waking to the sun low in the sky. Your throat felt dry and your head heavy. Your mind drifted to him effortlessly, hoping he had landed safely, imagined he was getting geared up with the Miller brothers and ready to hit the ground running.

You decided to take Rocky on a walk around your complex and catch the last few rays of light. His nails clicked on the sidewalk rhythmically beside you while dusk settled in with a soft cool touch. The sky bled pink into purple into deep navy, the light touch of stars fading into view. The moon was a sliver in the sky shining white against the growing darkness. You stopped at the fenced off dog park and let Rocky into the little area to run around. He didn’t play as much as he did when you first picked him up from the shelter, but he couldn’t resist rolling around in the grass. You leaned up against the fence lost in thought, eyes drifting between the sky and your sweet pup. They both made you feel close to Frankie. You thought of him flying high enough to reach out and touch the moon, sprinkles of silver dotting his tan arms.

Frankie sat at the edge of the clearing, the campfire surrounded by the rest of his team to his back. The clearing let off at a cliff, waves crashing a few hundred feet below. His heart churned like the ocean before him. The first nights away always the hardest to face. He watched the way the moonlight danced on the surface of the water like glitter spilled in some kind of cosmic accident. He drew your old keychain out of his pocket and placed a kiss to it before turning it over in his fingers, hoping his nightly routine would help him to center himself on the months that lie ahead.

When he closed his eyes he was still haunted by the crash. It was heavier on his mind than anything he had seen while serving. He focused on the rhythm of the waves and tried to match his breaths to it. Breathe in as the tide pulled back, breathe out as foamy water hit the rocks below.

His ears perked up as he heard a set of footsteps approaching him from behind. He knew by the gait that they belonged to Santi before he felt a strong hand clasp on his shoulder, “You good, hermano?”

He knew he couldn’t bullshit him. “Yeah, I’ll be alright,” he said, not breaking his gaze with the water.

Santi squeezed his shoulder, “Come get some rest, you and Ben have next watch.”

Frankie listened to his footsteps retreating and drew one last deep breath of salt air before heading back under the cover of the trees. Smoke and moss and gunpowder overtaking his senses, grounding him in a surprising way. He settled in his tent next to Santi longing for your soft lips on his as he tried to will himself to sleep. He was no good to the team if he was off his game. As much as he disliked it, he had to shut that door in his mind, leaving you on the other side, safe, alone. His eyes fluttered closed listening to the sound of Santi’s even breaths beside him.

Taglist: @littlenosoul @shinypants13 @mirasantidotes @certifiedhunter @daff0dilfs @bannahrae74 @rav3n-pascal22 @evitamarija @reiya-djarin @wonwoosthetic @djarinsstuff @sotvtaughtmehowtofeel

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier fic #triple frontier #Pedro pascal fic #safe place to land

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hospitalterrorizer · 3 months

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diary130

1/22-23/2024

monday - tuesday

waiting on an ableton export right now.

super annoying how long this specific song takes, it's like 43 seconds but it's like 8x that length to export. anyway, the drug test went well, i had to salivated on a foreign object in my mouth for 3 minutes. it was like, cotton, and i could feel it swelling in my mouth, i produced a lot i think cuz in the little plastic vial the woman put the thing in, she had to squish it down a bunch of times and it made rather loud squelching noises. this is how the cybernetic apparatus has made sex a constantly utilized part of our biology to continue to extract information. #lol. i was reading that book while waiting today, there were some interesting parts, maybe the most interesting one i can no longer find, it had to do with the idea that the human/humanity remains necessary as an organic component carrying out the ideas of cybernetics, essentially proving it as true/its methods of information collecting and probabilities being reigned in via information collected, as useful, but also to collect information from so as to continue the process, this is basically a tautology but it feels true, it isn't just accrual but it's proof, or it is just accrual, but the accrual of ever more accurate measurements of a box we are inside of, measurements that make it smaller with each breath.

here is a quote somewhere around that, but not the exact one:

"The cyberneticization process thus completes the “process of civilization,” to where bodies and their emotions are abstracted within the system of symbols. “In this sense,” writes Lyotard, “the system presents itself as an avant-garde machine that drags humanity along after it, by dehumanizing it so as to rehumanize it at another level of normative capacities. Such is the great pride of the deciders, such is their blindness... Even any permissiveness relative to the various games is only granted on the condition that greater performance levels will be produced. The redefinition of the norms of life consists in an amelioration of the skills of the system in matters of power.”

tiqqun - the cybernetic hypothesis

another interesting part was on terror/ the threat of terror, the threat of anything really, so as to justify the creation of information, and the creation of tools for measurement.

"Nothing expresses the contemporary victory of cybernetics better than the fact that value can now be extracted as information about information. The commodity-cybernetician, or “neo-liberal” logic, extends over all activity, including that which is still not commodified, with an unflagging support of modern States. More generally, the corollary to the precarization of capitalism’s objects and subjects is a growth of circulation in information on their subject: this is as true for unemployed workers as it is for cops. Cybernetics consequently aims to disturb and control people in one and the same movement. It is founded on terror, which is a factor in its evolution — the evolution of economic growth, moral progress — because it supplies an occasion for the production of information. The state of emergency, which is proper to all crises, is what allows self-regulation to be relaunched, and to maintain itself as a perpetual movement. Whereas the scheme of classical economy where a balance of supply and demand was to permit “growth” and thusly to permit collective well-being, it is now “growth” which is considered an endless road towards balance. It is thus just to critique western modernity as a “infinite mobilization” the destination of which is “movement towards more movement.” But from a cybernetic point of view, the self-production that equally characterizes the State, the Market, robots, wage workers, or the jobless, is indiscernible from the self-control that moderates and slows it down."

tiqqun

this feels like it speaks for itself but there was something very insane about reading it while sitting inside pseudo chuck-e-cheese, with mickey mouse clubhouse playing on giant tvs, the idea of precarity is lodged in that place, a daycare + entertainment complex + place you eat, located beside a dying mall, the constant agitation for workers of being around like, loud children's media, the sense of escape always, that there's something people are escaping from by being in here, and the prison-esque way they gain access, through locked gates and their time is kept precisely by computers, likely the same system that measures hours worked, it just feels accurate. it's also not like, blowing my mind, i don't know why but i always have the need to state that, maybe because online people are eager to assume this is all new information to someone, any information really, and not just a path you can walk down many times, return to old thoughts, thoughts revived by new perspectives/methodologies. but i shouldn't think about that.

anyways look at this professional looking ass bitch:

all my poses are awkward, i've just come to accept it. i should probably see if i look better in my other selfies, hold on. i hate how messy my bangs look in that pic, i want them to be like, way flat, way sharp, too, but my hair is too wavy i think.

at the place, they called me she and stuff, and i guess when that happens i just wonder if it's politeness or if i actually pass, i'll never get over that i think, because even to myself i am just 'both' and it's not tragic but i am i guess confused to the point of being kind of sick. it's okay though because i like being both, that's all i want i think. i'm stuck in between, so i'll be stuck and fucked up and whatever. i guess i appreciate the kindness but i also just hope they see me and think that, cuz i am that, or like, xx% that, or something. or whatever. it feels like spiders on my brain thinking about it too long. or idk. i think about it a lot. it didn't make me feel bad when it happened, i don't even feel bad now, i just wish i understood what other people see, and i don't even know if i'd adjust based on that ever. but i probably would by tiny amounts. who knows what i'd end up as if i did that. it's for the best i guess that i have to proceed from in here. this also makes me think of the cybernetic hypothesis, the need to gather information turned inwards, we are all our own informants, to improve performance, and the idea that interiority is washed away and instead replaced with diagnostic processes, or a series of thermometers that basically work like a series of mood rings that tell someone when whatever pulsion will take over. there is likely something to be said about these ways of interacting with ourselves and how that interfaces with gender. i guess i'm saying them, just in a not especially put together way. it is gestating. i should remember this though. this, even, is not new to me, but it's important and i come back to it a lot. it's an ongoing crisis from when i was a kid up until now, other's eyes and myself, and it's probably very common.

there's a level of wanting the self to be totally obliterated, in this, but it's not for liberation, except maybe the liberation (false liberation) of being perfectly servile. there's then the desire for self obliteration so i can be inchoate, to be scattered and multiform, a need for hiding and secrecy in that.

tomorrow i have to do a virtual meeting with the guy who i am making music for, for his short film. i still need to do the trailer music, it's so hard, honestly, to do this project right. he wants like synthwave and i just sort of hate the fantasy sound of the 80s. so i'm trying to make it weird, but it got too weird last time basically. i also want to walk a line where something is almost like, not just trailer music but a song, not even a film-y sounding composition that's good, but like, a trashy song. a trashy song that hits the beats of this trailer he already put together, which is so frustrating, for me. the other day i started something, there's some ideas there, i like a pad i made and its melody a lot.

re: music, though, i did 2 songs today, one was an older problem song, and i think it's pretty close to not being a problem anymore, biggest thing to do for it is re-record some vox. really exciting to be there. the other one was pretty simple, i think, just had to de-muffle the vocals on it.

so there's 6 more tracks to run through, and that should be good for this first (billionth-ish) pass. and then, maybe, it's time for a break on that whole side of things, and i'll get to doing vocals for the songs that need it, and getting the new tiny ones done. that will be fun, i think. i really want a tiny song that's just kind of dance-y w/ bass and synths. imagine, 10 seconds of dance punk. hilarious.

here's these flowers i saw today, and took pix of w/ flash on cuz they look better that way. i might do some stuff with these, or may not, it's just good for me to have an archive of interesting flowers, i think. maybe i'll trace as pixel art or something. that could be good. the first one here especially.

last thing of the night:

youtube

just a really inspiring vid tbh. love this band, there's this part here where the video gets way fucked, and like, there's these spurts of total glitched noise, thinking i should sample that or something, could be really cool. also love the part where the singer tells everyone they're beautiful, amazing, special, pretty, talented, and awesome, one by one, randomly. and then the guitarist goes out and gives high fives. really sweet people.

anyway, enough about stuff that is good and makes me happy, it's time to sleeeeep, so:

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!

#Youtube

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anxiouslyfred · 4 years

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Midnight in an Office

for @dukexietyweek‘s prompt of Superheroes, I have a page of background for what I want to write and no clue how to make a story of it.

Summary: Virgil is a superhero with a lot of money and no powers, not even full control of his money given it was an allowance from his money hoarding parents. Remus was a Robin Hood criminal Virgil had caught but ensured that only community service would be his conviction. Now Remus keeps turning up and helping, trying to understand this vigilante’s reasoning.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

One day Virgil would understand why weathly gits thought the perfect place for their children to have ‘adventurously safe’ sleepovers was always just the top floor of their main office buildings. It made no sense when their normal days out were to adventure parks, but he wasn’t really arguing the case.

Still waiting for the other 20 year olds to fall asleep was tedious, even the vaguely interesting facts Logan had been rambling about the stars had become indiscernable mumbling by this point. He’d put headphones in at that point although no sound would come from his phone while he had hacked into the buildings security cameras.

The building had, just as much as all the other wealthy companies been subject to thefts recently, suspected to come from a cyber criminal breaking through their security programmes. Virgil doubted that was actually the case, given one of the security team had self referred himself to therapy for hallucinations, completely matching the creations of a man who had stolen from his parents company.

He didn’t really care about that now though, the man should be serving community support in a soup kitchen for the next few months and then Virgil could reach out with a position at one of the law firms looking to dismantle the malpractice the companies were performing abroad. Hopefully that would help put some of the good back into the world that his parents were rapidly draining from it with their money hoarding ways.

As long as nobody showed up in the building he was in currently Virgil would swap to wherever the closest calls to the police were coming from. Criminals had been targetting the poorer areas of the city more recently, making those bad situations even worse. At least the Shadow could be sure of helping the people he respected most in fighting those crimes, keeping struggling businesses from being robbed and giving the people desperate enough to steal a chance to improve their lives.

Before that happened though Virgil spotted exactly what he hadn’t wanted to; a nineteen year old covered in leather tied together by flourescent green shoe laces walking past the security guard to no reaction.

He was up and leaving his friends behind as soon as he spotted that, changing into his costume as the Shadow as he went. His anxiety seemed to mean none of the Grapevines powers held his attention for long. He’d imagine seeing movements and hearing thigns often enough that he could fact check them away, even when provided by someone’s powers rather than his brain malfunctioning.

“I thought we agreed you’d do your service and then let me get you a job working against these buildings. You’d get paid to do what you’re doing anyway.” Virgil stated, staying at the back of the office where the desks and support columns would make him harder to spot.

“Pretty sure I was expecting more charges than impersonation and trespassing when we agreed that. What did you do to convince the company to be that light handed?” The Grapevine countered, a cackle in his voice at how unexpected the lower charges had been.

Virgil shook his head, slowly moving closer, wondering when there’d be an attempt to give him hallucinations. “So you’d rather be in prison for theft and suspected use of mind altering drugs? Because you know the police don’t admit there are powers that influence people’s minds.”

“Nah, chilling in the trash is practically my past time, clearing it up just means I get bigger piles to play around in later. You didn’t answer my question though.” They were facing each other now and there was no attempt being made to touch any of the computers or artifcats that were meant to make the office more personal.

Instead of replying, Virgil turned towards the exit. “Do what you will here. I’ve got to stop the jewellers 3 streets away being the scene of another police killing.” That was more important than some family refusing to use their money for social good from loosing some of it.

Of course the Grapevine followed him, trying to carry on asking questions although that was a little difficult while Virgil was mixing about 5 different hand-to-hand combat styles in order to capture the thief without any damages. It was easier to guarentee community service when nothing was broken or visibly stolen.

At least the Grapevine had enough wit to disappear before the prison arrived.

/\/\

They’d been meeting for a week, each time Virgil tried checking on any large offices the Grapevine would be there, just waiting. He hadn’t done anything Virgil would class as a crime the Shadow needed to combat since making the deal to serve his sentence and then accept the job working against. He was just appearing, trying ask questions.

“Companies like that get every charge they can imagine brought against criminals that target them. I should not have gotten off so lightly.” The Grapevine was musing, following the Shadow off to

“Who said the company knew anything about what you were doing? The owners were just glad you hadn’t broken anything they’d have to replace as their IT teams are already working constantly to try and prevent whatever cybercriminal they’ve blamed your crimes on from stealing more.“ Virgil realised that by now he’d either have to answer the questions or have the guy following him around forever more. He couldn’t decide which he wanted to happen more, having gotten used to someone just treating him like a normal person without all the pomp and manners demanded of wealthy sons.

There was a scoff at that. “If I’m not doing anything how is there any theft still happening? Let those poor IT team catch a break, I’m sure they’re overworked enough already with the nonsense employees of places like this come up with.”

“They are catching a break. I checked in with the IT guys of most of your targets. They worked out it wasn’t done by hacking the system and are playing it up so they can take the other calls they get at a reduced pace.” Virigl rolled his eyes at that. The IT teams tended to be where the most reasonable people worked in any office centric building, which included being the most likely to take any chance they could at slowing the speed they have to respond to the menial tasks people find making trouble with technology. “Are you helping me with this guy or not?”

“You ask that as though the robber didn’t drop his knife 5 minutes ago to stand staring at a monster climbing out from the chocolate bars.” Grapevine might be making a pest of himself in refusing to let Virgil be a superhero without him for a night, but he did have his uses when he felt like helping.

Virgil ignored that thought just as thoroughly as he had thoughts of the others wildly green eyes and lithe physic, moving in for some show fight before wrapping the rope around his wrists in a civilian arrest. He turned to the cashier that had clearly hit a hidden police alert at that point.

“Are there security cameras or can you say the alarm was hit for a crazed man having some kind of violent outburst that ended in a seizure if I give you $300?” He asked, knowing from some research into the Grapevine’s former victims how the hallucinations affected a persons body. Bribing shops to keep the charges low was the only use he actually had for the allowance he parents gave him, although he got plenty of reciepts for various expensive experiences.

Apparently too panicked to speak the shop assistant just nodded, already reaching out to take the money. “Ring it up as a sale of erm, this flight experience, give me the receipt and then do whatever returns process you need to for it but keep the money for yourself.” Virgil requested, turning to check the Grapevine was no longer in sight as he took the receipt before heading home himself.

/\/\

“You bribe people to keep the charges low, and seem to know far more about the people of these offices than any of the other superheroes I’ve met yet never show signs of any powers at all.” The Grapevine hadn’t even entered his parents building this time, just hanging out on the corner.

“And you stand about on corners looking like some sort of specialised prostitute. If there a point to you stating your observations or should I just ignore you and actually do my job?” Virgil snapped back. He’d had a horrible day of pretending his parents weren’t exploiting thousands of people while giving their pocket change to charity for rare artworks to imagine they were good people.

Grapevine jumped forwards then, pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the son of one of these business families. You have to be, yet you keep becoming the Shadow to fight against their greed.”

“And you’re from the council estate they’re trying to get bulldosed, We have bigger things to be looking at than your deductions of who I am.” Virgil groused, fed up of hearing the flaws he’d spend his lifetime trying to correct if only he could figure out how.

Silence fell for a while before the Grapevine spoke up again. “Will I still get that job with the company fighting against these companies if I break into a few government agencies to make sure the right people reject any attempts made by, which family is that again?”

“If you get caught doing that I won’t be able to make your charge lighter. Government workers need cheques to be bribed and that’d flag my actions to my parents and freeze all my funds.” Virgil hesitated. The offer was beyond tempting. It was some of the good he wished to include but couldn’t while his parents controlled his funding still, but it could also mean losing his friend and crush.

Emotions verses morality always had been a battle he could only separate by chosing which would cause the least ongoing anxiety for him. This situation the thoughts of either had him counting his breathing to prevent a panic attack.

“I love you too, but it still seems like the best chance we’ve got at me keeping my home if you’re actually telling the truth.” The Grapevine’s response made him freeze even more. “No need for those big eyes, Cutie. I know you’d only admit to worrying about keeping me on the streets if you loved me. Now, which company names do I need to look for on those documents?”

The question reminded Virgil of where they were having this conversation, directly outside the building owned by his neighbours. It would at least be safer to talk like this somewhere he could control and know in an instant who entered. “I’m going to my families building now and will be out of costume by the time I’m there so I can unlock it and we can talk where there isn’t the chance of the next security patrol overhearing us. Why don’t you follow me there so we can talk through our love declaration as well as who will need to stop the petition?”

He’d made the decision now to reveal his identity and only hoped the same would be done in return. Love was a terrifying prospect, but out of everything that had happened to him that day, at least it made some sense.

#dukexiety #dukexietyweek2020 #remus sanders #virgil sanders #superhero au

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divineknowing2021 · 3 years

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viewing guide

At its core, divine knowing is an exhibition about knowledge, power, and agency. It’s become a more common understanding that governments, institutions, and algorithms will manipulate the public with what information they frame as fact, fiction, or worthy of attention. Though I am early in researching this topic, I've only come across a minimal amount of mainstream discourse on how the initial threat limiting our scope of knowledge is a refusal to listen to ourselves.

In a world faced with so many threats - humans being violent toward each other, toward animals, toward the earth - it can be a bit unsettling to release the reins and allow ourselves to bear witness for a moment, as we slowly develop a deeper awareness of surrounding phenomena and happenings.

divine knowing includes works by formally trained and self-taught artists. A majority of the artists are bisexual, non-binary, or transgender. Regardless of degree-status, gender, or sexuality, these artists have tapped into the autonomous well of self-knowing. Their artworks speak to tactics for opening up to a more perceptive mode of being. They unravel dependencies on external sources for knowledge and what we might recognize, connect with, or achieve once we do.

The installation Femme Digitale by Sierra Bagish originates from a series she began in 2017 by converting photographs of women that were taken and distributed online without the subject’s consent into paintings. Her practice at the time was concerned with female abjection. Sourcing images found via simple keywords and phrases (e.g., passed out, passed out drunk) she swathes a mass-circulated canon of internet detritus that articulates and produces aggression towards women. With her paintings, she circumvents the images’ original framing mechanisms and subverts these proliferated images through a sincere and personal lens.

These paintings divulge the blurred space between idolatry and denigration these online photos occupy, asking whose desires these images fulfill and what their propagation reveals about the culture producing them. While Bagish's work contends with political motivations, she also remains keenly observant of form and the varying utilities of different media.

“I use the expressive potential of paint as a vehicle to intervene and challenge ideas about photography as a harbinger of the real and everyday.”

Chariot Birthday Wish is an artist and angel living in Brooklyn. They have seen The Matrix 28 times in 2 years and love horses. The tarot series included in divine knowing is their most intuitive project, something they revisit when unsure of what to work on next. The Major Arcana are composed of digital collages made from sourced images, the Minor Arcana are represented by short, poetic, interpretative texts about the cards. The series is played on shuffle, creating a unique reading for each viewer. This is a work in progress that will eventually finalize as a completed deck of digital collages available for purchase.

Chariot's work emerges from a constant consideration of apocalypse and connection. They reference technology in tandem with nature and a desire for unity. Underneath their work's surface conversation on beauty, care, and relationship exists an agenda to subtly evoke a conspiratorial anti-state mindset. Through a collective imagining of how good things could be and how good we want them to be, we might be able to reckon with how bad things are in contrast.

“I think about texting my friends from the middle of the woods...

Humans are a part of nature and we created these things. There's this Bjork quote where she says that "You can use pro tools and still be pagan." I'm really into the idea of using technology as a tool for divination and holy connection with nature. I imagine a scene; being in moss, it's absolute bliss, and then the connection of texting, sharing an image of moss with a friend, sharing that moment through cellular towers.”

The album "adding up" by thanks for coming is composed of songs Rachel Brown wrote during what they believe to be the most challenging year of their life. Rachel now looks back on this time in appreciation, recognizing they grew in ways they had never imagined. The entire year, they were committed to following their feelings to wherever it may lead.

“If I hadn't been open to following the almost indiscernible signs I was being sent, then I would have missed out on some of the most important moments in my life.”

Kimberly Consroe holds a Masters in Anthropology along with degrees in Archaeology, Literature, and History. She is currently a Research Analyst at the US Department of Commerce. Her artwork is a passionate escape from a hectic professional life and touches on themes of feminism and nature.

Her works begin as general ideas; their narrative complexity growing with the amount of time she invests in making each one. Her decoupage process starts with cutting hundreds, if not thousands, pieces of paper. The accumulation of clippings sourced from vintage and current-day magazines overlap to tell a story. In Domestication, Kimberly borrows submissive female figures from found images of Ryan Mcguinness's work and places them in a position of power.

“I believe intuition is associated with emotion and experience. It is wisdom and fear, empathy and outrage, distrust and familiarity. It is what we know before we know it. This relates to my artwork in that, from beginning to end, there is never one complete idea concerning the outcome: it is a personal journey. It emerges from an ephemeral narrative that coalesces into a definitive story.”

Anabelle DeClement is a photographer who primarily works with film and is interested in relationships as they exist within a frame. She is drawn to the mystery of the mundane. Intuition exists in her practice as a feeling of urgency and the decision to act on it --- a drive often used to describe street photography where the camera catches unexpected moments in an urban environment. Anabelle tends to photograph individuals with whom she has established personal relationships in a slow domestic setting. Her sense of urgency lies in capturing moments of peak intimacy, preserving a memory's informal beauty that otherwise may have been forgotten or overlooked.

Gla5 is a visual artist, poet, bookmaker, production designer, and educator. Play is at the center of their practice. Their process is an experimental one embracing impulse and adventure. Their compositions are informed by relationships among bodies of varying shapes, materials, and densities. Interests that come up in their work include a discernment between symbols and non-symbols, dream states, the portrayal of energy in action, and a fixation on forms such as cups, tables, and spoons.

“I generally think of my work as depicting a layer of life that exists underneath what we see in our everyday lives.”

Gladys Harlow is a sound-based performance artist, comedian, and activist who experiments with found objects, contact mics, textures, range, analog formats, present moments, and emotions. Through raw, avant-garbage performance art, they aim to breakdown societal barriers, abolish oppressive systems, and empower communities. Gladys was born in Queens, NY, raised in Miami, FL and has deep roots in Venezuela. Currently haunting in Philadelphia, PA, Gladys is a founding member of Sound Museum Collective. SMC holds space for reconstructing our relationships to sounds by creating a platform for women, nonbinary, and trans sound artists and engineers.

Street Rat is a visceral exploration of the mysteries of life. Attempting to bring heavy concepts to your reality, it is the eye on the ground that sees and translates all intersecting issues as they merge, explode, dissolve, and implode. Street Rat is Gladys Harlow's way of comprehending, coping, feeling, taking action, disrupting the status quo, and rebuilding our path.

All Power To The People originated as a recorded performance intended to demystify sound by revealing the tools, wires, and movements used to create it. All Power To The People evolved into an installation conceived specifically for this exhibition. The installation includes a theremin and oscillator built by Gladys, a tarot deck they made by hand, and books from the artist's personal collection, amongst other elements. Gladys has created a structure of comfort and exploration. They welcome all visitors of divine knowing to play with the instrument, flip freely through the books, and pull a tarot card to take home.

Phoebe Hart is an experimental animator and filmmaker. A majority of her work is centered around mental illness and the line between dreams and reality. Merry Go Round is a sculptural zoetrope that changes in shape and color as it spins. Its form is inspired by nature and its color by the circus. The video’s sound was produced by Hayden Waggener. It consists of reverbing chimes which are in rhythm with the stop animation’s movement; both oscillate seamlessly between serene and anxious states.

“I often don't plan the sculptures or objects I am fabricating, there is a vague image in my mind, and my hands take care of the rest. I find that sometimes overthinking is what can get me and other artists stuck. If I just abandon my judgments and ego, I can really let go and create work that feels like it came inherently from me.”

Powerviolets is the solo project of multi-instrumentalist Violet Hetson who is currently based in New York. After experiencing several false starts while bouncing coast to coast, recording and performing with several lineups, Hetson has finally released her debut album. ~No Boys~ namesake is a sarcastic sign she hung on her suburban CT teenage bedroom door. Violet Hetson grew up primarily listening to punk and hardcore. She parses elements of these genres with influences from bands such as X and Suburban Lawns. ~No Boys~ takes a softer, melodic approach to Hetson's punk roots. Powerviolets' music is linear, unconventional, dark, and airy with a sense of humor.

Mary Hunt is a fiber artist specializing in chain stitch embroidery. This traditional form of embroidery uses vintage machinery and thick thread to create fibrous art and embellishments. They use an approach called "thread painting," which requires each stitch to be hand guided by the turn of a knob underneath the table while the speed of movement is controlled by a foot pedal. Chainstitch works can take anywhere from 20 minutes to 200 hours, encouraging a slow and thoughtful process. Mary uses a Cornely A machine, made in Paris more than 100 years ago.

“I think we are sent messages and guidance constantly. Our intuition is simply our ability to clear the path for those messages. The largest obstacles on my artistic path are usually self-imposed negative thoughts. I simply do things to take care of my spiritual well-being, first and foremost, and the rest follows. If I can trust the universe, trust the process, then I am much more likely to listen to the messages sent my way.”

Jes the Jem is a multi-media artist working with acrylic, watercolor, mold clay, and whatever else she can get her hands on. She uses vivid color to bring joy into the lives of those who view her art. Jes the Jem has experienced a great deal of pain in her life. Through that unique displeasure, she has been gifted a nuanced perspective. She aims to energize the present while paying homage to the past events that shape us. In her art, her life, and her interpersonal relationships, Jes the Jem appreciates the gift of all of life's experiences.

“The pursuit of happiness and understanding is instinct.”

Pamela Kivi pieces together visual scraps she has saved over the years, choosing to fuse them at whatever present moment she sees fit. Her work reflects on creative mania, fleeting emotions, and memories. Pamela's collages are a compilation of unexpected elements that include: old notebooks, cut-outs, text messages or Facebook message conversations, nostalgic cellphone photos, and visual materials she has chosen to hold onto. She prints out, cuts up, scans, edits, repeats. Pamela's artistic practice is deeply personal. It is a submittal to the process of dusting things off until a reflection can be seen, all enacted without an attachment to the end result.

“I rely on intuition and whatever state of mind I am in to whisk me away. In life, I often confuse intuition with anxiety- when it comes to creative work, I can decipher the two.”

Through sobriety, Kendall Kolenik's focus has shifted toward self-discovery and shedding old adaptive patterns, a process that led her to a passion for helping others heal themselves too. In autumn, she will begin her Masters in Social Work at Columbia University.

“I love how when I'm painting my self-doubt becomes so apparent. Painting shows me exactly where my doubt lies, which guides me towards overriding it. When I paint something and lean into doubt, I don't like what comes out. When I take note of the resistance and go with my gut more freely, I love it. This reminds me of my yoga practice. What you practice on the mat is a metaphor for how you show up in life. By breathing through the uncomfortable poses on the mat, you learn to breathe through challenging life moments.

I think we all grow up learning to numb and edit ourselves. We are taught not to trust our feelings; we are told to look outside ourselves for answers when we already have a perfectly good compass within. Painting is an archway back to that for me - rediscovering self-reliance and faith in my first instinct. When I'm creating these rainbow squares, sometimes I move so fast it's like something else is carrying me. I sort of leave myself and enter a trance. Like how you don't have to tell the heart to beat or the lungs to breathe - thinking goes away and I can get so close to my knowing that I become it. I love how art allows me to access my love for ambiguity, interpretation, and an interpretation that feels closer to Truth. I find no greater purpose than guiding people back to safety and reconnecting them with themselves. The most important thing to ever happen in my life was when I stopped trying to deny my reality - listening to your intuition can be like a freefall - no one but you can ever know or tell you - it is a deep trust without any outside proof.”

Lucille Loffredo is a music school dropout, Jewish trans lesbian, and veterinary assistant doing her best to make sure each day is better than the last. Lucille tries to find the music rather than make it. She lets it tell her what it wants to do and what it wants to be. The Wandering EP was in part written as a way to come out to herself. She asks all listeners to please be gentle.

“Change will come, and it will be good. You are who you think you are, no matter how far it seems.”

Whitney Lorenze generally works without reference, making thick, graphic pictures with precise forms conceived almost entirely from her imagination. Images like a slowly rolling car crackling out of a driveway, afternoon sun rays shining through a cloud of humidity, or headlights throwing a lined shadow across a black bedroom inspire her.

“As it concerns my own practice and the creation of artworks generally, I would define intuition as the ability to succumb to some primal creative impulse. Of course, this implies also the ability to resist the temptations of producing a calculated or contrived output.”

Ellie Mesa began teaching herself to paint at the age of 15, exploring landscapes and portraiture. Her work has evolved into a style of painting influenced by surrealism where teddy bears will morph into demons and vice versa. Her work speaks to cuteness, the grotesque, and mystical beings. The painting "Kali" is an homage to the Hindu goddess of creation, destruction, life and death. This was Ellie's first painting after becoming sober and is an expression of the aforementioned forces in her own life. Through meditations on Kali, Elli has been able to find beauty in the cycle of love and loss.

“To me, intuition means doing the thing that feels right whether or not it's what you want it to be. When I'm painting or making a sculpture, I give myself the freedom to follow what feels right, even if that means starting over or changing it completely. I allow the piece to present itself to me instead of forcing something that doesn't want to be.”

Mari Ogihara is a sculptor exploring duality, resilience, beauty, and serenity as experienced through the female gaze. Her work is informed by the duality of womanhood and the contradictions of femininity. In particular, the multitude of roles we inhabit as friend, lover, sister, and mother and their complex associations to the feminine perspective.

“Intuition is an innate, immediate reaction to an experience. While making art, I try to balance intuition, logic, and craftsmanship.”

All Of Me Is War by Ames Valaitis addresses the subconscious rifts society initiates between women, estranging them from each other and themselves.

“It is an unspoken, quick, and quiet battle within me as the feeling of intuition purely, and when I am making a drawing. I am immediately drawn to poses and subject matter that reflect the emotion inside myself, whether it is loud or under the surface. If a line or figure doesn't move me, after working on it for a few minutes, I get rid of it. If something looks right to me immediately, I keep it; nurture it. I try to let go of my vision, let my instinct take hold. I mirror this in my life as I get older, choosing who and what to put my energy into. The feeling is rarely wrong; I'd say we all know inherently when it is time to continue or tap out.”

Chardel Williams is a self-taught artist currently living in Bridgeport. Her biggest inspiration is her birthplace of Jamaica. Chardel views painting as a method for blocking out chaos. Her attraction to the medium springs from its coalescence of freedom, meditative qualities, and the connection it engenders. rears.

“Intuition for me is going where my art flows. I implement it in my practice by simply creating space and time to listen. There are times when what I'm painting is done in everyone else's eyes, but I just keep picking at it. Sometimes I would stop painting a piece and go months without touching it. Then, out of nowhere, be obsessed with finishing. I used to get frustrated with that process, but now I go with it. I stopped calling it a block and just flow with it. I listen because my work talks.”

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spaceskam · 4 years

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our fainted thrill carries on (6/13)

ao3

There were very few good things in life, but this was one of them.

Michael breathed heavily, a smirk on his face despite the fact that his jaw hung open. Alex couldn’t help but think it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Their foreheads were met in the middle, Michael’s calloused hands bracing against the wall on either side of Alex’s head as he stayed firmly in his lap. Alex’s hand was stuffed nicely between where their hips met.

“You’re so hot,” Alex told him earnestly, unable to look away even if he wanted to. He didn’t, but there was something about him that was straight-up mesmerizing. Michael just breathed a laugh and chased him for a kiss, all sloppy as he moved his hips a little harder against Alex’s palm.

“Alex.”

Alex smiled against his lips at the sound of his name in his voice, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He couldn’t get close enough. He moved his free hand down to his ass, tugging him closer and then bending his knees so he’d just have to sit in the crook between his chest and his thighs. Michael grinned.

“Alex,” he said again, sounding a little bit far away. Alex just put his hand on the back of his head, holding him as close as humanly possible. Alex.

Alex.

Alex was unceremoniously taken out of the moment as he opened his eyes not to see Michael perched in his lap, but standing over him and balancing six boxes of teabags. He couldn’t help but frown at the annoying juxtaposition of his dream and his reality. With a groan, he went to pull the blankets over his head to go back to it, but Michael pulled them away.

“We agreed to let me sleep in, leave me alone,” he whined when Michael deprived him of disappearing back into fantasy land.

“Okay, okay, just one question,” Michael said, voice in that loud whisper-tone that wasn’t too uncommon for small children, “Which one of these did you use to make that tea I liked yesterday?”

“The chai,” Alex sighed, “But it’s not gonna taste like that if you make it the way you make regular tea.”

Michael was quiet and, for a second, Alex almost believed he just accepted that and walked away. But, he knew better. After a solid month and a half of being in the same cabin in the woods, Alex had learned that Michael Guerin was basically like having a toddler and he would stand there until he got more information. Alex peeked up at him to see him still standing there, waiting patiently. He sighed again.

“Give me a minute and I’ll come make it for you.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, a gust of his power being used to pull the blankets over Alex and tucking him in. Alex smiled to himself as he closed his eyes again.

He let his mind drift back to the dream. It was the first one he had about him lately, but it was the first one to feel like he could make it happen. That in itself was frustrating. They’d been doing really good at keeping it platonic. Or, at least, platonic-adjacent. They cuddled and whispered sweet nothings in the comfort of the darkness, but it was clear that they weren’t in a good place to have a romantic relationship just yet. Not when Alex’s dad was out of the hospital, they still had no idea who the third head of the trident was, and they were making slow progress on Max. They just had to wait until they could put in the effort.

It was just taking longer than Alex was expecting.

After a bit of waking up slowly, Alex was able to drag himself out of bed. It was Christmas Eve and they had a few plans to go check out a farm that some of the records talked about while they had the free time. Well, not so much free time as just time to kill while they were at a standstill with everything else.

Alex didn’t bother grabbing his prosthetic as he went for his crutches instead, still finding himself shaking off the tingly feeling his dream had left him. He just had to push through until all this was over and then he was going to fucking jump him. It turns out the only thing worse than being unsure of someone’s feelings for you was knowing them and not being able to do anything about it.

“You’re such a baby, I can’t believe you’re making Alex get up early to make you tea.”

“I didn’t make him!”

“I didn’t make him,” Rosa mocked, “Qué pendejo.”

“I can understand you, you know.”

“Good!”

Alex couldn’t help but smile as he made his way to the kitchen and listened to them bicker. Rosa had been staying with them for only a few days at this point considering it took a little more convincing Liz than expected, but she’d already gladly become a thorn in Michael’s side.

“I didn’t realize I was living with children,” Alex said, making his presence known. Both of them looked towards him and then looked back at each other, Rosa having that ‘see, you made him get up’ look on her face.

“Sorry,” Michael said, giving a little smile. He was shirtless and well-rested and gorgeous and Alex had to let himself stare for a moment. He was allowed to stare. He knew that because Michael did nothing but encourage it with smiles and continued to parade around half-naked no matter how cold it got.

“You’re fine,” Alex promised, moving closer on his crutches. He let his eyes linger on his stomach before he pushed past him to get to the small stove. Michael didn’t even try to flex even though he knew he was staring. That alone made Alex’s head swim. How comfortable could they get and still keep their hands to themselves?

“Are you guys having fun eye-fucking at 7 in the morning?” Rosa asked. Alex snorted, shaking his head at her. She was in an oversized flannel that Alex wouldn’t actually be surprised if she stole from Michael, leaning against the washer and watching them with that knowing little smile.

“Could be worse,” Alex decided. Michael made a small, indiscernible noise as he hopped up to sit on the counter beside the sink.

“Yeah, you could actually have to fuck him at 7 in the morning,” Rosa filled in.

“Hey,” Michael scoffed while Alex just laughed.

Alex balanced himself against the counter as he started to boil water, popping a few tea bags in it. He told Michael to pay attention so next time he could do it himself. He tried not to revel too much in the cute little ‘oh’ Michael made when Alex poured a little milk in a saucepan. Yeah, definitely too difficult to keep his hands to himself.

“So, I was gonna ask,” Rosa said as Alex poured the tea into two separate mugs, “That path behind the house, is it safe to run on? Or should I grab a machete to clear it out?”

“It’s safe,” Alex said, pouring the milk evenly before reaching for the cinnamon, “But Michael and I are gonna clear out another one that’s a little less bumpy. The one right now is a lot on my leg, but you might be okay as long as you have good shoes.”

“Okay, well, I don’t have good shoes, so I’ll just walk it,” she said, “I just need something to distract myself.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Alex said, handing them each a mug. Michael gave one to him in turn and he smiled as he recognized the smell of coffee. He mouthed him a thank you before turning back to Rosa. “You gonna walk when we go out to the Long Farm? Because I can give you my Spotify info, give you something to listen to.”

“Yes, please,” Rosa groaned, sipping her tea. Alex nodded, hiding his smile with his mug.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint why he loved having both of them around so much, but he did. Hearing them argue all the time sort of reminded him of childhood, but not quite his. It was like what he saw on TV where the siblings would argue and then help each other at the end of the day. It was borderline wholesome in a way he’d never tell them. For once, his house felt full, but in a way that didn’t make him want to tear his hair out.

They had breakfast together, they had dinner together, they conspired together. Alex would go to work, Michael would go to work, Rosa had taken to renovating the bunker to fit her needs. Things were good. Of course, things were still rocky with Liz even though Alex had spent the last two weeks giving her far too much of his free time. But they were trying. That had to count for something.

Eventually, they finished their drinks and Alex excused himself to go get dressed while Michael agreed to wash the dishes. Alex grabbed his prosthetic and something warm to wear as he headed into the bathroom. It took him a bit longer to get ready than it used to, but he’d gotten accustomed to it. He’d also gotten accustomed to sharing space, not even being shocked when Michael knocked twice before simply letting himself inside.

“Excuse you,” Alex said, not really meaning it as he was nearly completely dressed. He was just in the process of tugging on his sweater over his undershirt.

“I’m not looking,” Michael said, smirking slightly as he obviously did look, he just was just looking through the mirror, “Just need to brush my teeth.”

“Well, so do I,” Alex told him, moving to stand beside him. They smiled to themselves or each other in the mirror as they grabbed their respective toothbrushes.

This. This was what life was about.

“I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t get you anything either.”

Michael watched Alex as he drove, feeling a little more than dazed as he did so. Things were in a very strange place in his mind and, if anyone asked, he was showing exceptional self control. It was easily the most self control he’d ever exhibited in his entire life. He was focusing on Max and his mother and Isobel. That was his goal and he was giving it his all. But crawling into bed beside Alex after a long day and being welcome there? It didn’t click as to why he was getting that other than Alex just loving him for some reason.

Which, honestly, was just another thing he didn’t understand.

“You wanna go get a tree after this?” Michael asked, trying not to think too hard about everything. That’s when he got all upset and that was never fun for anyone.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Alex laughed, glancing over at him, “You wanna go get a tree now?”

“I’ve never really had one of my own before,” Michael said, chewing on his bottom lip as he watched the way Alex’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled, “I didn’t really think about it until now. Have you ever had one?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. But Christmas was usually hell, honestly. My brothers and I all had to wear matching suits that matched my dad’s and we spent most of it in church. It was just a day I was forced to spend with people who didn’t like me,” Alex admitted, “By the time I was older, I never really wanted to celebrate with any kind of traditions.” Michael couldn’t fathom how he was able to say that so easily. But, in some way, he understood.

“I’ve had a lot of different Christmases,” he said, “Some bad, some okay. My favorite was when I was 20. It was before Max had started at the police academy and before Isobel met Noah, but after Isobel and Max’s parents got them an apartment to share. I spent the night Christmas Eve and we watched Christmas movies until early in the morning.”

“That sounds fun,” Alex mused. Michael shrugged and failed to mention that he got arrested that Christmas day, having gotten a bit too reckless whenever the pair of them went to their grandparents and left him alone. He didn’t actually remember what he did to get arrested, he’d been high as a kite, but he remembered Isobel bitching to him about it. “Maybe we could try to watch some Christmas movies tonight, get in the spirit.”

“Okay,” Michael agreed.

“And,” Alex said, flashing him a smile, “We’ll stop and get a tree for you.”

Michael bit down on his lip to hold back a smile. “Yeah?”

“It’s your first real Christmas, you deserve the best,” Alex teased, his bottom lip protruding in a pout before he laughed it off and focused back on the road.

Alex continued to drive and Michael continued to watch him. Part of him wondered what it would be like if he’d done the right thing years ago and dedicated himself to Alex back when they were in high school. Sure, on some level, he always had been dedicated to Alex, but he’d slept around and pushed him away and fought. What would life have been like if, instead of getting arrested, he’d agreed to write to Alex every day while he was at basic and promised to visit him more than twice when he was stationed elsewhere? Where would they have ended up? Would they be in the same place just with a label?

That’s what he wanted.

But then, as it always did, his mind drifted to other places. If they had kept up a relationship, when would Alex have found out about aliens? Would it still be via his father? Would Michael have told him? Would he have shown him his ship and, when Alex found that piece, would he have given it to him immediately? Would he have found it at all?

And if that happened, would they have ever made it to Caulfield? Would they have gone earlier? Would they have had more information, enough to let his mother out before she died? Could he have known her more?

He only had a few moments with her, but she’d flooded his mind with information. But, even then, it was fractured and only enough so he would know how much she loved him. She didn’t risk showing him any of the negativities, she just made sure he knew she didn’t leave him on purpose and that, if she could’ve, she would’ve spent her life with him. She knew Alex loved him and she didn’t mind. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he thought maybe she loved him too.

“Alex,” Michael piped up as they pulled up to the Long Farm.

“Hm?”

He stared at him for a moment, trying to find his words. He didn’t really know what he wanted to say. He was just thinking about a lot and, well, most of them were better left said somewhere that wasn’t the farm owned by racists.

“Um, you said it was a barn?” he said instead. Alex nodded.

“Yeah. That newspaper we found her picture in had a man named Roy Bronson in it and he happened to work on this farm at the same time of that picture and at the time the Air Force came to scope out the property,” he explained, “The barn was blown up accidentally, but the base of the building was salvageable and they rebuilt it.”

“Cool.”

They climbed out of Alex’s truck and locked the doors, Alex shoving the keys in his back pocket. Michael kept an eye on him as they walked up to the gate and hopped it. He watched Alex, made sure he was stable without actually reaching out to him. He landed just fine.

“So, we find out if she was actually here and then what?” Michael asked as they started making their way towards the old barn.

“Well, then we might need to look in different places. Maybe, once we figure out who the other head of the trident is or find any files on M.V.C. then we can look for more, but,” Alex sighed, “We also might have to just accept that there is a limit to what we can find out. I’m sure there’s no files and I’ve searched for the kid that was in the picture and there’s no trace of him. Will you be okay if we just know she was here for a year and we can’t find out anything else?”

Michael thought about it for a moment. Would he be okay if they reached a point where there was just nothing else he could learn? It was sort of scary to think of, reaching the catalyst of information on his mother. But, then again, he would never be satisfied when it came to her and they both knew it. The only way he would be is if he got to know her on his own, not through secondhand bullshit. That was simply just the only thing he couldn’t have.

The skin of his hand felt tight and it seized up under the bandana, telling him he was clenching it for too long. He shoved it in his pocket.

“I’ll be okay. I have no choice, so,” Michael said, shrugging haphazardly. Alex clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I’m still gonna do what I can to help,” Alex promised. Michael gave him a little smile and nodded.

“Thank you.”

They both slowed to a stop as they stepped up to the barn, looking up at it. Alex hand slid down his arm and then squeezed his wrist before letting him go. They shared a look before going inside.

The building felt and looked old and unused. But, still, it had an undeniable draw to it. Michael heard Alex breathe in deep which caught his attention.

“Definitely alien,” Alex breathed out. Michael made a noise of confusion, tilting his head.

“How do you know?”

“Smells like rain,” he said, shooting him a smile, “Smells like you.”

Michael shifted a little bit at that, biting on his lip before he looked around instead of unpacking all of that. Maybe Alex did get him a Christmas present and that present was just unresolved sexual tension.

“But clearly it was something big if I can still smell it,” Alex tacked on. Michael cleared his throat.

“So, what, we think they blew up something that was hiding in here?” Michael asked, but quickly stopped himself, “The ship. The ship was here and they blew it up.”

“You think so?” Alex asked, looking slightly concerned. Michael thought that maybe then he should’ve brought up the ship piece since they were talking about it, but he still couldn’t find the words to ask.

“I found a few pieces here whenever I was hunting things down, so it would make sense,” Michael said, “But that would mean they were here, the ship was here‒where was I? Did she just put me in a cave and leave? If they were so comfortable here, why wasn’t I allowed to come out?”

He could feel his irritation slowly but surely build at the idea of being fucking left. Again. Alex took a step towards him, chasing his line of sight.

“That’s not something we can ever get an answer to,” Alex said softly, “But they must’ve had a reason.” Michael blew air from his nose, shaking his head. Alex’s hand touched his jaw gently, eyes searching his face before locking on his. “Breathe.”

Slowly, they did just that. In sync and connected and whole.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Alex broke first, quickly dropping his hand and taking a step away. He stood sideways a little, never fully turning even when Michael gave the man his full attention. He swaggered in without a care, all smiles with a shock of blue hair.

“Who are you?” Michael asked. He huffed a laugh, tilting his head and his eyes drifted to Alex for a moment. Then they stayed there and he spoke to Alex instead of Michael despite the fact that he was the one who asked the question.

“Better question is who are you since I live here and you definitely don’t,” he said, smirking at Alex and his eyes flickering over him. Michael blinked rapidly in confusion. What? “I’m Forrest.”

“Long?” Alex finished, huffing a laugh, “You don’t look like a Long.”

“Best compliment I’ve heard all day,” Forrest, apparently, said, stepping even a little bit closer. Michael took a step closer to Alex and made sure Forrest couldn’t miss it. He eyed him slightly but still gave Alex his attention. “And you are…”

“Alex,” he said, “Manes.”

A flash of recognition crossed Forrest’s face and then he slipped into a pretty prominent smirk.

“And you don’t look like a Manes,” he said. Alex smiled at him, letting him stare and staring right back. Michael didn’t know how to feel about that. “Let me guess, you think aliens were here back in the 40s.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“Well, because it’s what happened,” Forrest said blatantly. Michael watched him, not trusting him to have a damn worthwhile thing to say. Alex seemed to disagree.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, look at this,” Forrest said, urging them over to one of the posts holding up the ceiling. Names were carved into it. “Roy and Walt were farmhands back then, right, but then there’s two more: Nora and Louise.”

Michael’s mouth went dry and he glanced over at Alex who was watching pretty intensely.

“It’s a height chart,” Alex said.

“Yeah,” Forrest agreed, “So clearly they were family. But there’s no record of women being farmhands here and, honestly, nothing Roy did here would be worthy of an Air Force takedown. He was hiding something, yeah, but not that. Unless it was two refugees.”

“And your first thought is aliens?” Alex said, sounding a lot more incredulous than Michael could’ve mustered. Forrest just smirked and cocked his head to the side. “What happened to the little green man?”

“Nah, that’s not real. Between you and me, aliens are definitely real and on Earth and they look just like us,” Forrest said. Michael felt like his skin was on so tight he was going to burst. “Besides, I got some stuff to prove my theory.”

Michael quickly looked to Alex who just seemed so calm. He watched Alex take a step closer, smiling that flirtatious smile and he looked Forrest up and down with that look that Michael didn’t realize he used on other people. It had Michael wanting to crawl out of his skin.

“Show it to me?”

Forrest licked his lips and eyed Alex again. “Let me go get it.”

Michael waited until Forrest was completely out of sight before he turned to Alex, eyebrows furrowed and not knowing if he should be offended or stressed. Offensive won over.

"What the hell was that?" he asked. Alex rolled his eyes playfully.

"I'm getting information."

"By flirting?" Michael scoffed. Alex gave him a soft smile and reached out his hand, squeezing his bicep.

“Relax,” Aex said softly, “You look hilarious when you’re jealous, by the way.”

“I am not jealous,” Michael stated firmly. Alex let go of his arm and gave him a tight smile, clearly hiding laughter. “I’m not!”

“Tell that to the vein about to pop in your forehead.”

“I just don’t get what the flirting is for,” Michael said, eyeing him, “It makes me feel gross.”

“So, if it’s not jealousy, then it’s homophobia,” Alex said. Michael narrowed his eyes at him which just got Alex to smile right back and lightly thump his finger against Michael’s cheek. So much touching and none of it enough. “Don’t worry, I’m just playing to my strengths.”

“Playing to your‒”

Alex suddenly started walking away and Michael turned to follow him with his line of sight only to see him meet Forrest towards the entrance of the barn. He tried not to feel so personally hurt as he sidled up beside him, his hand touching Forrest’s back as he peered over his shoulder at the little box. Michael knew, objectively, that he was doing that to get information and the only reason he was trying that as an option was because Forrest started it. Alex would’ve never, ever done that otherwise or if anyone else was around. They were alone and he trusted that he had the situation under control, that’s why he was doing it.

But seeing Alex look at someone else like that still made him unreasonably sad.

“It’s not much, but…” Forrest said. Alex looked at him, his lips parted a little and his eyes searching his face. It had Michael feeling like an intruder. He shoved his hand in his pocket again, clenching and unclenching and trying to shake away the feeling of his bones not quite fitting beneath the skin.

“This is so cool,” Alex breathed, reaching over his shoulder into the box. Michael focused on that, on the way his hands filtered through the bullet shells and held one up. “You found all this?”

“Not all of it, but it’s sort of a compilation of a few different generations of Long discoveries,” Forrest explained, shrugging a shoulder and looking over at Alex with slightly red cheeks. That’s when it actually clicked for Michael. It was working. “But this, this I found. It’s Air Force dog tags, I think, and I think you’ll like them.”

Alex’s flirtatious facade faltered as Forrest held up the dog tags, reaching out to hold them in his palm.

“Manes, Eugene III,” Alex read, eyes flickering up to meet Michael’s.

“And, look, it even has a little branding on it. It’s super small, but if you focus, someone carved the letters M.V.C. on it,” Forrest said, smiling. Alex turned back on the charm, tilting his head in his direction to show his thanks.

“Wow,” Alex said, sly as ever as he continued to act like that wasn’t a major fucking deal, “Clearly it was destined for me to end up here then.”

“Yeah,” Forrest breathed, letting Alex pocket the dog tags without another word.

Michael decided then that he was more in love with Alex than he knew what to do with.

“You are fucking briliant!”

Alex smiled, keeping his eyes on the road as Michael laughed and sifted through the box that he’d all but swindled out of the blue-haired Long. Under the bullet casings, there were other tiny little trinkets, things that looked normal to the untrained eye, but so very clearly remnants of something more to them.

“I told you I was playing to my strengths,” Alex laughed back. Michael leaned over the center console, smacking a kiss on the side of his head like that was something they did. Maybe they did.

“Yeah, but it took me way too long you meant that you were stealing shit with charm,” he said as he settled back into the seat.

“Well, then you clearly don’t know me well enough,” Alex teased.

“Bullshit.”

Like promised, they stopped by a small tree farm and bought the cheapest, ugliest one they could find. Alex pointed out that it’d be easy to use it for firewood after Christmas, but he really just enjoyed the way Michael smiled at it with bright eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was genuinely because of the tree or if it was because he was just in a good mood, but it didn’t matter. They strapped in the bed.

When they got home, they climbed out simultaneously and went towards the drunk. Alex dropped the tailgate and started to unstrap the tree. He felt eyes on him the whole time. A quick glance up showed Michael just staring at him with a small little smile.

“What?” he asked.

“I just realized this’ll be my first Christmas without Max since I was 10,” Michael said. Alex froze, not sure how to respond. Michael didn’t look like he was going to break down, he still had that little smile, but that didn’t really mean much. Alex knew better than anyone that breakdowns came in all shapes and sizes. “Iz and I are gonna go see him tomorrow, but, still… It feels weird.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” Alex asked softly. Michael stared at him for a few more minutes, nodding and turning his attention to the tree. He didn’t move to unstrap it. Instead, he hovered a little before taking a step towards Alex.

“It’s also my first Christmas with you,” he said. Alex gave a small smile, unsure if he was allowed to be happy about that with prior context. “You’re my family, Alex. And I’m really happy being here with you every day. You make things easy in a way that I didn’t know we could have before. I’m really grateful for you.”

Alex let his smile show. “I’m grateful for you too.”

“You know you can trust me with anything, right?” Michael whispered, taking another step closer. Alex swallowed as he stared at him, wondering if there was a reason for why he felt the need to say that. His eyes searched his face, but he only saw sincerity. Before he could ask anything, Michael spoke again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Michael nodded and stepped even closer. Alex couldn’t breathe. It didn’t seem to matter that they slept in the same bed or had a decade of history. This felt like a boundary was being prodded that they hadn’t quite discussed yet. He eyed Michael, trying to get a sense of what he was trying to do.

“Guerin,” Alex said as Michael took another step, placing himself firmly in Alex’s space in a completely different way that he usually did. Alex didn’t want to move away. “What are you doing?”

He blinked once, twice, three times, eyes flickering over Alex’s face before he took a step away and Alex nearly deflated as he remembered how to breathe.

“Thanks for the Christmas present,” Michael said. Alex huffed a laugh, trying to return to normal. His skin was on high alert as it damn-near screamed to be touched. Maybe they could go to bed early.

“What present? I didn’t get you anything.”

“Yeah,” Michael breathed, nodding as he busied himself with letting the tree loose, “You did.”

Alex didn’t know what to say as he used his mind to levitate the tree and slowly bring it inside. Instead of standing dumbfounded, he grabbed the stand and took a grounding breath. This was one hell of a Christmas Eve.

Alex put the box he’d gotten from the Long farm in the safe beneath his bed and checked the cameras a few times before going to help set up the tree. He decided that he could focus on the dog tags and the alien paraphernalia later. This was the first Christmas he’d actually had a proper family to spend it with. Might as well make the most of it.

The doors were all locked tight and secure, making it easy to just listen to Rosa and Michael argue over where to put their make-shift ornaments on the tree while he made a fresh cup of coffee.

“You can’t top the tree with a stuffed animal, Guerin.”

“Okay, so, one, it’s a stuffed jalapeño with a small mustache, not an animal, and two, since when are you the dictator of what tops trees?”

“Because I’m the only top in this situation!”

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

“You aren’t even trying to deny it!”

“Because you changed the subject! The jalapeño stays!”

“Okay. Put it up there and I’ll burn it when you go to sleep.”

“Fine. Compromise. We put this on top.”

Rosa was quiet for a moment before saying, “Works for me.”

Alex traveled back into the living room to see what piece of decor had gotten them to agree only to be slightly horrified to see it was a picture of him and Kyle, hardly 10 years old and holding up a dead deer with blood smeared on their cheeks. The two of them were marveling at it, seeming far too proud of their terrible taste.

“No,” Alex said firmly, “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Alex,” Michael said.

“Yeah, come on,” Rosa agreed. He looked between the both of them and glared, but couldn’t bring himself to deny them of the one thing they settled on.

“Fine. But we take it down tomorrow night.”

“Deal.”

Alex sat down on the couch and watched them, letting that warm feeling overwhelm him again. He liked this, liked having them in his house. It was hard to explain how, even though it was still decorated to Jim Valenti’s taste save for a few minor alterations, it only now felt like Alex’s. He was no longer borrowing Jim Valenti’s pity cabin. No, instead, this was his.

Later that night, when they crawled into bed after a movie marathon of shitty Christmas movies, he found himself facing Michael Guerin and feeling more calm than he’d been in a long time.

“I didn’t cross a line, did I?” Michael asked carefully. Alex shook his head.

“No. But thank you for checking,” he said. Michael smiled and gave a small nod.

“Working on it.”

Alex was the one to move closer, feeling bold and confident from the day, and placed his head on his chest. Michael’s arms wrapped around him and lips pressed to the top of his head.

“Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“Merry Christmas.”

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic #our fainted thrill carries on #late as fuck because i have no understanding of productivity

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bisquett · 5 years

Text

Help Me Feel Good (J.W.)

this is a jeff smut i have daydreamed during a train journey. wish my inner hoe jumped out in this but sadly only the helpless romantic showed up. hope you enjoy -💙

Your hands were shaking as you pulled the t-shirt over your head, well aware that your every move was being intently watched.

It was a bit baffling how you found yourself in this situation. As during your usual bickering a few weeks ago you, rather sarcastically, thrown in a suggestion for a date since he ‘couldn’t stop going on about anything you do’, you expected him to laugh with you and respond with some equally snarky comment. What you didn’t expect was Jeff’s serious face and soft eyes, and almost indiscernible hesitance in a question on whether you’d rather go out for a coffee first or you’d prefer a cookout in his humble abode. Not so slightly taken aback and with your mind racing, you agreed to the latter. And somehow you would agree to many more later on.

Your first kiss happened in your apartment. You got up from the table to put the plates into the sink after yet another dinner date, this time prepared by you. When you turned around, your face almost made sharp contact with Jeff’s chest but he caught you just in time. Your eyes met and then his hand was on your cheek and his lips on yours, gentle, exploring your mouth for the first time. The new, more intimate connection you now had made your brain melt and knees weak, with your heart pounding in your chest. And every other innocently stolen kiss after that one made you feel the same way.

So now you were sitting in Jeff’s lap in just your leggings and sports bra and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky breath. You wanted it, all those past date nights spent at either Jeff’s or your house, or cruising through asleep LA, or watching the sunset by the beach, as well as all the stolen kisses, made the flames of desire for the man grow bigger and bigger and now you knew you were ready for them to finally take over. But despite all this, you were anxious, as one would be before getting intimate with a new person. To your disadvantage, the shaky breath didn’t go unnoticed, your nerves so visible they were almost tangible.

‘Are you sure you want to keep going?’ he asked to which you quickly nodded. However your body language didn’t want to follow the intentions of your mind, so Jeff wasn’t buying your reassurance.

‘Look, you’re visibly uneasy and I don’t wanna keep on doing something that’s making you feel this way, I-’ he started but his words were cut off by your hand covering his mouth. When you were sure he was done, you moved both of your hands to his cheeks.

‘Jeff. I’m shy. I’m nervous,’ you made sure to look deep into his eyes. You wanted to confirm everything you were saying, especially that his gaze was doing just the same. ‘Sex with a new person is always nerve wracking. But I want this and I know I gotta wait and just let the nerves pass and later on I will enjoy it,’ you flashed him a gentle smile. ‘So please, let’s not stop. All I can ask you for is to help me feel good and relaxed,’ you said the last part in quiet yet sultry voice, leaning in slightly with your eyes now jumping from Jeff’s to his lips. You waited until he nodded, confirming that he understood, before kissing him gently. The kiss was sweet and simple and conveyed all the feelings you both had for each other right in that moment.

Neither of you felt like pulling away though, so your mouths eventually found their rhythm, steady and passionate. A shiver ran through your body as you felt Jeff’s fingertips ghosting over your bare spine, barely touching and moving up and down until they stopped to run along the band of your bra. At that, you pulled away and put your arms up to give Jeff access to take it off. You felt vulnerable again, especially that he was still fully clothed, yet his soft eyes brought you peace once again, the feelings vanishing as you felt his hand cup your cheek and bring you into another kiss, while your bodies turned so that now you were laying on your back, Jeff hovering over you. Your hand sneaked over his stomach, feeling the outline of his abs before slipping under the clothing and running over the bare skin. Your actions prompted the man to sit up slightly and pull the t-shirt all the way off. He then proceeded to get rid of the rest of your clothing, hastly urging you to lift your hips so he could pull the leggings off, subsequently bringing his own pants to his ankles and then throwing them haphazardly across the room.

Jeff’s eyes seemed like they were trying to take your whole body in all at once. His large hands cupped your sides and started moving up and down, his thumbs reaching out to flick your nipples. The action caused your eyes to slip shut as you released a small sigh, and they didn’t open when you felt Jeff’s warm tongue and rough beard start to caress your neck. You were so lost in all the sensations that you didn’t see his hand sneak down into your underwear, and became aware of it only when you felt a gentle but firm touch on your clit. You gasped slightly but let yourself get lost in the feeling for a moment, focusing on his hand moving in steady rhythm. However, you were unaware that meanwhile Jeff was studying your face in awe, the little frown of pleasure that formed between you brows seemed to be the most mesmerizing and beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t comprehend how someone so stunning, so strong was agreeing to fall apart underneath him and on his command, and that notion made his mind cloudy and desire grow.

He was brought back from his thoughts when you decided to return the favor. Jeff felt your gentle hand move down his abdomen and wrap around him, starting to stroke him slowly. His eyes shot up to yours connecting for a moment before his eyes closed and he lowered his head down into the crook of your neck. You spent a few moments like this, both of you eliciting quiet moans and whimpers from each other, lost in the pleasure. But when his two fingers slipped into you, you felt like you couldn’t take the teasing anymore. Your fingers wrapped around his hair and pulled a little so that you could look at him. ‘Jeff, please…’ you whimpered with your lips touching his. One look at your face was enough for him to pull away, quickly get rid of both of your underwears before coming back to pull your legs apart and slowly push into you.

Your mouth opened at the sensation and you hand shot up to grip his biceps. He waited for a moment before he started to very slowly move his hips against you. He moved his arm on which your hand was clasped so that he could take your palm in his and intertwine your fingers. Neither of you could deny that you craved the intimacy in the moment. Both of you knew that this isn’t just some random hookup and both of you wanted to express those feelings. So you squeezed his hand every time his thrust felt particularly good and he’d do the same when he felt you clench around him. Jeff moved his head down to leave kisses on your neck again and you brought one of your legs around his hip so as to guide him to move a little bit faster. He sped up, biting on the skin above your collarbone, drawing out a whine out of you in the process. He moved up to look at you again. ‘Does that feel good?’ he asked, while getting lost in your eyes, his movements now slow and deep. You nodded and whispered a ‘yes’, before you pulled him into a kiss. His hips almost stilled now as you kissed lazily and deeply, tongue on tongue, your hand in his hair, his hand caressing your side, your hip, your thigh.

You broke the kiss and looked at him. ‘Sit,’ you urged him. When Jeff made himself comfortable against the headboard, you climbed onto his lap. You wrapped your hands around his neck and twirled the ends of his hair around your fingers as you slowly slipped down on him. His eyes flew shut immediately at the contact and his hands tightened on your waist. You maintained your unhurried movements and watched Jeff’s beautiful face. You admired his parted lips and long eyelashes, and the way his jaw muscles tensed when the roll of your hips felt particularly good. He opened his eyes as you bent to the back, resting your hands on his legs. It was your turn to close your eyes and get lost in the pleasure. Jeff had a front row view of your entire body and your face, with bottom lip drawn in between your teeth, that looked like you forgot about the whole damn world. He decided to remind you of his presence and thrust his hips upwards into you. At that, your mouth dropped open and you let out a drawn out moan that was repeated every time he found that spot inside of you again. If it was up to Jeff, he’d already have you on all fours to make sure he’d get that sound out of you with every move of his hips. But he knew it was not the right moment and the intimacy was key right now. Nevertheless, he wanted to hear these moans for the rest of his life. He felt completely intoxicated.

The waves of pleasure inside of you intensified and you brought your hands back around Jeff, this time wrapping around his whole body, pulling him as close as possible. You lightly bit into his skin where shoulder met with neck to quiet down your moans that where non stop now, as he kept thrusting into you and you sped your movements as well. He kept you close too, holding onto you, as if he was afraid you’d slip away, and was now audibly whimpering into your ear. ‘Y/n,’ he panted, ‘you make me feel so fucking good,’ he managed to breathe out, and proceeded to run his tongue over your neck and squeeze your butt. You let out a short yelp at that and tangled your hand in his hair, pulling hard. ‘Please Jeff,’ you cried out. ‘I’m so close, oh my god, please!’.

He grunted and pushed you so that you were laying on your back again, his hand reaching for one of your legs to bend it and pull it up to your chest. He wasted no time as he continued to thrust into you, this time as fast as he could. Your moans where spilling uncontrollably, your mind so clouded you could only mumble and repeat his name with your nails digging into his back and the leg that wasn’t held by Jeff wrapped around his hip. He didn’t hold back his grunts now either, he didn’t care, as he desperately did everything to bring both of you to your peaks. ‘Come on, baby girl. I know you’ve got it in you. Come on, y/n, let go for me’. You didn’t know if it was his words or his hand that went down to move on your clit in quick circles, or his face pained from the feelings, or the whimpers he let out into your ear, but it was enough for you to let go and come around him with a cry, all your limbs clutched tightly around him. He followed right after, his head hiding into your neck and his hand pinning your hips hard into the bed.

You stayed unmoving, wrapped around each other for a few moments, trying to catch your breaths. Your mind was still unclear from your orgasm and you had a hard time comprehending what had just happened but you knew one thing – you wanted it to happen again. You knew you wanted to feel him this close again when his eyes finally found yours and he left a small kiss on your lips. You knew you wanted the dates to keep happening when he pulled away and moved on the bed so that the two of you could comfortably cuddle. You knew there was a special spark, connection, you name it, between the two of you that you hadn’t felt with anyone else in a long while when you closed your eyes and focused on his hand slightly caressing your back up and down. And at the time you couldn’t have known, but there were similar thoughts running through Jeff’s mind. One thing he was sure of, as he felt your warm body next to him – he was not going anywhere. And luckily, you weren’t planning to either.

#blueheart #jeff wittek #jeff wittek x reader #david dobrik #vlog squad #jeff wittek imagine #jeff wittek smut #submission #THIS WAS SOOOOOOOO GOOOOOOOOOD!!!#i did not write this masterpiece

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randomnoteforfuturereference · 4 years

Text

The Quarry

This piece is actually part of a larger fic I did a while ago (fic on AO3 is called Quarried Depths, which @kleeklutch helped with during the beta process), but I thought it capable of standing alone as a one-shot. It takes place between “2.3 Meet the Frogs” and “2.4 Hazeapalooza”, when Nursey and Dex... didn’t have the best relationship; this piece specifically takes place right after that scene where Nursey spilled the cereal and milk on Dex (and in this case, on Dex’s laptop as well). It also explores a bit of how Dex looks up to Ransom.

Warning: There’s a first-person depiction of an anxiety attack, as well as unintentional self-harm via scratching.

Anyways, hope y'all enjoy.

--- --- ---

“There are eight d-men on this team,” I breathe through clenched teeth. “Eight. Coaches could have paired me with any of them. Instead, I have to. Put. Up. With. You.” I punctuate the last few words by prodding a trembling finger into his chest.

I don’t give a damn if Nurse gets the message or not, but a distant tendril of satisfaction blossoms within me when he flinches back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that something crumples behind those dollar-green eyes of his.

Not bothering to wait for a further response, I turn back and continue on my way.

Nurse doesn’t bother following.

I don’t go back to my dorm. In all honesty, I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to be somewhere without people. Without judgement.

As my feet carry me on my way, the haze of rage begins to ebb and the thrumming gradually quiets. With that ebbing, my brain plays catch up and clarity is restored. With that clarity, two things hit me.

The first is the fact that I had wandered out of campus and into Samwell Park. Not only that, but judging by my vantage point and surroundings, I went past the dam and past any defined trail. I really am in a spot where I won’t be bothered, even with the university visible across the Pond’s surface.

The second thing that hits me is the full weight of what just happened. The possibility that my computer will not survive this. The fact that this fight between me and Nurse was probably the worst that has happened between us. The fact that this blow-up happened in front of the team and much of the school.

That weight settles into my stomach and pulls my insides down with it.

Did you really think you’d make it? He’s right. You don’t fit here. You don’t fit with them.

Did you see their faces? They hate you. And why shouldn’t they? You never say the right thing. They were just being nice before. They were being generous. And now you’ve really blown it.

My skin pulls taut and, as it tightens, it constricts my chest and sends a familiar damn itch all over. Shedding my backpack does nothing to ease that.

Now they are going to tell Hall and Murray. Now the coaches are going to kick you out. Then where are you going to be? Where’s your scholarship going to be? Gone. All that investment. All his investment for you. It’s all going to be gone. You’re going to lose a scholarship and a laptop. All within one semester.

Just because you have to be Billy the Blunder.

Gasping for air and clawing at my arms, I finally collapse and curl in on myself to weather the storm.

Because that’s what you’re good at. Weathering.

It’s all you’re good at.

I don’t know how long I lay where I fall. Could be seconds. Could be minutes. Could be hours.

Whatever the case, the storm finally ebbs, and as my breaths slow and even out, I unfurl and lift myself off the forest floor.

All things considered, it was probably one of my worst attacks. I don’t even have to look at my stinging arms to know that I’m going to have to keep my sleeves down for the next few days or so. Easier will be not showing my hands so that nobody can see the little bloody crescents gouged into them.

Just to be sure, I sit on a rock that juts out over the water and go through some of the breathing exercises taught to me. It doesn’t banish completely the tight feeling in my chest, but little by little it loosens things up.

As things loosen up, I take stock of the setting: The clear sunny day with just the a slightest cool breeze. The extreme clarity of the water suggesting that turnover hasn’t happened yet despite the time of the year. The shore terminating in a rocky drop-off with no bottom beyond.

It dimly occurs to me that this spot most likely was a quarry once.

Feeling back in control and getting a good gauge on my surroundings, I get an idea.

I place my laptop in a shaded location where I can see it, strip down to my underwear, use my clothes to make a nest around the computer, inhale a deep breath, and take a leaping dive off the rock.

The briskness of the water is like a sledgehammer to my lungs. It’s a familiar pressure, however, and not unwelcome. As my momentum slows, I release just enough air to allow for a steady descent. The cloud of shimmering bubbles clears to reveal a sight before me. Shafts of dappled light from the noonday sun dance around the pale surroundings and occasionally illuminate the blurry forms of various fish gliding and hovering around in the distance. Unlike the majority of the Pond, which is shallow enough to walk through for a hundred feet without the water reaching your neck, here I’m rendered tiny by the cliff-like wall plunging down to indiscernible depths.

If anything, and despite the very real danger it can pose, the incomprehensible nature of the environment that dwarfs me is a source of comfort. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t spurn. It doesn’t give a flying fuck where I come from and who I am. It just is and offers a familiar presence that supports and embraces even as the mild protests of my lungs signal for me to kick back up to the surface. That embrace relaxes me in full, and the breath I take upon breaking the surface reinvigorates my body.

I should do this more often.

As I swim around the surface, the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs breaks me out of that state of calm, and it gives me cause to press close to the edge and reach for a small rock. That is, until the crunching is accompanied by the grumbling of a familiar voice and the flash of a white cap.

“Over here.” I punctuate my call by lobbing the rock into a leaf pile in front of me and pushing off the rocky wall so that I can be seen.

Ransom jumps straight up and lets off a high-pitched yelp — city folk… — before he whips around, does a double-take, and finally focuses on me. After taking a few steadying breaths, he gingerly picks his way towards the edge of the rocky bank. I doubt those loafers, which probably cost as much as everything I had on half-an-hour ago, are made for going through anything rougher than cobblestones. “You’re fucking hard to find, you know that right?”

“Wasn’t planning on being found,” I counter. “How’d you get this far?”

“Left breakfast early, and I saw you stomping southbound along the Pond. Wasn’t too hard to follow your trail — if I had to ask some random witnesses that you passed — until the damn path withered away to nothing after I crossed the bridge by the waterfall,” he grumbles while looking around. “This really is the fucking Forbidden Forest.”

I can see how he may have that impression. The vegetation here’s likely secondary growth, but considering how well-established it is in general and how thick the trees are, it’s really old secondary growth. Perhaps old enough to be non-virgin primary growth. Don’t know the age of Samwell Pond, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s at least a century old. The quarry itself was probably abandoned long before it and the surrounding land was flooded when the dam was built.

“Anyways, took me a while, fuck you very much, but here you are.” He looks me up and down with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t expect this.”

I’m just glad that he didn’t find me while I was having the attack. Still, I scowl back. “What’s so strange? Students play in the Pond all the time, and last I checked the park has a ‘swim at your own risk’ rule.” Then I realize that the water’s clarity means that he can easily see my briefs as I keep afloat. “Also what I have on has nothing on the stuff, or lack thereof, idiots have worn around town.”

Ransom mulls that over and shrugs with a chuckle in acknowledgement. “I’m more meaning that it’s the middle of fall.”

“It’s a nice day.” Possibly the last nice day in a while if the forecast’s correct. “Isn’t Toronto supposed to be around the same temperature?”

He snorts. “You picture me going out for a Halloween plunge in Lake Ontario?”

To my own surprise, I bark out a small laugh. “Guess not.”

Satisfied with my swim, I climb out, shake myself off, and hop back onto the sun-warmed rock to lie down to bask and dry off. I don’t miss that Ransom’s staring at my arms and hands, which I keep balled up. While he thankfully doesn’t say anything specific, he still asks, “Are you going to be alright?”

I give a shrug of my own. “I’ve had worse.” Guess it’s already time to face the music. “So when do I need to clear out my locker?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Dex,” Ransom huffs while kicking his shoes off, plopping down on the ground next to my rock so that we’re eye level, and swinging his feet over the edge. “So you two got in a little tiff. Okay, a major tiff. Still, you should have seen some of the tirades Jack meted out. Especially at Bitty. They got pretty epic.” For good measure, he pops those last few syllables and kicks at the water to send it upwards into a sparkling arc.

“Sure, but I bet they weren’t regular. Let’s face it: there’s no way Nurse and I get along, the other D-men are already paired up, and the team clearly likes him more. Hell, I know I’m good on the ice, but I’m certainly not spectacular like you or Holster. So if I were in charge and had to trim things down, I’d bin me first.”

Ransom widens his eyes at my admission, and even I’m a bit surprised how easy it is to say that.

Maybe I really don’t belong here.

“Fuck,” Ransom breathes as he squints at me, “you’re serious aren’t you.”

I just shrug at that. “Don’t want pity, if that’s what you think.” I really don’t. I wouldn’t mind if people here actually managed to see things from my perspective, but there’s no point in being broken up about them not understanding.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to be a doormat if shit’s thrown my way.

Minutes of silence pass between us. Silence that Ransom breaks first: “Two weeks.”

“What?”

“Give your partnership with Nursey two more weeks.” He holds up his fingers for emphasis. “If you both truly think this pairing is a disaster, then I’ll talk to Jack and the coaches to see if we can work something out.”

That’s more than cutting it close if they think something can be worked out before the season really starts getting into the swing of it. I squint up at him. “You really think two weeks will make a difference?”

Ransom shrugs. “It might. Better chance than if we don’t try anything. And seriously…”

“Yeah?”

“You two fit together better than you think.” Ransom doesn’t acknowledge my scoffing but instead holds his hand out. “So do we have a deal?”

“That assumes he wants to stay partners with me.” The image of Nurse flinching back from me plays on repeat, and for some reason my stomach clenches at it.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Like it will do any convincing. Whatever, it’s two more weeks. “Don’t get your hopes up,” I mutter as I shake the offered hand.

Deal settled, the two of us continue staring out at the Pond and university itself in silence once more.

And once more, Ransom disrupts it.

“Dex?”

To my surprise, Ransom’s voice now sounds stilted and hesitant. When I look at him, his face is a neutral mask except for a clear twitching tension within his jaw. Considering the air of confidence he always shows in his casual banter and poise, the unease that he’s radiating makes me sit up and turn towards him. “Yeah? What’s the matter?”

“What did you mean when you told Nursey that he’s ‘given everything’?”

That’s what he’s so conflicted over? “What do you think I meant? Just because Nurse has been swaddled in luxury doesn’t give him the right to lord it over me.” As I’m talking, it dawns on me why Ransom was so apprehensive. “Wait, I don’t have a problem about you and the rest of the team being rich. I don’t have a problem with him being rich. If I hated rich people, I wouldn’t—”

Ransom holds his hand up to stop my rambling. It doesn’t escape my attention the massive exhale that he releases. “It’s okay. It’s o—“ The words die as his brows pinch together. “Wait, no, it’s not okay.”

The backtrack puts me at a loss. “What are you talking about?”

Ransom stares at me, opening and closing his mouth as if he’s ready to say something but holding back. Ultimately he shakes his head and looks away. “Nope. Nah. Not doing this.”

What. “What?”

“Even if I didn’t have a meeting later in the afternoon, I’m not putting myself through this. At least not right now.” I try to ask him to clarify, but he just continues: “Go to the library. Talk to someone willing to discuss with you. Except for Shitty; he’s smart and a great guy with great intentions, but…”

“No fucking kidding…” Nurse is obnoxious enough, but I don’t know what I’d do if Knight was a D-man I had to be paired with. I've been civil and deferential all this time, but I’m not going to go out of my way to be chummy with that lefty-than-thou blowhard.

Ransom must have heard my muttered statement, as he lets off another sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “See, it’s shit like that why the team… nevermind.” He shakes his head. “Look, all I’ll say is that Nursey probably didn’t think you were yelling at him for being rich, and remembering some of the stuff he talked about may help you figure out what I mean. Also there’s a term that I recently learned that might be useful to you: ‘Intent versus Impact’. If you think you got it figured out and want to make sure, then we can talk.”

“But you’re barely giving me anything to figure out!” It’s fucking ridiculous. Why should Nurse get any sympathy from me if I don’t even know what supposedly bothers him?

My protests are answered with a snort. “Like you’ve been forthcoming about yourself.”

Ransom’s disdainful scoff feels like a slap in the face, and I can’t help but reel back a bit.

He must notice my reaction, as his voice softens. “I don’t want you to think I’m unwilling to talk if there’s anything you need help with. But William?” Both the use of my first name and the plea in his voice makes me look up at him. Really look at him to see lines of worry etched into his face. “We’re a team. I’m not saying that you should bare your soul. But we can’t have your back if you shut us out.”

A stiff breeze makes me pull my knees up to my chest.

I don’t need anyone to have my back. I’ve already said what I’ve needed to say. No reason for anyone to go out of their way for me. I did alright before, and I’ll do alright now.

Still, I humor Ransom: “I’ll take that into consideration.”

His raised eyebrow makes it obvious that he doesn’t believe me, and he looks ready to call me out on it. Ultimately he just shakes his head before glancing at my clothing nest. “Anyways, I was just coming to check to see if your computer’s alright.”

At least that’s something straightforward I can talk about. “I need to wait for it to dry first. Then I’ll check if there are any issues.”

“Well, I hope there aren’t any…” That air of pensive awkward settles over him again.

This time, I huff, “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Ransom allows for another minute or so before speaking: “You can’t afford a replacement, can you.”

Is he just figuring that out? “Well technically, I have enough money to buy one…” Really don’t want to elaborate beyond that.

I don’t have to. Ransom wide-eyed stare and the sharp exhale tells me that he's read between the lines. I’m still baffled that he didn’t know, but I’m also beyond thankful that he’s not showering me with platitudes or falling over himself with guilt.

“If it’s truly busted, I’ll see if I can rally the guys to help you replace it.”

“I don’t need your charity,” I growl. I’m completely sincere when I say that I don’t mind that my teammates are rich. But like hell I’m going to let them pay their way into my good graces or buy themselves a pat on the back because they are oh-so-generous. And like hell I’ll let Nurse buy himself out of the mess he made.

Ransom sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Then don’t think of it like that. Think of it as a team expense to make sure that things run smoothly. After all, the last thing we need is for the loss of your computer to put your academics at risk, which would put your athletics at risk, which would disrupt team dynamics,” he notes while ticking off each stage of the scenario with his fingers and waving them in my face. “So it’s not just about you.”

Well, when he puts it like that, the last thing I need is to be a burden on the team. And if they— fuck dammit, he’s good.

I take a deep breath. “If, and only if, anything needs to be replaced, it will probably just need to be a part and not a full replacement.” Not to mention that I would need to figure out how to repay them.

Hopefully it won’t come to that. It better not come to that.

For once, Ransom is satisfied with my response and relaxes fully to pipe, “Sure thing! Just let us know.”

“Also… do you think you can refrain from mentioning this spot? I’m not saying to keep it top secret, and I know it’s public land anyways.” Hell, for all I know, people come here all the time, and I just caught a lucky break today. “But it’s nice to have a quiet place, just in case.” Not to mention that the last thing I want is for this patch of forest and pond to become sullied by a kegster crowd.

For one reason or another, understanding dawns behind Ransom’s eyes even though he keeps his tone light. “I don’t think you have to worry about crowds of people here.” He scowls at the surrounding vegetation with suspicion. “But how about this: I’ll keep it on the lowdown if you help guide me back to civilization. Deal?”

“You do know that I practically came here by accident, right?”

He shrugs. “Even if you did, I trust you to find a way out. Faster than me for sure.”

I blink. I mean, I’m not exactly surprised at the assertion that’d I would be better at navigating a forest than most of my teammates. Haven’t made it secret that I hunt, after all. But that one trusts me to lead him out catches me off guard.

Once I get my bearings straight, I murmur, “Deal.”

Ransom flashes one of his trademark smiles and holds his fist out, and his smile widens when I bump it.

He has a really nice smile.

#William Poindexter #Derek Nurse #Justin Oluransi #Omgcp #omgcheckplease

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curiositiiii · 4 years

Text

A Day of Differences | Ch 1

Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of my original story. A chapter should hopefully be up every other week or so, depending on how school goes. WTLBF is about a group of superpowered people known as libra, and follows one in particular, November, as she joins a conspiracy to break free of the training facility for all the wrong reasons: to spite a literal manifestation of her inner demon, and to try and impress her longtime crush Chassia. Recurring characters are listed in order of appearance.

WC: 3169

Characters: November (POV character), Lanü, Saffra, Lloy (mentioned), Harper Ren (the evaluator), William ‘Will’ (name not given)

All text in italics in the story itself is dialogue from Lanü. As she’s an internal voice and doesn’t have a physical manifestation in the real world, her dialogue is more like a thought inside November’s mind. For that reason, it’s italicized to distinguish Lanü’s contributions from November’s.

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They’re late.

For what has to be the fifteenth time in the past half hour, I glance at the basic black clock that hangs beside the dorm door. It’s been three minutes since I last checked. Three minutes doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s an eternity when the speaker overhead was supposed to read off your name in a haze of crackling static no less than thirty minutes ago. Doubly so when punctuality is so stressed that it might as well be the motto of Libra Red. And all this disquieting change combines to make one unnoticeable girl create imprints in the carpet as she paces, anxious.

Relax, child. You’re always so overdramatic. Perhaps Dr. Dai should adjust your medication next time you happen to visit his office.

“Shut up, Lanü,” I murmur. Once again my gaze drifts to the clock. The second hand ticks around with agonizing slowness, and not even a minute has passed since my last check. Great. If she keeps talking, this has the potential to become even worse.

Finally -finally- the loudspeaker buzzes to life. “82-RA20 through 82-RA25, please report to the auditorium for your evaluations.” The speaker is unfamiliar, their voice closer to the overly formal speech of Director Hathwick rather than the chipper, warm voice of the secretary normally assigned to this busywork.

Without hesitation I fly through the door. See, these evaluations are routine, like everything else here in the complex. Everything is exactly on time, exactly the same. There’s a kind of comfort in the sameness. Different doesn’t happen here.

Which means that even though the results of all this different are still going to be the same, there’s a natural curiosity propelling me forwards to go find out the cause of all this difference. Maybe they brought some fresh raspberries to hand out. Perhaps we’re all due for some medical examination. Maybe they aren’t doing the libra evaluations today, a questionnaire or therapy session propped up in its place.

Silly November, Lanü chuckles, amused. Your daydreams are entertaining at least, despite their pathetic nature.

“I don’t recall asking for your thoughts,” I snap at the inner demon. When everything about yourself is pathetic, and more than slightly, it’s just as well that your inner demon decides to criticize nonsensical things like daydreams. Better that than the important stuff.

If you wanted, there’s a way to change all of that… it’s no help to anyone when you lie there and embrace this contemptible lifestyle. Negotiations, however, would be most helpful to your situation.

Like I haven’t already told her a thousand times: “Never in a thousand generations, Lanü.”

You don’t have to be a bitch about it, she whines before fading out, her honeycombed voice disgusted with me yet again.

Behind me, Saffra snickers as she brushes past. The mocha-toned girl’s hilarity is evidenced by the jangling of dozens of beaded bracelets stretching up her wrists. Saffra, official ident 82-RA24, is so small in frame that her entire body shakes from the tremors of stifled laughter. The only exception is her short-cut black bob, held stiff by litres of candied hairspray. At least she doesn’t turn to try and chat. Her contempt is more bearable than her conversation.

A few footsteps ahead of me, she turns, shifty eyes colored a vivid saffron color by contacts focusing on me. My relief came a bit too soon. “Talking to imaginary friends again, November?”

The Memoriam doesn’t bother to say anything else, thank Vera, but instead turns her attention towards my mind. Her effort is useless. I’ve already cleared my head of thoughts except that of my own headspace’s security, and begun the deep breathing exercises every libra child is taught as defense against Memoriam prying. This all serves as an encryption process hiding the rest of my thoughts from the minds of those like Saffra, dropping in just to see what’s there.

Her presence is a throbbing headache, marked by the trademark earthy smell of saffron and sugary sweet, sticky, footsteps that create light, stabbing pains wherever they lead. Every Memoriam has a trademark, just like how every Elemental and Creator has their tic. The ability isn’t there without the other accompanying it.

These three also happen to be the most powerful classes of libra, although this is unrelated to trademarks and tics.

The headache lifts, Saffra evidently growing bored of sifting through nothing. Her pace increases around a corner towards the auditorium, although for all her speed she’ll still be stuck in line one place behind me. My ident is 82-RA23, meaning I’ll be in the middle of the five-person set called up. In the middle of the group, invisible, just the way I like it.

Completely unnoticeable and ordinary, according to you.

According to reality, not me, although even the goddess Vera’s more in tune with reality than Lanü.

At last I reach the expansive auditorium of our year’s campus and settle into line behind Lloy. Up on the stage, feet can be seen moving beneath the dull grey privacy panel that protects the libra undergoing evaluation from the judging gaze of others, indicating that they’ve begun without me. I try not to mind. It makes sense not to follow protocol, to do things different, seeing how they’re so far behind right now.

Part of me minds. That part nags, panic rising with my heartbeat. Different doesn’t happen here after all, it recalls. Different gets you flatlined, at best.

The plethora of other differences start to spring out from around the room. Leaning against the dull cream walls are the Afterthought guards normally stationed around the auditorium on the twenty-first of each month, when our evaluations take place. Except there’s more than usual swarming the space like ants escaping a destroyed nest, and all of them seem tense.

If there’s anyone in the world that shouldn’t be tense, no matter the situation, it’s an Afterthought. Only the eighty most powerful, most competent machines churned out from the Libra camps have the honor of progressing to Afterthought status upon graduation each year. Candidates are kept and trained at the Libra Black facilities, in a cutthroat competition to beat out at least twenty other fellow Libra Black in their year and secure their Afterthought status.

They’re the highest class of libra, the rank we’re always pushed to try for. Incredibly powerful, respected above almost everyone, given comfortable and enjoyable job assignments in fascinating places, with luxurious benefits and short contracts to make it even more worthwhile, becoming an Afterthought is all any libra aspires to be from the time they’re old enough to know what it is.

Many won’t reach it, of course. Anyone who started off in Libra Blue or Libra Yellow, the bottom 75% of libra, never had a hope to begin with. Members of Libra Red though, the upper quarter of libra excluding the hundred selected for Libra Black training, have a shot. Every month after evaluations, transfers up to Libra Black and down to Libra Yellow are announced, as well as the new Libra Reds replacing their spots. This month two or three will probably be announced, since graduation is in a little over a year. Hopefully I won’t be one of them.

November, dearie, your lack of ambition is upsetting. You’re among the most powerful libra in this entire trash locale. There’s absolutely no reason to deny yourself the privilege and power of becoming an Afterthought. Hell, it would be so easy to abandon these worthless has-beens and move on up in the world. One word, darling, and I’m at your command. All it would take-

“No, not now, not ever,” I whisper back, furious, ignoring the sniff of amusement from Saffra behind me.

See, I don’t exactly qualify to become an Afterthought. Unluckily for my potential promotions, I still have a heart.

It’s my turn to climb up the silvery steps to the top of the stage. An Afterthought motions me forwards with one wave of their arm, face hidden behind a reflective visor. Time for this month’s grand performance.

Hurry up, Lanü commands, my slow, steady ascension up the narrow stairs and around the privacy screen too slow for her tastes. I grimace. Here, surrounded by Afterthought guards clad in identical tactical armor, with the evaluator a little ways ahead, I can’t say anything in response. To do so would probably incur a psych strike. And the last thing I need is more visitations to Dr. Dai.

Every month, the evaluations are the same. There’s a comfort to be found in the dull, repetitive nature of our monthly evaluations. They call us up over the speaker in sets of five libra, every twelve minutes. We wait in line, perfectly still, until we’re beckoned up the stage and behind one of two bleached wooden curtains, both of which contain an evaluator. The evaluator sits us on a metallic tripod stool that’s always too tall for me. They are always nondescript. Dark hair of an indiscernible shade, unnoticeable eyes, same navy blue formal wear. They recite from a script, and we recite back. The evaluations are never different.

What was a morbid curiosity has long turned into a dread inside my chest, sucking the rest of me down into its madness. Nothing ever changes. Nothing is ever different at Libra Red. Day in and out, we follow the same routines. Nothing is unique, nobody is special. Different doesn’t happen here. Different gets you flatlined.

Given how unusual evaluations have been so far, it shouldn’t surprise me that the singular evaluator for today is different.

It’s the scar that jumps out first, the faded, angry splatter mark of a burn long since bleached to a pale pink contrasting against his otherwise normal olive skin. The scar encases the entire left side of his face, running from his hairline down over his left eye to the jawline and down the poor man’s neck. When he raises his left hand to mark something down on the clipboard that like all evaluators, he carries, I can see the scar there too, trailing down what little of his forearm is visible and running across the palm, ending in five slender traces on the back of his hand where if anyone held hands with him, their fingers might rest.

I wonder what libra got punished for that. I wonder if their death was merciful.

There’s no question that inflicting such a wound even by accident would have brought death upon the poor child; that much is obvious by one look at the evaluator’s eyes. They’re a glittering onyx, with nothing but stormy contempt behind them. They’re dark as an Afterthought’s armlet, dark as the void, dark as the barrel of a gun.

“Your name is November, correct?” He asks, sounding annoyed. I must have missed him the first time.

“Oh- yes, sorry sir.” Lanü’s chortle bounces around in my head. At least someone is amused by this spectacle.

The evaluator seems unphased, and rather than give a huff of annoyance simply nods at my response. Perhaps he’s amused at my incompetence. “Alright November, we’ll begin with the vitals check. Your sheet also says that a blood draw has been requested, so if you don’t mind spending a few extra minutes here we can proceed with that now. Will that be alright? You may go to the infirmary to have it done after supper if you’d prefer.”

“...That’ll be fine,” I murmur, taken aback. It’s not normal for them to ask. On any other evaluation day, they always demand. Not because they’re rude, or pushy, but because that’s what they’re supposed to do. That’s what the system is. Yet another foreboding difference for today.

A med-tech emerges from behind the velvety red curtains, drawn halfway across the oak stage today to shield the full arsenal of evaluation supplies. Usually the curtains are drawn fully open, so the drama students can practice easily for the upcoming play they’ll be performing for the first time on Switch Day, written and performed entirely by Libra Red. Today they’ll remain half-closed, in blank gaping expression.

“Excuse me, shouldn’t I be sitting down?” I request as the med-tech prepares to draw blood, setting up a folding table to rest my arm against. They’re efficient at their job, and begin to swab down my arm even as they shake their head.

“My sincere apologies, but unfortunately we don’t have a seat for today. As a favor for an old friend, I’m permitting his son to shadow me for evaluations today and as he’ll be here through the entire evaluation process, I’ve offered him the seat. The request was last minute, so unfortunately we weren’t able to find any other stools. Again, my apologies.”

As he speaks the evaluator flicks his pen towards the corner of the privacy screen, where a boy perches in birdlike wonder. He’s recognizable, although from where I couldn’t say. Few people visit us, particularly human teens -we’re government soldiers in training, not a tourist attraction- so it couldn’t be from that. So what piece of pop culture is he from?

The boy’s enlarged eyes, a pale shade of blue-grey, bore into my back as I turn to the evaluator. Blinking, I try to erase the shock of a guest from my mind, although that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still sitting behind me, light chestnut hair in disarray like twigs. Everything about the child, who is perhaps a year or two older than me, is reminiscent of a bird tethered to a tree, yet eager to take in the scenery.

A quick jab of the med-tech’s needle is all the distraction I need. They siphon off three small vials of scarlet liquid from my left arm, slapping nothing but a bandaid atop the wound as compensation. That out of the way, they proceed to take my temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure, as well as perform the quick mental check-up questionnaire that’s part of vital checks.

They’ve been drawing blood samples an awful lot lately. Do you wonder if perhaps your transfer paperwork is being drawn up?

I desperately want to tell Lanü to shut it, but with present company being what it is such an action would be inadvisable.

We’re all out of differences in this odd take on an evaluation, and the evaluator knows it. It’s time to proceed to the part that never changes. With a sigh he runs the pen across the papers on his clipboard. “Alright November, your sheet says that you require a second to demonstrate your ability.”

“That’s correct.”

“80-BA119-G, if you would?”

He phrases it like the boy has the free agency to say no. From behind the same curtain the med-tech emerged from, a blonde boy shuffles forwards to stand three paces ahead of me. His gaze, a watery baby-blue, doesn’t meet anyone’s. At least, that’s assuming the floor can’t see. Dressed in the outfit usually reserved for libra in training -white polo shirt, black blazer, black pants, white pumps- he could pass for a Libra Red in my year if it weren’t for the pastel blue armlet tightly bound over his left bicep, and the two thin blue lines at the hem of his uniform pants.

If Libra Black become Afterthoughts, the most powerful among all libra, Libra Blue is the exact opposite. They become nothing. There isn’t anything left for them after they turn eighteen and become a legal adult. Regarded as a waste of resources, those unfortunate enough to be classed with the bottom twenty-five percent of libra are completely reset once they come of age. A Libra Blue over eighteen isn’t a human anymore, or a libra, since most consider the two mutually exclusive categories. They’re nothing but a robot constructed from flesh and blood and wasted futures.

With an unusual expression of etiquette added on, a ‘please’, the evaluator asks the boy to display his ability. 80-GBA119 obliges, biting on his lower lip as both of his hands suspend mid-air, quivering. In between the palms a shimmering, translucent film of water begins to coalesce. The action takes all of his energy to maintain.

It’s pathetic in a pity-inspiring way. Poor thing. He’s trying his best, even if his best is nothing but a failed joke.

Somewhere nearby a Libra Black scoffs at the spectacle. It isn’t hard to tell why: if this boy can do no more than create a softball of water, a Libra Black with an ability similar would be able to create and control a waterspout from only the vapour present in the Nevada Sector air. Knowing that, poor 80-GBA119 almost seems laughable to me as well.

This is the part of the evaluation that never changes. I already know full well what’s coming, and I can’t stop it no matter how desperately I want to.

Eyes are the portal to the human soul, and it’s his eyes I now inhale, drinking in every detail of their baby blue gaze. They’re closed doors, with no existence behind their mama’s boy blue exterior. Whatever type the portal was, it’s long since been torn down and the pieces burned on the pyre of a Memoriam’s graduation gift.

I always look at their eyes. There isn’t anything left I can do for poor 80-GBA119 now, so I’ll try to preserve what’s left of him. It’s a shame, really. This poor boy is going to die like all Blues do, and I don’t even know his real name to wish him goodbye.

Eye contact won’t form the bond I need, however. Lucky for me, I can look at others without the potential to wreak havoc. Eyes may be the portal to the soul, but vision alone can’t form a bond strong enough to tether two people into some sort of acquaintance, nor form a bond in the psycheplane. Talking or touch works best.

If it was an option I’d prefer to utilize conversation as my means of connection. The bonds it forms are easier to forget after they break apart. But there isn’t any time for that, so instead I grab the boy’s shaking hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze before letting go. It’ll all be over soon, 80-GBA119.

Nothing forms a connection quite like touch. The most vicious of the five senses, the ability to feel warmth or coolness, the different textures of the world, is often taken for granted. Without the sense, one might as well be blind and deaf and senseless. It’s enough to drive people mad.

“Permission to proceed?” I ask the evaluator, trying not to focus on the boy in front of me and the papery-thin ball of water he maintains. He doesn’t seem to notice that my voice breaks.

“Permission granted.”

And so I close my eyes, ready to begin the blissful, repetitive task of descending into myself and my own personal realm, a sort of fourth dimension known as the psycheplane. It is, as Lanü puts it, Showtime, darling!

#WTLBF #writeblr #writing #creative writing #original writing #YA #young adult #WIP #Chapter 1 #curiostory #idk how to tag lol

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reminaissance · 4 years

Text

So this happened...

'Cause I felt melting magnets, babe; the second I saw you through half-shut eyes. I love this secret language that we're speaking; say it to me, let's embrace the point of no return. —Lorde ft. Disclosure, "Magnets."

Dusk begins to slowly paint the sky a cobalt blue.

Farther beyond, the sun is kissing the horizon. It expands its light as it goes, making it burst into a bright orange hue before it disappears completely, giving way to a starlit night as they drive through the Hollywood Hills.

They're out on the Jaguar tonight. A roofless classic. Blue—the color of the ocean. It is her favorite after all, and this is something that Hans has always let her choose.

Her hair is up in a bun, having had no time for anything else, while the few strands that she's missed keep flying across her forehead as the car roars and speeds down Mulholland Drive for yet another party. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. She's grown accustomed to them just as much as she's grown accustomed to her marriage.

They require the same kind of effort; the same kind of pretense.

She looks out at the green hilltops: a maze for the rich. It is the privacy, she eventually learned, because nothing is better than living in the Hills, and nothing is better than living distanced from society and higher than everyone else.

The sun is gone by now; tucked away for the night to give way to a sky that has been painted black and speckled with white. Her forearm rests atop the door while her hand flies against the wind, curving up and down, mimicking the shape of a wave.

Her eyelids are growing heavy, becoming lost in a haze. They have gone through this road so many times before it is starting to become bleak. The lights of the city far away blur and grow out of focus until they meld together and get lost against the darkness of the hills.

She doesn't know whose party it is tonight; has no interest in knowing. She shows up because Hans wants her to. Because, he says, he needs her there. It is this same need she once craved. The attention he gave her, as though she was the prettiest and shiniest object he had ever laid his eyes upon.

An object meant to become his.

She closes her eyes, and allows herself to fall into the backdrop of the city.

The mansion's driveway is so big it could fit a second house. There are cars loitering the space by the time they arrive, and she glances at them with a detachment that has grown since the first time se attended a party like this. The Audis, the Ferraris, the Porsches—too much ego carried around inside a structure that can break in a matter of seconds.

She gets off before Hans has the time to step around the car to open the door for her. It is something he has never stopped doing but something that, lately, she has stopped waiting for. She looks at him through her long lashes and he smirks, closing the Jaguar's door before pining her against it. She feels the hem of her skin-tight dress ride up, giving way to a warm hand's touch on her bare thigh.

"I can't wait to get you home," he breathes against her neck and she nods, smiles a little. Her hand travels up his chest and holds on tight to the lapel of his white shirt.

She doesn't pull him closer.

Inside: another mansion and another person too rich to care. She greets everyone she knows and everyone she doesn't know, too, with a tepid kiss on each cheek—never touching—, and somewhere between the high-ceiling foyer and the garden she accepts a glass of red wine.

Every place she's ever visited has a pool, and this time the pool opens to a view of the city and the hills. Like an edge to infinity.

She looks at the translucid clearness, bright and blue from the lights coming from below. The water moves in soft ripples caused by the summer breeze before lapping at the mosaic walls, creating a sound that she can't hear below indiscernible conversations.

She feels the sudden urge to take her heels off and dip her feet in the coolness of the pool, but Hans's hand is still on her waist, guiding her towards the places he wants to go.

She follows without protest. He needs her here.

The conversations: she hears but doesn't listen. There is a certain process here, a mechanical response that she has fallen into. Her attention zeroes in on words, like single threads of a whole garment, but nothing else. Nothing more. She knows how to act the part by now. She follows the eyes of the participants, is attentive to where his husband's gaze falls. She laughs and smiles, her hand going up to readjust her earring, her fingertips traveling up and down the golden chain around her neck.

She remembers the first parties she used to relish with Hans by her side. The first view of Los Angeles from the top of the Hills, and the sense of importance that came with it.

How easy is it to welcome wealth into your life and to forget that everything comes at a price?

She goes up to take a sip but something happens along the way. It is a push. Somebody has tripped behind her; a chain reaction that causes her to pour red wine all over the front of her dress.

She gasps at the sensation of the liquid seeping through the fabric and blushes at the embarrassment. A man is beginning to apologize profusely but what is the point of that? She dismisses him with a wave of her hand before Hans gives off an easy grin to everyone but her. He flashes her a with loving look, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

"Go clean yourself off."

An imperceptible sigh escapes her. She excuses herself with a tight-lipped smile.

The kitchen. Marble countertops; a stainless steel fridge; so many cabinets that she doesn't know where to start looking for something as mundane as a towel. For a party, the space looks inhabited, straight out of a catalogue.

She opens and closes the doors closest to her right. Many of the cabinets are bare.

Does anybody even live here?

"Need some help?"

She turns around, startled, and finds a woman leaning against the frame of the door. She is wearing a suit that hugs the curves of her body and opens at her chest to reveal the barest amount of cleavage. Her blue eyes are penetrating, and she suddenly feels a little too vulnerable standing in the middle of the kitchen with a stain on her forest green dress.

"I was just looking for a towel," she mumbles.

The blonde woman walks straight to her, shortening the distance in four quick strides. She is hit with the scent of her perfume—elegant; a mélange of red roses and orchids—while her back is hit with the coldness of the marble top. She can feel herself blush before adverting her gaze. The woman is too close.

A whisper: "Behind you."

She lifts her gaze up, gets lost in the depth of her eyes for a second too long.

"I'm sorry?"

"Behind you," the woman repeats with a smirk this time.

She steps to the side with her eyes cast down. The woman reaches past her to open a top shelf and pull out a clean, white towel that she hands over.

"Thank you," she whispers, stepping away with difficulty in order to walk to the sink. She blows a little air through her mouth. Warmth is filling up her insides and she doesn't know why.

She pats herself slowly, distractedly. The woman is standing somewhere behind her. She can feel it—like a magnet, drawing closer.

She feels the need to fill in the silence. "Too much space in this kitchen," she laughs softly, "They don't know what to do with it."

"They don't use it much. There's no point when only one person lives in it."

Turning her neck to the right she can fully watch as the blonde rests her hip against the counter. She becomes distracted by the way her black blazer rides up slightly with the change of her position; by the small wrinkles of her shirt where it meets the hem of her pants before disappearing beneath them.

"How do you know?"

The woman gives her a smile, and responds with a question. "What is your name?"

There is something in the intonation of her voice that makes her lean closer before she can stop herself. She forgets for a second why she came to the kitchen in the first place and begins to fidget with the stained, humid towel.

Why does she keep avoiding the woman's eyes?

"I'm Anna."

A hand extends itself out. It faces up; an odd and peculiar choice. She is asking for her hand, but when Anna goes to touch it, the woman doesn't shake it. She wraps it in her own and squeezes lightly. Warmth in a cold touch.

"Elsa."

Anna dares another look before time slows down. She catches a flicker of emotion in the pools of her blue eyes that is gone too fast; that doesn't last long enough for her to be satiated. Because suddenly, she wants to know more—she wants to know everything that words can never manage to express.

They hold onto each other by the merest of touches while her eyes roam over the freckles on her face: softened, unlike her own. She could count them, if given enough time, but when her gaze travels down to her lips something inside of her snaps.

She retrieves her hand as though it's been burned.

"I have to get back," she mumbles. She rinses the towel quickly, neglecting whatever is left of the stain on her dress. It is dark, and it is night. No one will notice—and if they do, she won't care. "Thank you," she repeats.

Elsa stares at her, arches an eyebrow.

"For the towel, I mean. And for... yeah."

Anna goes back outside with a heart that continues to flutter wildly inside her chest, and forces a smile when Hans's hand reaches out to pull her closer by the waist.

She shudders, but it isn't from the cold.

He doesn't ask if she's okay.

More conversations. More of the same act. But every now and then: a glance. She catches the woman's eye from time to time, because whereas she didn't know of her existence before, Elsa seems to be everywhere now.

Their eyes connect as inevitably as the positive attracts the negative.

She is handsome in a way that falls between feminine and masculine; in a way that she owns as she stands tall with her right hand deep inside the pocket of her suit pants, while her left hand holds a cocktail she barely sips from.

Hans is talking now, pulling her away from the conversation and towards the place that she, too—this time—wants to go.

He introduces them again before Elsa searches for her hand once more. This time, it comes with a kiss on each cheek. They do touch and it is not tepid. Warm breath grazes her skin, and it feels like a searing mark that makes it hard for her to pretend she is not reacting. Anna is losing control of her body, as if she's drunk on the presence of her.

"She just bought this house," Hans tells her, but it barely registers.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks it all makes sense. The towel, the kitchen. The solitude.

Hans continues to talk to the rest of the group, to discuss things she has never found interesting. In the openness of this garden that overlooks a city of millions, she feels constricted.

She touches her husband's bicep. "I'm gonna get some air," she says, aware but careless about how ridiculous it may sound.

He nods, doesn't ask if she's okay.

Her eyes connect with Elsa's and linger for a moment before she steps away. She treads near the edge of the pool, half-wishing she could be inside, until she reaches the other end of the garden.

Seconds later, she will realize that the blonde has followed her.

"It's a nice view," Anna whispers. The right side of her body is burning. Elsa is too close again.

"It is," she hears her say. "It makes up for everything else."

When she turns her head around, she finds that Elsa is already looking at her.

Something snaps again. It takes her breath away, making her forget everything she's ever established about herself. She can feel her chest rise and fall in tempo with her beating heart. She gulps down the knot in her throat, and shudders once more. Her body is craving something it hasn't craved in a long time, and the way the blonde is gazing into her eyes is making it hard for her to resist it.

"Do you like it?" She manages to ask.

Elsa tilts her head. Her eyes dance across Anna's features, as though searching for something. She feels like caving in tonight. Her hands twitch against her sides, aching to touch.

"Like is not a strong enough word for what I feel."

Everything in her is screaming for something she is fighting to restrain. It makes her voice grow weak when she says: "Then what do you feel?"

The blonde bites her lip and Anna follows the motion with her eyes. She can sense their bodies draw closer to each other, sharing a kind of heat that is intoxicating.

Elsa leans in until her mouth is close enough to graze the shell of her ear. She closes her eyes with a sigh that is pulled out of her lungs, sensing liquid warmth shooting straight down to her center.

"I'd like to think I feel the same way you do."

It is late at night when they leave, with Anna feeling like her body has been shaken to the core.

She gets in the car, looking back to find no one standing at the door, reminiscing a night that hasn't fully become a thing of the past; wishing, against all wishes, that it had lasted a little longer.

The sensation of Elsa's presence has been hopelessly engraved in her mind, and every time she closes her eyes she can feel her warm breath against her skin.

As Hans drives through Mulholland her hand keeps going up to caress the shell of her ear.

"Does she host parties often?" Anna asks, lost in the memory of her.

"I don't know," Hans chuckles, dismissive. "Why do you care?"

She leans back against the leather cushion of his Jaguar. Her hand begins to fly with the wind again before she closes her eyes, pretending that the touch of it is warmer—softer.

Her entire body is screaming with heat. Yet, all she can manage to do is whisper two simple words: "I don't."

#elsanna #elsanna drabble #elsanna fanfiction #elsa x anna #modern au #magnets

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katedoesfics · 4 years

Text

Shadows of the Yiga | Chapter 17

The injections came every few hours as Kohga had promised him, but Link could no longer differentiate the real world from his hallucinations. He had no idea how many injections he had received or how many days had passed. The world simply ceased to exist around him as he drifted in and out of hallucinations, each one blending into the next. He whimpered and gasped as his body reacted to each injection, until finally, he could start to feel a new life take form inside of him.

And as the injections continued, he grew more and more infuriated. His anger seemed to temporarily ground him in those moments, and for the first time in what felt like years, he could recognize his surroundings once more. He felt more grounded in reality, more aware as Kohga approached him with each syringe. The anger grew inside of him until it became seemingly irrational. He was angry at King Roham and Impa for keeping his father's death a secret. At Dorian for betraying them all. He was angry at Mipha for abandoning him; at Aryll for falling into the same pit of despair he had; at his mother for dying. He was angry at all his friends for seemingly betraying him, moving on with their lives and leaving him alone, and angry with his father keeping secrets. But most of all, he was angry at himself for letting the Yiga Clan get their hands on Aryll and Mipha, and for allowing himself to succumb to Kohga's tortuous injections.

When the next injection came, he couldn't contain his anger any longer. It bubbled through his body, flaring wildly as Kohga approached him. His anger clouded his mind as it grew to levels of rage he had never experienced before, and he quickly felt himself losing control until he seemed to only be a small figuring huddling in the corner of his mind as something else entirely took over.

Link's body strained against the restraints, testing their strength as he threatened to break through. His fingers flexed, then curled into his palms, his nails suddenly long and sharp. His skin paled and darkened, as his eyes flashed vivid red. A low growl escaped his throat as his gaze landed on Kohga, his chest heaving with each breath he took.

This seemed to please Kohga, and he grinned and laughed as Link twisted in the chair. Link threw himself forward, and the restraints groaned under the pressure, but otherwise held strong, holding him back despite his struggles. Kohga plunged the syringe into him once more and the fury raged further inside Link for another moment. But then his body calmed as soon as the syringe was withdrawn. The rage disappeared almost instantly and he fell back against the chair, his body falling limp as his awareness crawled forward, taking control once more.

He was exhausted. So exhausted that he could barely move or open his eyes. But he forced his eyes to open. His eyes that had returned to their clear, pure blue, moved weakly to Kohga as his breathing slowed and steadied.

“Thrilling, isn't it?” he said with a grin. “The more you fight it, the weaker you will become, and the quicker that darkness will consume you. Your rage feeds it. Soon, you will disappear completely. Hyrule's Hero will be gone forever.”

Kohga moved back to the table, placing the empty syringe back on the table. “There won't be many more injections left,” he said as he moved to the door. “But don't worry; we won’t send you away without seeing your friends one last time. The two girls – we'll let you watch them die before we finish you ourselves.”

If he wasn't so exhausted, the rage surely would have blown through him again, causing the darkness inside of him to gain control once more. But he simply could not think straight, or even really process the words Kohga had said to him, which may have been to his benefit. There was surely some truth to what Kohga had said; the more he fought against the darkness, the quicker it would consume him.

He let his head hang for sometime, allowing himself to rest before he finally felt relatively normal. His mind was clear; or, clear enough to begin to process all that had just happen. And for the first time in what seemed to be a long time, he remembered that Aryll and Mipha were in trouble, and that the Yiga Clan had them.

He cursed himself for succumbing to Kohga’s injections, for not being stronger, for not being able to break away and save Mipha and Aryll. He took advantage of his sudden clarity and looked around the room once more. He needed to find a way out of his restraints. He fought against them once more, but still, they held strong. Even the chair did not budge, and he could only assume it was bolted into the floor. There would be no way he could escape. At least, not on his own. He was not strong enough, but maybe there was someone who was.

He tried desperately to will that other part of him to return. He reached into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind to will the darkness in him to surge forth once more. He tried to recall all he had seen, heard, and witnessed. He recalled some of his earlier hallucinations; the ones he was sure were hallucinations. Seeing his mother was surely one of them. But nothing more stood out to him. He thought back to his brief moment of consciousness - his father. He remembered seeing him. He ordered him killed. His own father… a traitor.

No. That couldn’t be right. As strong as the memory was, he still couldn’t believe it, though as he played it over again, the pain struck his chest each time, as real as the last. But he refused to believe it nonetheless.

Still; it had the effect he was hoping for. He could feel the darkness creep in around his mind, pushing aside his consciousness. And he let it - encouraged it - to take over. He opened himself to it, but it only seemed to shirk away. It quickly slipped away from him, causing his insides to pull sickeningly. His head spun once more, and he quickly lost consciousness.

*****

The door opened and light spilled into the room. Two dark figures, silhouetted by the light behind them, stood in the doorway. They said nothing as they stepped into the room, closing the door behind them. The dim lights flickered on and hummed as they warmed. Link was barely conscious, his head hanging low and his breathing shallow. He noticed the change in the lighting. He heard the footsteps of the two figures that entered. But everything else was indiscernible. He paid no mind to them, assuming them to be more Yiga soldiers. In truth, he didn’t care anymore. There was nothing he could do to stop them. He had given up.

A strong hand pushed him back against the chair, seemingly annoyed that he had not regarded them. The hand gripped his shoulder hard while another hand slammed his head against the chair. A bright light shone in his eyes, and he groaned and turned away from the source. The light snapped off and the hand pulled his chin. His eyes moved tiredly to the figure that stood before him. He recognized Dorian immediately, but his expression remained unchanged. Dorian’s eyes narrowed fiercely on him as he spoke. Link couldn’t understand him at first, and it seemed his face had shown his confusion. Dorian’s gaze softened and he spoke again.

There was another voice after Dorian’s. It came from the second figure, standing behind Dorian and off to the side. Link turned his gaze to this figure as he stepped forward into the light. He met the figure’s gaze, smiled, then laughed. He pulled his chin out of Dorian’s grip.

“Nice try,” he muttered.

Dorian straightened, keeping his gaze on Link. He spoke again, and Link’s mind slowly came into focus, now understanding the hallucinative conversation between the Sheikah and his dead father.

“...to the city.”

Rusl’s gaze hardened on Dorian. “They’ll find him,” he hissed.

“If we don’t get him out,” Dorian said, “Zelda will look for him. I won’t let the Yiga get to her, too.”

“Your job was to keep them out of the Yiga’s hands,” Rusl growled. “And yet here he is.”

“Rusl,” Dorian warned. “I’m doing everything I can damn well do.”

“My son’s on the brink of death because of you!”

Dorian shook his head. “Nothing I do is good enough for you,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve managed to keep them safe for over twenty damn years. I got you out of this hell hole. What more do you want from me?”

“I’m done hiding,” Rusl said. “You’ve had your way. I’m done. I want to go home.”

“If you go -”

“He knows, Dorian! He’s not an idiot!”

“That’s debatable,” Dorian muttered. He turned his gaze back to Link. He got to his knees and peered at him curiously. He pushed his chest back with a finger and Link turned his gaze to him.

“How’s it going, kid?”

Link sighed heavily but did not respond.

“So, we’re gonna get you outta here.”

Link smiled, then laughed, but still, he did not respond. He knew better than to engage with the hallucinations. That’s all they were. Images of false hope. Images of broken promises and pain. Nothing was real anymore.

“Okay,” Dorian said. “Let’s go.”

“You’re a traitor,” Link muttered. “If I ever get out of here, I’ll kill you.”

“You’re dense,” Dorian said. “A damn idiot.” He stood once more, stepping away as Rusl moved toward his son. He gripped his shirt, shaking him briefly.

“Snap the fuck out of it.”

Link smiled and pulled away. “You’re dead,” he spat. “Get the fuck out.”

Rusl frowned and released his hold on his son. He turned to Dorian. “What’s your plan?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Whether you like it or not, he’s a part of this. He won’t stand down. Not until he’s destroyed the Yiga Clan.” His gaze narrowed. “If you had just told him the truth -”

“What do you think would have happened?” Dorian snapped. “The same damn thing. He’d walk right into their hands with the stupid idea that he could end it. He’s powerless against him. And before you know it, he and Zelda are team Ganondorf, and everything they’ve done will have been for nothing.” His voice lowered. “If he knew you were alive, he would have gone after you. If he knew they were a threat, he would have gone after them. Either way, he would have been exactly where they wanted him.” Dorian hesitated. There was a tone of regret in his voice when he spoke again. “I kept my promise to you, Rusl. I can’t possibly plan for everything. They still got their hands on him. But he’s here. He’s alive. And I will get him out if you just let me do my job.”

Rusl pulled his gaze away and turned back to his son. “I’m done,” he said softly. “I can help him. We can finish this.”

“How do you expect to do that?”

“The Champions,” Rusl said. “They have a lot more going for them than you like to think. Let them do this. Let them fight.”

“You were the one that wanted them to have no part of this,” Dorian said.

“I know,” Rusl hissed. “But they’re all we’ve got.”

“Let me talk to Impa and Roham,” Dorian said. “I’ll keep Kohga away from him and Zelda as long as I can.”

Rusl met his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but Link’s voice interrupted him.

“Dad.”

Rusl turned to his son. His head still hung low. His body shuttered with each breath he took. Rusl moved to him, getting to his knees and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get you out of here, alright?”

His head shook slowly. Tears fell onto his lap. Rusl frowned and moved his hand to his son’s head. He pressed his forehead against Link’s.

“Just hang in there, kay?”

Link did not respond to him. Rusl returned to his feet, his lips pinched together. He turned to Dorian. There was a bright flash of light and a loud crack split the air.

Link gasped for breath. His eyes moved around the room, but he was alone. There was no evidence otherwise that there had been anyone else in the room with him. He bit his lip and sobbed softly.

*****

Though the space was small, Aryll still managed to pace back and forth, from wall to wall, almost dizzying herself in the process. She ignored Mipha’s plea to stop, unable to calm her anxiety. Her hands trembled as she wracked her brain, reviewing every detail of their plan.

“Are you sure it will work?” Aryll said softly. Her pacing ceased and she gazed out the barred door.

“No,” Mipha admitted. “And I can’t heal as long as we’re in here,” she continued. “So we can’t fuck up.”

Aryll cursed softly. Already, they were both banged and bruised from the Yiga, virtually powerless against them. She was sure her bones weren’t broken, but they were definitely fractured in some places. Her wrist, being one. And it was likely they had both suffered concussions, but there was nothing either of them could do about it except pray there were no internal damages that would sneak up on them suddenly.

From what they could recall, they had been Yiga captives for almost a week. It was enough time to quickly learn their routine, time their shift changes, and form a plan for themselves to break out and find Link. It wasn’t a good plan. Far from it. But it was a plan, nonetheless. And Aryll was impatient as they waited for their chance to execute it. It wouldn’t be long before their time was up, and they would all die. It was now or never.

And their chance finally came. One of the Yiga soldiers returned to the room where they were being held. His mask was removed, and he was grinning stupidly at his phone held in one hand, while the other had a half peeled banana, which he took a large bite out of. He didn’t even glance in their direction as he made his way to sit on the other side of the room where he kicked his feet up on the table and finished his banana, still watching his phone.

Aryll glanced at Mipha, hesitant, but found reassurance in Mipha’s confident gaze. She sucked in a quiet breath and moved her gaze back to the Yiga guard, then promptly fell to the floor. The guard glanced over at them as Mipha hurried to Aryll’s side in concern. He sighed and spoke into the radio on the table.

“One of those girls just passed out,” he said in a bored tone.

“What do you mean she passed out?” came the response on the radio.

“I dunno,” he said. “She’s unconscious. What do you want me to do?”

“Boss wants them alive. Fix it.”

He frowned. “That’s more work than I agreed to.”

“Stop being an idiot,” the voice hissed. “Do what you want afterwards, but keep them alive.”

This seemed to be incentive enough for the guard. With another sigh on the edge of a groan, he got up and made his way to the cell.

“Back against the wall,” he instructed Mipha. Mipha silently obeyed, pressing her back against the hard wall as the guard entered the cell. He got into a squatting position as he looked over Aryll for a moment.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked, though his tone suggested he did not care.

Mipha’s gaze narrowed on him. “She probably has a brain bleed,” she snarled at him.

“Hmph. What would you know?”

“I am a nurse. I can fix her if you let me.”

He shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he said arrogantly. “Don’t move.”

Mipha watched as he continued to check over Aryll, then promptly set to work on healing her. As he worked, Mipha quietly slipped off her belt. She held the leather in her hands behind her back, waiting for her moment to strike. Aryll’s eyes fluttered open and the guard stopped working. As long as she was conscious, that was all the healing she needed.

Aryll, however, thrust a fist towards him, but he was quick to catch her wrist, and she yelped in pain, the bone still fractured. He grinned down at her as he thrust her arm to the floor, pinning her.

“Nice try, you little bitch,” he hissed at her.

That was all the distraction Mipha needed. She lunged at him and brought the belt around his neck, pulling tightly against him and dragging him backwards on top of her. She grunted under his weight as they fell, but did not release her grip. He clawed at the belt in surprise for a moment, then thrust his arm aside, causing the ground to tremble in an attempt to weaken her hold.

Aryll sprang on top of him and pinned his arms to the ground in hopes of preventing him from further attacking. He started to gasp and choke as his airway was cut short, which likely weakened him. She knew she was not strong enough to fight him off, but his weakened state came to her advantage, and within moments, the Yiga fell into unconsciousness.

Mipha hesitated as Aryll stepped away from him. He was not moving, but she wasn’t completely convinced. She waited another moment before letting her hold loosen, then let the belt drop to the ground. Still, the guard did not move. Aryll kicked at his gut, but he gave no response, which was confirmation enough for Mipha. She let her fingers rest on his neck, searching for a pulse, but the Yiga guard was dead.

Mipha pulled her hand away slowly, her face whitening. “I killed him,” she said softly.

Aryll hesitated, her lips pressed together. “Let’s get out of here,” she said after a moment, reaching for Mipha’s hand and pulling her out of the cell.

They moved to the table where they quickly grabbed anything the could use as a weapon, including the guard’s own blade.

“This was the easy part, you know,” Aryll muttered. “We have no idea where Link is or how to find him.” She met Mipha’s gaze. “And we don’t stand a chance against a group of Yiga soldiers on the hunt for us.”

“We’ll wing it,” Mipha said. “Link always did.”

“And did that ever work out for you guys?” Aryll asked skeptically.

“Not really,” Mipha mumbled. “Got him gutted once or twice. We won’t be so lucky.”

Aryll pulled her gaze away. “You’re right.”

Mipha hesitated, immediately regretting what she said. “We’ll figure this out,” she said in an attempt to reassure Aryll. She shrugged. “You’re with a Champion, after all. I’ve gotten through worse.”

“Yeah,” Aryll said softly. She sucked in a breath, her expression hardening. “Well. I’m sure as fuck not dying here. So, let’s do this.”

#loz #botw #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #fic #fanfic #soty #shadows of the yiga #soty 17

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giggleandtears · 5 years

Text

Crimson Renegade, Part 2

Look into your eyes (I’m drownin’ in em)

Summary: The newest transfer sees her new quarters and has a long awaited meeting

Pairings: OC/Jim Kirk(Platonic), OC/Leonard McCoy(Eventual Romance)

Enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“We can argue that point later but in the spirit of friendship, what will it take for you to put this minor miscalculation behind us?” I say, using my most innocent of voices.

“You mean what will it take for me to forget you tried to manipulate me into getting your way?”

I mumble a nearly indiscernible ‘yes’ before snapping to attention, staring Jim squarely in the eye.

“Wait a minute! Why do you get to take the high ground? Don’t act like you haven’t whipped out those baby blues on me to get me to do your bidding.”

“To get a phone number or a free drink, not get out of a mandated physical.”

“Says the man, sorry, Captain, that’s run from every hypo since birth.”

Jim’s piercing gaze volleys back and forth, as if the air itself would supply a worthy retort. His quick wit momentarily slows to a halt until a mischievous simper appears.

“So Danny, why do you need exclusive use of hold 626-E again?"

All joking aside, my eyes are sharper than Jim’s jawline. “You wouldn’t?”

“Try me.” Leaning forward over my shoulder, Jim stage whispers in my ear. “You know you’re not getting out of this, right?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a sigh.

I did bring this on myself

“What do you want?”

“You know there’s only one thing I want, Gem.”

“First, you know how I feel about you calling me Gem.” Jim’s devilish grin widens but with a nod he relents. “How long am I to be at your mercy Oh captain, my captain?”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

In the corner of my eye, Spock’s face is a vision of pure Vulcan horror, if we can call it that. The speed in which he’s quantifying our non-verbal cues to discern the level of misconduct he is witnessing is dizzying and rather funny. Spock could teach a master class on body language akin to psychotherapist. However, the shrewd Second in Command is, as always, at a loss as to the emotion behind them. In all likelihood Jim did in fact just proposition me and I reluctantly accepted. But that has never been the type of relationship Jim and I have ever had. How could our fearless leader, not poke the Vulcan teddy bear when he’s so flagrantly missing something.

“Don’t worry Spock. It’s completely consensual.”

“I was not aware the nature of your relationship had changed in the interim of our last meeting.” Spock says, in his cool timbre.

“Hey, cool it Casanova.” I say, directed at Kirk. Stepping off the lift, I try to clarify the situation for my ever-processing Vulcan friend. “Spock, Jim wants to take Artemis for a ride, not me.” Jim quietly snorts as we make our way down the corridor. Spock is none the wiser. If only Vulcan humor included double entendre. “And to answer your question, that you didn’t quite get to finish asking, I can get the sample for you after my physical or Scotty can. He has security clearance to access Artemis as well.”

“Thank you. That will be most useful.” Jim keys in the generic code to my new quarters and steps through but Spock remains rooted to his spot. Placing his hands behind him, Spock patiently stands, awaiting my attention. “Commander,” he says after a pause. “I am never one to question your abilities. Your skill as an engineer and subsequently a pilot is well documented. However, was it necessary to disregard my transmission before it was completed?”

“I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere but we’ll unpack that later.” I say with a smile. “But, if I had allowed you to continue, am I correct in assuming that you were going to express concern for my life?”

“That is an affirmative.”

Taking a moment, I think of what was going through my mind in the split second I chose to execute my plan. In truth, not much. Yes, I deliberately chose to proceed before hearing the consistently sage words of my comrade. But I had the means to keep my weakened crew safe. They could escape due to my actions. How could I not act with the utmost decisiveness?

“In this instance I refer you to the words of a very wise man, ‘The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, or in this case, the one’.”

Almost instantly, Spock’s brow quirks in what I believe is appreciation. With a smooth nod he utters a simple reply. “Understood.” No further logic needed.

Returning his attention back to the opened door, Jim hands back the PADD to Spock’s out-stretched hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Spock. Keep me apprised of the repairs.”

Bowing one last time, Spock turns and leaves at Jim’s polite dismissal.

Stepping away from the door, Jim gestures me inside like a smartly dressed doorman before following behind me. Dropping my bag, I’m astounded at the quarters I’ve been assigned. The pristine grey and white surfaces make the space seem all the grander, in size and amenities.

“Um, Jim? How are these my quarters?”

“Perks of being a commander.”

Pockets of light splayed around the room set an uncharacteristically cozy atmosphere. The illuminations warmer tinge mimics that of a candle alight, sans the continuous flicker. That small, seemingly insignificant detail, betrays the common star ship adage, ‘efficiency before comfort’.

“I’ve been a commander for 4 years and my quarters have never been this-” I trail off in awe as I begin to take in more of the details that surround me.

A small kitchenette sits on the far-right wall, a gleaming replicator at the ready. Trills of excitement run through me at the sight of a small French press on the counter. I can already smell the heady aroma of my first cup of coffee. In the corner, along the same wall, is a doorway of what I believe is the bathroom. Situated in the middle of the room, is a modest entertaining area, fit with a round coffee table and love seat. The darker grey fabric is soft to the touch but undoubtedly durable.

“Is Spock’s room this big?”

“Let’s just say we won’t be having game night in here.” Jim says, with the utmost diplomacy.

“Good to know.”

Only a small space separates the back of the couch and the bed. And what a bed it is. Two people, if not three, could easily rest inside its plush borders. Why my mind decides that’s an adequate number, desirable even, I haven’t a clue. Shaking that thought away, I notice more of the small touches unique to the Enterprise.

A thin strip of light wraps around the bed where the base and mattress meet. Efficient if emergency lighting is ever needed but will also combat the horrid stubbed toe when nature calls in the middle of the night. But suddenly, I’m drawn to the window in front of me. Beyond it is the clearest view of a nebula I've ever seen. Did my head get knocked around more than I thought? Because I swear, I can see individual particulates swirling. Reaching out, I place my hand against the glass. Oddly, its warm against my palm, not cold as you’d expect from something that touches the frigid harshness of space.

“I knew you’d like that.” Jim says warmly, coming to stand beside me. “Who needs a telescope when you have one of these?” I retract my hand as my brow raises in silent question. Jim just chuckles. “Computer, on.” At once, the “window” comes to life and re-centers on a particular area of the nebula. Scrolling data on the right of the screen details all the atmospheric levels found there. “Now you can explore without ever leaving your room or if you want, your bed.” Jim enlarges a small section of the screen. The seemingly devoid area erupts into various embedded hot stars as it expands on the display, all possibly never seen by the human eye.

“Jim, this is amazing. Truly.” I say, meeting his eyes in a glassy side-long glance.

Jim rocks on his heels, hands tucked in his pockets. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a soft smile.

“After everything you’ve been through,” Jim starts in a hushed tone, “who knew a simple planetary magnification display would be the thing to make you cry.”

A watery chuckle escapes me as Jim bumps my shoulder against his own.

“We both know there’s nothing simple about this.”

Such sophisticated long-range tech is relegated to what is commanded by the Bridge or specialty items designed specifically for a project. It is most certainly not used for a personal window display of a curious commander.

“I know, but I think it’s about time we gave a little back. Don’t you?”

“We?” I ask, not fully understanding why the lavish comforts I’ve been credited now originates from a plural body of unknown origin.

“The Federation. Starfleet. Your crew.” Jim states simply, with a nonchalant shrug.

I’m not exactly sure if I deserve this level of hospitality and universal concern but I nod at the underlying sentiment of displaying gratitude to those that have served honorably.

“Why don’t you go change and I'll meet you in Medbay. I need to check in with the bridge.”

I raise my hand in a dramatic mock salute. “Aye, aye Captain.”

Jim smiles in rueful admiration while shaking his head then turns to leave. Before he reaches the door, I call out to him. Facing him fully, I try find the words to adequately express my immense thanks. It’s not just about today but that he’s been championing me even while I was earth-side and he’s light-years away. Without the barrier of space or hologram display, my well-prepared thank-you-for-your-friendship speech dries on my tongue.

With that bright grin of his, Jim senses the cause of my frustration and lets me off the hook.

“Anytime, Danny.”

After Jim leaves me to my own devices, I grab my bag and head to the bathroom to freshen up. Stripping off my jumpsuit, I step into the shower. I'm surprised to see there are two control panels.

Sonic capabilities and real water. Now I’m just being spoiled.

I choose a sonic for its expediency and in short order I’m ready to pull on a new uniform. The uniform in my bag is perfectly suitable but it isn’t needed. Hanging by the shower is a fresh uniform, newly pressed. Lifting it to the light, a small white tag dangles in my view. It reads, ‘Welcome to the Enterprise’ in neat type. A warmth spreads throughout my chest as I shimmy into my crimson and black ensemble. Taming my bounteous curls takes longer than expected but eventually its slicked back in a neat bun. Admiring myself in the mirror display, I finally look like a proper commander.

Leaving my quarters behind, I make my way to the Medbay. A soft burst of air brushes against my face as the doors automatically open at my approach. Blindly surveying the open space, every cataloged item is meticulously placed. The CMO must run a tight ship. You'd never know 11 patients came and went in less than an hour. Actually, make that 10 patients. A doctor, clad in science blue, leans over the only occupied bed. I'm sure, if he were to shift towards me, his medical insignia would be clearly visible. Ever so gently, he runs the dermal regenerator over the brow of his patient.

Cocking his head to the side, he finally acknowledges my presence with a quick glance in my direction. I assume by the angle that he’s sitting, he’s only able to verify that there is in fact a person standing in his vicinity and the color of my uniform. Not bothering to break his concentration from his patient or call a nurse, the dark-haired doctor proceeds to inquire about my current physical condition.

“Cut, burn or concussion?” He says, with a weighty sigh.

“Excuse me?” I ask, coming closer.

“Did you get cut, burned or whacked in the head?”

“None of the above, although you didn’t say anything about palpations, fever, or hives?” I add with blatant sarcasm. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be quietly dying in the corner over there.”

I hear a soft snort from the lounging figure on the Bio-bed before turning away to meander around. I wish I could see the doctor’s whole expression but the tightening of his jaw will have to do. Dark hair, probably an impressive scowl and distinct southern drawl. Why is that combination so familiar? Wait, did I just meet-

“Bones!” Jim bellows, as he walks into the Medbay.

“Dang-it man, must you yell every time!”

“I voluntarily came to Medbay. I thought you’d be happy.” Jim challenges, with a smirk.

Dr. McCoy straightens an imaginary crook in his neck with an audible growl, and continues his work.

I’ve heard quite a lot about the good doctor. Such as his snark and quick wit, lover of all things sweet and covered in honey, and his unlucky (his words) position as Jim’s best friend. But my favorite is his petulance for hating the color red and all the problems that shroud it in infamy, much like the ensign he just dismissed.

“You’re all done, kid.” McCoy says, stripping off his gloves with a sharp pop. “Next time, try not runnin’ full speed into hangin’ debris would’ya?” McCoy stands and shoos his patient off the bed.

“Yes, doctor.” The young ensign says. He only pauses a moment to acknowledge Jim, quickly muttering ‘Captain’, before scurrying out the door.

It doesn’t escape my notice that unlike the newly healed ensign, Dr. McCoy is completely ignoring Jim and is in no rush to rectify it. Picking up the PADD clipped at the end of the bed, he scrolls and intermittently taps on the screen. Glancing up, his Jim sized problem has yet to disappear.

“What do you want Jim? I have a Medbay to run.” McCoy says, pinching the bridge of his nose after placing the PADD back in its place with a clatter.

“Aw come on Bones. We live to explore another day and besides, I have a surprise for you.” Jim says jovially, clapping McCoy on the shoulder.

“How ’bout you keep that to yourself. Your surprises tend to leave my antibiotic ointment supply low and my nurses skittish.”

Now it’s my turn to snort into my hand. That’s all the confirmation I need that Jim is still, very much, still Jim. Somehow that’s both a comfort and deeply unsettling.

“I just wanted to know if our latest transfer came by yet.” Jim says. Shifting his stance to the side, he meets my eyes expectantly. With McCoy’s back to me, he has no idea the new transfer is waiting patiently behind him to introduce herself.

Jim has wanted me to meet McCoy for quite some time. He often said his chosen drinking crew was in need of new blood, better bourbon and definitely new stories. He may have added something about thinking I was the best person to properly distract McCoy when he got in a mood. After threatening Jim with a hypo concoction that would leave him very excited and pitifully flaccid, he never brought that particular distraction up again.

McCoy and I have had a few chances to meet over the years but something has always gotten in the way-class schedules, injuries, being in a completely different star system. You name it. Even in this short interaction between Jim and McCoy, I can already see I’ve been deeply deprived.

“No, and why am I just seein’ him now. He should have been in here months ago.” McCoy says in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “No tellin’ what he’s been spreadin’ around.”

“I assure you I haven’t been spreadin’ anything around,” I say, pulling the attention of both men. “We can confirm that whenever you’d like.

Walking towards them, McCoy’s gaze follows me from the tips of my toes until he finally meets my eyes. He keeps his composure far better than most men I’ve met but his eyes still round in surprise. My height usually has that effect. We meet men, women, and all those that fall in between. They vary in color, creed, planetary origin and corporeal state or lack thereof. The permutations are unfathomable and from youth onward, we’ve been taught not bat an eye. But a woman that can look you in the eye is still shocking. Coming closer, McCoy stands the tiniest bit straighter.

“But no rush. I just hitched a ride on four starships, tracked you here using virtually scraps of data, and drained my ship in a battle protecting you. But please, take your time.” I relax my hip against a cabinet and twirl some sort of metal apparatus I picked up from the counter around my finger. Facing me head on, McCoy crosses his arms as he stares me down. I don’t think he likes the notion of anyone presuming to put him on their timetable.

“Wait, that was you doin’ all that fancy flying?” He asks me incredulously.

“Is that your version of a thank you? Oh, I forgot. Unless an engineer is under your watchful eye, we pose an imminent threat to ourselves but most importantly, your sanity.”

McCoy next words halt as his mouth hangs slightly agape. A rapid flutter of confusion passes over his eyes as his lips purse in contemplation.

“You’ll have to excuse me but, have we met?” McCoy finally says.

“Not officially. I'm just the red that was slowly dying from an arrhythmia, pyrexia, and anaphylaxis.”

McCoy’s eyes begin to narrow in what I can only guess is his favorite go-to glare and I nibble the inside of my cheek to keep my burgeoning smile at bay. Flicking my eyes to Jim, his smirk has grown into a knowing cheshire grin. He’s thoroughly enjoying the volley between McCoy and I. Honestly, so am I.

“You also may have heard about me from a mutual friend.” I continue.

Jim has never squandered an opportunity to regale me with the many shenanigans he’s dragged McCoy into. More often than not, he whines about how McCoy takes sick pleasure in smothering every idea he has in common sense before he can fan it into a career defining romp. It’s astounding how easily Jim shrugs off the irony of that statement. Sadly, I think McCoy fails far more than he succeeds. So, I have no doubt Jim’s spoken of our previous escapades as well.

Laying the metal thing-a-ma-bob back down, I extend my hand toward McCoy. “Commander Gemma Danvers. Nice to meet you.”

Flashing a devastatingly handsome crooked smile, McCoy grasps my proffered hand with a soft pressure. “Pleasures all mine.” Gentle creases line his eyes from finally putting a face with the name. “Leonard McCoy.” He says, introducing himself. “But somethin’ tells me you already knew that.”

Hmm, where did Lieutenant Grumpy Pants go?

My own smile grows wider in response. “And you’d be correct.” McCoy’s warm gaze draws me in further. I should feel awkward that our joined hands are still slowly moving in unison but watching such a bewitching shade a green has left my senses muted to anything else. After McCoy releases my hand, I quickly clasp them behind my back and take a minuscule step back. Time to get down to business. “So, do you have time for a physical?”

“Always.” McCoy says, without hesitation.

#star trek aos #aos #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #spock #mr. spock #bones #jim kirk/oc #leonard mccoy/oc #star trek #enterprise #star trek enterprise #red shirt #starship enterprise #fanfic

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mundieoriley · 5 years

Text

Into the Wild | Aragorn x Oc Two

Summary: Imagine yourself sitting in you backyard beneath an oak tree that has been there long before you were ever born. Now imagine yourself suddenly disappearing from that spot, whisked away to another place entirely. Cheyanne found herself in precisely that unbelievable situation, dumped into a strange and unfamiliar world filled with monsters and magic and Rangers from the North. Why was she plucked up from her backyard and placed in such a world? And how is she ever going to get home?

Preface: Just putting it out there that I plan on tweaking the canon and mixing events from the movies and the books to suit my purposes; also in my Oc’s universe, the Lord of the Rings does not exist for simplicity’s sake. Updates Fridays.

Masterlist is linked on my profile page.

Author’s Note: Hey guys! I hope you’re all well! Just wanted to let you know, if you’re confused about anything, let me know and I’ll clarify it for ya and fix it in the story! Thanks so much for stopping by!

Mundie

The first thing Cheyanne notices about them is the long sword hanging from their belt and how their hand rests on the hilt. The next is the end of a bow poking out from behind one shoulder. They wear a dark and mud splattered tunic and cloak, with the hood drawn up shrouding the majority of their features in shadow. Cheyanne stiffens further, her fingers spasming on the tree branch, as the cloaked person slowly steps further into the clearing and stops about a yard away from her. They survey the clearing, head turning left and right, before their posture relaxes, hand slipping from the hilt of the sword to their side. Cheyanne’s posture remains tight and defensive, nerves strung far too tightly to trust a stranger after what just happened to her.

Cheyanne widens her stance a little. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The person reaches up and draws down their hood, revealing their face; It’s a man, not too terribly older than Cheyanne in appearance with hair a few shades darker than hers that falls nearly to his shoulders. “It is alright,” the man says as he abducts his arms, palms facing forward. “I mean you no harm.” His voice is slightly lowered in a soothing manner. “Did you see any more of them?”

Cheyanne pauses, staring the man down, and after a few moments, her body slowly relaxes. “No, I didn’t.” She glances down at the nearest dead creature and cringes a little. “Did you kill them?” When the man nods, she lets the branch lower to her side, but she doesn’t let it go. “Who are you?”

The man stoops down and pulls an arrow from the nearest monster’s head with a squelch. “They call me Strider,” he says as he moves on to the next. The arrowhead separates from the shaft when he pulls it out with a sharp crack and he tucks the damaged shaft into a sheath on his back Cheyanne didn’t notice before. “I am a Ranger from the North.” He takes a couple steps closer to her, scanning her with sharp eyes.

Cheyanne practically jumps back thanks to her fried nerves and her heel catches on something solid. She tumbles backward with a yelp, the branch falling from her hand as she lands roughly on her rear. Cheyanne’s throat constricts when she looks down at her legs slung over the prone corpse of the monster that cut her face. She chokes on an exclamation and scrambles away from the body until her back bumps into a tree. Her stomach turns violently and, for a moment, she is sure she’s going to be sick again. But she clenches her jaw and turns her face away from the corpse. The nausea passes after a moment and her jaw relaxes. Cheyanne then turns her head and side eyes Strider, sure she is going to see some form of judgment in his eyes. But when their gazes meet for a moment, she sees nothing of the sort there.

“I apologize,” Strider says as he steps closer to the monster while also giving Cheyanne plenty of room. “I did not mean to frighten you.” He crouches down by the body in such a way most of it is blocked from her sight and gently eases the arrow out without letting it make a sound. Before he stands back up, he turns the corpse onto its stomach, effectively hiding the grotesque face. Strider turns to face Cheyanne, still crouched down so their eyes are level. “I assure you, I will not harm you.”

Cheyanne studies him for a moment in a new light. “You’re sure going through a lot of trouble for a complete stranger.” He looks like a rough, potentially threatening person, but the way he has acted so far contradicts his travel-worn and tough exterior. “Why save me? You don’t know me from Timbuktu.”

“I could not very well let those orcs kill you,” Strider says as his brow furrows. “Whether I know you from “Timbuktu”, as you say, or not.”

Cheyanne stands shakily to her feet and looks down at Strider. “No one does anything for no reason,” she says as she watches him rise fluidly from his crouching position. “The odds are ridiculously slim that you’d just happen upon me in time to save my neck. So why were you here?”

In the back of her mind, a small voice whispers to her that she’s being awfully rude to someone who just saved her life. A little twinge of guilt for that causes Cheyanne to bite her lip and deflate. She breaks eye contact with Strider and dabs at the gently bleeding cut on her face. If he wanted to hurt her, he would have done it already.

“You have been through quite an ordeal,” Strider says and the understanding tone in his voice causes Cheyanne to look back up at him. “It is not easy to trust a stranger, especially in times like these.” He pauses breaking eye contact for a moment. “What is your name?”

Cheyanne almost makes a comment about how he hasn’t really answered any of her questions, but she bites the sharp words back. “Cheyanne. My name’s Cheyanne.”

Strider repeats her name quietly as if testing the sound of it and seeing how it feels on his tongue. “A strange name- where do you come from? Surely nowhere in these parts?”

Cheyanne shifts her weight and bites her lip again. It is painfully obvious, thanks to her clothes especially, that she’s not from around… wherever the heck she ended up. Should she be honest with him and just spit it out? Or should she hold her cards close to her chest as he seems to be doing? After all, the only straight answer she’s gotten out of him is his name, if it even is his real name.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” she says. “If you answer my question truthfully, then I will answer yours truthfully, agreed?” Cheyanne sticks out her hand and waits as she looks at Strider with slightly raised eyebrows. He looks between her face and her offered hand, eyebrows furrowing in clear confusion and this causes Cheyanne to crack a little smile. “You’re supposed to shake it if you agree to the deal.”

With the same confused look on his face, Strider reaches out and awkwardly grasps the end of her fingers, in a similar way a gentleman would kiss a lady’s hand, and gives them one decisive shake.

Cheyanne can’t help how her smile widens. “Okay then, you’ve agreed.” Her face grows more serious as she lets her arm go back to her side. “How’d you find me out here just in time like you did?”

Strider shifts his weight, clearly weighing his next words carefully. “I was asked to keep an eye out for someone matching your description in this area. Someone lost and clearly not from Middle Earth.”

Cheyanne blanches. “Hold up. Did you just say ‘Middle Earth’?” Strider merely nods, an enlightened look appearing on his face. “How’d whoever ‘informed’ you know I’d even be here? And the last time I looked, I was on Earth, in America. Are you telling me that’s not the case?”

Strider nods again and digs around in his pack. “Yes, you are on Middle Earth near the outskirts of Fangorn Forest.” He produces a worn cloth from his pack and offers it to her. “Here, for your face.” Cheyanne absently accepts the rag and holds it to her cut, her mind spinning. “The fact you know not where you are proves you are who I was looking for. As for how I knew that, wizards are mysterious and rarely reveal their secrets.”

Wizards, Middle Earth, Fangorn Forest?

Cheyanne’s head spins with questions that probably don’t have answers. The pain in her face and the all too vivid sights and smells around her tell her she is not dreaming. This is real.

Somehow and for no reason apparent to her, Cheyanne has been dumped into a world entirely different from her own, a world inhabited by things that were only fantasy to her an hour ago.

A gentle hand squeezing her shoulder causes Cheyanne to break from her whirling thoughts and emotions. She looks up at Strider, taking in the kind look in his eyes.

“I cannot begin to imagine how this must feel for you,” he says before taking his hand away. “But Gandalf asked me, when I found you, to take you with me so that he may meet you and explain how and why you came to be here.”

It takes several moments for Cheyanne to catch up with what Strider just told her and she takes the cloth away, numbly examining the blood stained material. She presses it back to her left cheek when she feels more blood begin to well.

What other choice does she have but to go with Strider? She’d die out here in days or less on her own. Besides, Strider’s been nothing but kind to her. All his actions point to him being perfectly trustworthy.

Cheyanne lets a slow breath. “Alright, I’ll go with you,” she says. “Maybe this Gandalf you mentioned will know how to send me home.”

“Perhaps,” Strider says as he gestures with a hand for her to follow. “Come, it is a long journey.”

Cheyanne follows him out of the clearing, casting a final glance over her shoulder and repressing a shudder. The trek back out of the forest is a relatively short one. Strider’s steps are confident and he obviously knows where he’s going. Cheyanne crunches along beside him, still keeping the rag held to her face, and taking the time to process everything that’s happened to her. An indiscernible amount of time passes before Cheyanne looks up and sees a break in the trees ahead.

Moments later, Cheyanne and Strider step out of the tree line, Cheyanne raising her free hand to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness of the sun. She squints, eyes watering, and waits the necessary few moments for her vision to adjust. Then she brings the cloth from her face, her mouth dropping a little.

“Woah,” she says as she looks around. Before her is the largest expanse of flat land she has ever seen, dotted here and there with distant rock formations. For a moment, she can almost hear a melody on the wind, high and soft. But when she strains her ears to hear more, the music fades. Huh, must have been her imagination.

The exposed sky has to be the clearest blue she has ever seen, completely unpolluted by smog. On her right looms a mountain range, distant mist coiling around its peaks just visible to the naked eye.

The sight of these mountains makes Cheyanne shiver a little and she quickly turns her head away from them, unnerved. “What is this place?”

“Rohan, the land of the horse lords,” Strider says as he steps in front her. “May I?” He gestures to her face, indicating he wants to take a closer look. Cheyanne, touched by his politeness, merely nods and lets him step a bit closer to her and examine her cut. “The bleeding has stopped. But you will not be without a scar.”

“Great-,” Cheyanne says. “-because I was dying to have a souvenir to remember my warm welcome by.”

For half a second, Strider eyes her with a profoundly confused look on his face, then he cracks a little smile. “Then you are in luck.”

Cheyanne returns his smile and, folding the cloth so he won’t get any blood on him, hands it back to Strider. “Which way are we going?”

Strider tucks the cloth back into his bag and points to a break in the mountains to Cheyanne’s right. “To the Gap of Rohan. We should reach it by tomorrow evening.”

Cheyanne shades her eyes with her hand again and follows as Strider begins to walk. “It’s not that far away, is it?”

“Do not let how close it looks deceive you,” Strider says, setting a quick pace.

“And our final destination?”

“A town known as Bree.” The tone of his voice indicates any conversation in that vein is not welcome.

Cheyanne decides not to press him about it and instead concentrates on lengthening her stride to keep up, stumbling a little on the uneven ground. “I see why they call you Strider now.” He’s not that much taller than Cheyanne, perhaps two inches or a bit more but, boy, does he use every inch of his height in his pace.

He merely glances at her and makes no comment, but not without the light of amusement in his eyes.

The rest of the day’s travel is spent in relative silence, with splatters of conversation here and there. As it turns out, Strider isn’t much of a talker and by the end of the first day of pretty much silent walking, she feels as if she could cut off her legs and she wouldn’t know the difference. And thanks to the brisk pace Strider set, they made pretty good progress but at the expense of Cheyanne’s muscles. She can’t remember the last time she actually exercised. Between work and her senior year of college, she’d barely had time to breathe, let alone put aside time to work out. Between the sudden and pretty extreme change in activeness and the heat of the sun beating down on her, Cheyanne was more than ready to stop by the time they did just as the sun was beginning to set. They set up camp in the shadow of the mountains behind a large outcropping of rock Strider deemed enough cover to light a small fire. There they spent a quiet evening, an evening in which Cheyanne had her first taste of lembas bread. It filled her a heck of a lot more than she thought it would and when Strider informs her calmly that the bread is elvish, Cheyanne nearly choked on her last bite.

“Did you just say elvish bread?” Wizards and evil monsters? Yeah, sure, why not add elves in there too?

Strider looks up at her, dropping the stick he was using to poke at the fire. “Yes, are there not elves where you come from?”

Cheyanne shakes her head. “No. No wizards or- or those monsters from earlier either.” She gestures with an incredulous hand. “The next thing you’re gonna tell me is you have- dwarves too!”

There’s a long moment of silence where Strider merely looks at her.

Cheyanne slumps back against the rock. “Of course you have dwarves.” She throws up her hands. “That’s it, I’m going to sleep. I’ve had enough of major, life changing discoveries for one day.”

Strider merely shakes his head with a ghost of a smile and tosses her the cloak he shed near the start of their walk that day. “Here. The nights can be cold.”

Cheyanne thanks him, wraps up in the cloak, and lays down on the hard ground. Before sleep takes her, she finds herself hoping the traveling time ahead of her won’t be as rough as the first day was.

#aragorn x oc #lord of the rings #fellowship of the ring #romance #adventure #fantasy #fanfiction #middle earth

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arcanelaurels · 6 years

Text

A sick fic bc I’m a sick chick. Just gonna leave this long bc I don’t feel like cutting it up into parts and posting them separately.

(In which Taako is me this past weekend but luckily for him he has a loving BOYFRIEND to take care of him while i’m still out here with no gf)

Taako woke up feeling just...fucking awful. He shivered, pulling his blanket tighter around him. His body was run up and down with chills despite the fact that his skin felt like it was on fire. Oh gods, was he sick?

He rolled over towards the wall, making it so that he was wrapped in a veritable blanket cocoon. He shivered again. He had more blankets, he knew that. The problem was that they were so fucking far away. He’d have to get up to get them, like some kind of masochistic animal. Besides, he was incapable of getting up, since he was pretty sure his bones had been transmuted to lead, considering how heavy they felt.

He rolled back over to face his dorm. It was dark out, and he had no idea what time it was, but he guessed it was the middle of the night. Looking around, he easily spotted the pile of blankets on his desk chair. It would only take a few moments. A few, agonizing moments and he would have five more blankets to keep him warm.

Taako took a few deep, shiver-filled breaths to brace himself, then threw off the covers and sat up. He almost immediately fell back onto his bed due to the sudden, raging headache that overwhelmed him once he sat up. Groaning, he pressed a hand to his forehead and got up, dashing over to his desk chair to gather up all his blankets, then running back over to lay them out on the bed. The process was inhibited by the fact that he continuously doubled over with shivers. He pressed on, though, trying to convince himself it’d be worth it.

He considered getting his sleeping sack, but he had no idea where he’d left the damn thing. His night terrors had substantially dwindled ever since he’d started working with Magnus and Merle, for whatever reason, so he’d stowed it away somewhere like an idiot.

Almost completely overcome with shivers, Taako climbed back into bed as quickly as he could, curling up into as tight a ball as he could and tucking the blankets all around himself. The shivers slowly calmed, and Taako felt like he should be overheating due to how hot his skin felt, but he was still freezing.

He hated being sick. He hated not being able to take care of himself. He hated looking so weak in front of others. Especially because he didn’t trust anyone to take care of him. Except...

Taako shook his head, hiding it under the blankets. No. No way was he going to call Kravitz to take care of him. They’d only been dating for fifty-six days (not that Taako was counting) and he didn’t want Kravitz seeing him so vulnerable. Gods, this illness must be affecting his brain more than he thought if that idea had popped into his head.

He snuggled even further under his blankets, hoping that some more sleep would fix him up.

Suffice to say, it did not fix him up. Taako woke up feeling somehow worse than he had when he fell asleep. His skin was hotter, but he felt colder. And now his throat was extremely dry. And of course he had no water on his nightstand, why would he? Self-care is for chumps. Perhaps he could conjure some up, but the last time he’d tried to do magic while sick, he’d accidentally turned a ladybug into a large black cat.

The headache had died down into a low, steady throb that he almost didn’t notice. That is, of course, until Magnus very rudely started pounding on his door.

“Taako, you up?” He shouted. Gods, why was he so loud? “We’ve got training in like ten minutes!”

Taako shivered and burrowed himself further under the blankets, not trusting his voice to emit a loud enough response.

More pounding on the door. He was gonna kill Magnus. “Taako! You look fine, Carey’s probably gonna kick your ass anyway.”

He heard Merle chuckle and wished he had the energy to magic missile them both. After an indiscernible amount of time, he heard the doorknob turn and his teammates burst into the room.

“Taako, we’ve gotta- Oh, shit.” Magnus stopped when he saw Taako, flushed face barely visible from under a massive pile of blankets. “You look like hell.”

Taako rolled over and gave him a reproachful look through narrowed eyes. Then, shivering, he snuggled even further under his blankets.

Magnus turned to Merle. “Can you heal that?”

Taako couldn’t see him, but he imagined that Merle shrugged in response before saying “I know how to heal injuries, not illnesses.”

And you can barely even do that, Taako wanted to say, but instead he just coughed weakly.

Magnus turned back to him, looking unsure as to what he should do. “Do you...want us to stay with you?”

Oh gods no, he didn’t want these chucklefucks taking care of him. They’d probably accidentally kill him. He mustered up all of his energy to let out a grunt of dissent.

“Okay...” Magnus sounded thoughtful. “But we can’t just leave you alone like this, buddy.”

Of course they couldn’t. They “cared” about him. Bullshit. He considered his options. Let these two buffoons try to take care of him, or...

He let out another cough, not believing what he was about to do. He slowly, weakly, removed his arm from under the covers and pointed it to his Stone of Farspeech on his desk (after shivering a bit).

Magnus looked back and forth between Taako and his stone for a few moments before he understood. He quickly got it for him and placed it in his trembling hand.

Taako made sure not to let them see what frequency he was tuning it to. They didn’t even know about him and Kravitz yet, so this could go wrong in so many ways. But he didn’t really have another choice.

He let out another cough as the stone started connecting, and handed it up to Magnus, who took it hesitantly. He stared at it while it did its work, completely dumbfounded as to who Taako could have called.

After a few moments, a voice sounded from the stone. “Hello?”

As cheesy as it may seem, Taako felt like he was healed a little bit just from hearing Kravitz’s voice. He’d never admit that, though. He prayed that without the accent and through the slight garbling of the stone, Magnus and Merle wouldn’t recognize him.

Looking confused, Magnus started speaking. “Hello, who is this?”

There was silence on the other end, and Taako could tell that Kravitz was a bit wary at this voice that was definitely not Taako’s. Good boy. “Taako?” Kravitz asked, immediately dropping his voice a bit lower in hopes of fooling Magnus.

It worked. “Uh, no, this is his friend Magnus,” He said, giving Taako a questioning glance. “He uh, he dialed this frequency and then handed his stone off to me, uh, he-” He sighed, looking worried now. “He’s pretty sick, and we can’t really stay with him. I think he called you because he trusts you to take care of him?”

Taako suppressed a groan, glad his face was already flushed so the other two couldn’t see how much that embarrassed him.

“Who is this, by the way?” Magnus asked, glancing at Taako again.

Kravitz was silent for a few moments, and Taako wondered what he was thinking. When he spoke, the sound of his voice made it clear that he was smiling. Gods, Taako was gonna kill him too. “Yeah, I can take care of him,” he said, deflecting Magnus’s question again.

“Uhhh,” Magnus glanced at Taako again, who only stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Okay, then. Uh, we’re leaving right now, so you should probably head over soon. You know where it is?” He sounded thoughtful, like he was running through a list of Bureau members that he could be talking to. Nice try, Mags.

“Uh, yes, I do,” Kravitz responded. “I’ll be right over.”

It was a slow day in the astral plane, one of those days that people use to catch up on paperwork, which Kravitz had no need to do and was therefore elated when his stone rang with a call from Taako.

When he answered, though, he recognized Magnus’s voice, and wondered if something was wrong. When Magnus told him Taako was sick, he didn’t have to think twice about visiting the Reclaimers’ apartment to take care of him.

Magnus and Merle had only been gone for a minute or so before Taako heard the sound of a dimensional rip. He slowly rolled over to glare at Kravitz.

Ignoring Taako’s expression, Kravitz was immediately stunned by his appearance. “Taako, you look-”

Taako narrowed his eyes at him.

Kravitz cleared his throat nervously. “Uhhm, beautiful. You look beautiful.”

Taako rolled his eyes at him and relaxed against the pillow again.

Taako seemed to have his wits about him, but Kravitz still wondered just how sick he was. He didn’t have much experience healing people - in fact, that was the exact opposite of what he usually did. He cautiously stepped towards him, wondering what he was supposed to do. Temperature, right? You’re supposed to check their temperature?

He cautiously laid the back of one hand on Taako’s forehead, who sucked in a hissing breath as he flinched away from Kravitz’s touch. Oh, right. Kravitz was fresh out of the astral plane and his bodily construct was as cold as ice. Embarrassed, Kravitz started rubbing his hands together, hoping the friction would warm them up faster. After about a minute of Taako watching him with a vague look in his eyes, he tried again. Taako winced a little bit this time, but he didn’t pull away.

Kravitz quickly removed his hand when he realized that Taako was burning up. Was he safe? How high of a fever can an elf endure?

Taako blinked at him weakly, looking less and less conscious by the second. Kravitz started to panic. What did the living need, again?

“Should I get you some water?” He blurted out.

Taako’s eyes snapped open at that and he let out a garbled grunt that was interrupted by a cough. Taking that as a yes, Kravitz spun around and left the room, heading towards the kitchen to get him some water.

After pouring the water, he stopped and looked around, searching for a straw. If Taako was too weak to speak, he was probably too weak to sit up and drink properly.

Quickly sifting through the kitchen cabinets, Kravitz eventually found a box of straws as well as some fantasy Tylenol and a small, single-serving box of fantasy Cheerios. Recalling that Taako had previously said something about preferring to eat Cheerios when he was sick, Kravitz grabbed it and the rest of the supplies before rushing back to Taako’s room.

Taako’s eyes were closed and he seemed to have fallen back asleep. Kravitz didn’t want to disturb him, but he also could tell how much Taako wanted that water by how he’d reacted. He quietly put everything down on Taako’s bedside table before gently brushing some of his hair out of his face. “Taakoooo,” His quiet voice took on a song-like cadence.

Opening his eyes, Taako looked around blearily before his gaze landed on Kravitz. When it did, his expression changed to a dopey smile until he seemed to remember what was happening. He quickly averted his gaze and Kravitz saw one ear twitch in embarrassment. How cute.

“I brought you some water,” Kravitz kept his voice low as he lifted the water glass back up

This got Taako’s attention as his eyes focused on the glass of water. Putting a hand behind his head, Kravitz gently helped him sit up just enough to drink out of the straw. Taako shivered at the cold water at first, but then quickly sucked it down, draining half the glass before Kravitz stopped him, remembering the medicine. He picked up the bottle and read the lengthy instructions that accounted for many different species. Elves were supposed to take no more than three tablets every six hours.

Kravitz popped open the bottle and poured three tablets out into his hand, then noticed Taako giving a look of childish disgust.

“You want to get better, don’t you?” Kravitz asked, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Pouting, Taako held out his hand for Kravitz to drop the pills into. He popped all three of them into his mouth - was he supposed to do that? - before leaning forward to take a sip of water. He tilted his head back as he swallowed the medicine with a grimace, then proceeded to drink the rest of the water that was in the glass.

Kravitz put down the now-empty glass as Taako relaxed back onto the pillow, clearing his throat multiple times and letting out a couple weak coughs. Kravitz sat on the edge of his bed and watched him, unaware that his worry was obvious on his face.

Once Taako had sufficiently cleared his throat, he looked at Kravitz with a slight smirk. “You care ab’t me ‘r somf’n?” He asked, his voice still garbled and weak. He coughed again.

Kravitz smiled and rearranged the blankets so the top layers were covering his boyfriend a bit better. Same old Taako. His eyes wandered to the small box of Cheerios. “Are you hungry? I got you Cheerios.”

Taako gave a disgusted pout again and let out a small grunt of dissent before rolling to face away. Kravitz hesitated, wondering if this was another case of Taako being too petulant or if he really shouldn’t eat right now.

“Alright,” He said in a resigned tone. “But you have to promise to eat them later.”

Taako’s head turned just enough so that he could look at Kravitz before he fully rolled back over, shivering in the process. Kravitz smiled and took out his stone of farspeech to check something.

“According to Web M.D. - which is posted on a giant spider’s web, of course - we’re supposed to lower your body temperature, not let you burrow under a bunch of blankets,” He said.

Taako’s eyes widened and he pulled the blankets tighter around himself and rolled away again. Of course he was going to make this difficult.

Kravitz considered his options. If he got moist, lukewarm rags to place on Taako, his boyfriend would probably use all of his energy to throw them off. He looked down at his hands, then an idea popped into his head.

As quietly as he could, Kravitz disappeared his shoes, jacket, tie, and shirt until he was left in just his pants and an undershirt. After a few moments of consideration, he changed his dress pants to more comfortable sweats. He then slipped into bed behind Taako, pulling him close.

Taako shivered with his back against Kravitz’s now-lukewarm body for a few moments, then relaxed a bit, seemingly comforted by his boyfriend’s embrace. Kravitz, meanwhile, felt like his constructed skin might just burn off from how febrile Taako was. He continued to hold him, though, grateful that he was dead and therefore couldn’t catch whatever illness Taako was coming down with. He gathered up Taako’s long hair and threw it over the pillow, knowing Taako didn’t like sleeping on his hair but was probably too weak to do it himself.

After a while, Kravitz felt Taako’s breathing slow down into a steady, sleeping rhythm. He kissed the back of his neck before he let Taako’s breathing lull him into a light sleep.

Eight hours, three more fantasy Tylenols, and one half-eaten Cheerio box later, Kravitz was woken up by Taako nudging him silently.

“Wha’s wrong?” Kravitz asked sleepily.

Taako looked a bit stronger now, and both of his ears were swiveled in the direction of the apartment’s front door. He nudged Kravitz again, perhaps as hard as he could, signaling him to get out of bed. Kravitz recognized the sound of Magnus’s loud footsteps coming down the hall.

Realizing what was going on, Kravitz quickly hopped out of bed. Taako wasn’t ready to introduce (or re-introduce, as it were) Kravitz to his friends, and he also wasn’t physically capable right now.

Kravitz summoned his scythe, but before he could slice open a portal, he felt Taako grab his wrist. He turned back to him with a questioning look.

Taako cleared his throat a few times. “T-” A cough. “Tomorrow,” He said in a hoarse voice.

Understanding what he meant, Kravitz nodded, then turned to slice his scythe in the air just as the doorknob started jiggling. He was in the astral plane before it was opened.

Kravitz quickly changed his clothes back to his usual suit, feeling his construct start to lower in temperature again. He turned towards the direction he needed to go, then stopped. How long did illnesses like that last? How many days would Taako be out of sorts and needing care?

Kravitz quickly returned to his office to get a jump start on tomorrow’s paperwork, praying to his Queen that he wouldn’t be summoned on any reaper missions until Taako recovered.

#I wrote this all in one go with only one read-over and i'm still sick so if it sucks i'm sorry #i guess this is technically a vent fic?#taz balance #the adventure zone #taakitz #taako #taz kravitz #laurelscribbles

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coltonthelizard · 6 years

Text

The Dance: Evan Hansen x Reader

a/n: my titles are super creative. also i’m pretty sure i succeeded at making this one gender neutral!!

————————————————————

“Well, don’t you clean up nice.”

Connor rolled his eyes at your comment, visibly uncomfortable in his suit. Cynthia had dragged him to a department store and insisted on something more traditional, until they’d finally compromised on the velvet coat and tie. He’d let you redo his nails, so that they were clean around the edges instead of peeling with black polish, like they usually were.

“Shut it. It’s your turn to get dolled up.”

You’d laid out your outfit for the dance on your bed. Connor pinched the material, examining it.

“Very nice, very nice. Anything else?”

You gestured to a pile of necklaces and shoes at the foot of the bed.

“I’m clueless. And I’m completely at your mercy. Make me stylish.”

“Oh, I’m your stylist?” Connor raised an eyebrow. “Well, dahling, I’ll do my best to make you,” he squinted and raised his upper lip in an attempt to seem pretentious, “fabulous.” You giggled. “Why the British accent?” He shrugged and replied, still in character, “We British are fashionable people.” “Gotcha.” Connor smiled.

“As for your hair?”

You shrugged. “I mean, I’m thinking it looks fine like this?” He patted your head, adopting the accent of a sweet old Southern lady. “Bless your heart.” Thankfully, his hair length had given him some level of skill when it came to styling, so you let him run his hands through your hair until he decided that it looked better.

“Alright, get dressed. I’ll sort through,” he pointed to your untouched pile of accessories, “that.”

You stepped into the bathroom to put your outfit on, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked nice. Connor would kill you if you told anyone outside of Jared, Evan, Zoe, or Alana, but he knew what he was doing. He cared about his appearance, though the goal of his appearance was to make it look like he didn’t care at all. Connor was the kind of guy who always smelled good.

He’d pulled a pair of shoes and a couple necklaces from the pile, the rest strewn across the bed and floor. “Hey, don’t you look nice. Try these.” He pushed the shoes toward you and tapped his foot as you pulled them on. “There you go. Looks good.” He then handed a necklace to you, frowned, passed you another, and repeated the process until he’d depleted the pile. “Wait. I have an idea.” Connor grabbed his keys from your dresser and ran outside. He returned a few moments later with a leather cord bracelet you’d seen him wear before and fastened it around your wrist. Smoothing your hair with one hand, he stepped back to take you in.

“There we go. That’s it.”

You fiddled with the bracelet’s clasp. “You think Evan will recognize it?”

Connor straightened his tie, smiling. “Trust me, he won’t be looking at the bracelet.”

• • •

Evan flung his tie onto the bathroom counter in frustration. “God, how the hell are you supposed to do this?” He scrolled through pages of Google results for “how to tie a bow tie,” each tutorial more unclear than the last. Connor had just taught him how to tie a regular tie; bow ties were on a level he hadn’t quite reached. Jared entered the bathroom, his tie hanging loosely from his neck.

“Evan. Dude. Come here.”

Jared picked the tie off the floor and successfully looped it around Evan’s neck, half-heartedly explaining the process as he went.”

“See? It’s easy. Now you’re looking spiffy, kid,” he said, ruffling Evan’s hair. Immediately, Evan swatted his hand away and dipped his finger back into the pot of styling gel he’d been nursing for the past half-hour.

“Evan. Sweetie.” Jared smirked. “Your hair looks fine. Y/N isn’t going to notice.” Evan didn’t look away from the mirror and continued smoothing his part. “You don’t know that.” “Oh please. You need to practice your tango before we leave?”

Evan rolled his eyes as Jared quickly tied his own tie and produced a lint roller from the drawer, passing it silently to Evan. “What? Do I have something on me? I knew the navy jacket was a bad choice,. What size is yours? Can we switch?”

Jared smiled. “Evan, you’re fine. I just thought it might calm you down. There’s nothing on you, and the navy jacket’s pretty snazzy. Y/N’s gonna like it.”

Evan blushed and instinctively reached for his hair again at the mention of you. Jared finished wiping his glasses on the inside of his suit jacket, slapped Evan on the back, then shoved his iPhone in his pocket. “We gotta go. Come on man. You look good.” Evan stole another glance at the mirror and slunk out of the bathroom behind him.

• • •

Outside was a line of students, waiting for the chaperones to confirm they weren’t drunk, then let them in. Evan bounced his leg nervously to the music, an indiscernible beat that leaked out of the gym doors every time they swung open. It was the first school dance he’d been to. He’d skipped the rest of them because he knew he’d spend the whole night on his phone in the corner, or hiding in the bathroom. But this year, you’d convinced him. He knew you would talk to him, and dance with him, and even though everyone would be looking at him you would be right there. Still, you weren’t there now, and he couldn’t shut up the voice in his head telling him you were going to ditch him.

And then you didn’t. Then you showed up looking amazing, and kissed him, and held his hand until you got into the gym. A drugstore disco ball in the center of the room was casting dots of color over the walls, and it still smelled the way the gym always did, but something about the whole production was magical. It was mostly because you were next to him the whole time, and because you danced with him, even though he was a terrible dancer.

When they played Can’t Help Falling in Love, he took your hand, pulled you from your conversation with Jared and Connor, and walked you onto the makeshift dance floor. He’d spent most of your dancing staring at the floor or the people around you, because you couldn’t make eye contact for too long without giggling at each other, but the song took away the awkwardness. It took away the chaperones and refreshments and the other couples until it was just you, and him looking into your eyes, smiling to himself because he was so lucky.

When the song ended, he kissed you sweetly, earning a few glares from the chaperones. He dropped his hand from your shoulder to your waist, his other hand holding yours, and led you back to Jared, Connor, Alana, and Zoe. They’d paired off, Jared with Zoe and Connor with Alana, for the slow songs so they weren’t just standing off to the side, fake-gagging at you and Evan. “Hey, lovebirds,” Jared ruffled Evan’s hair. Evan rolled his eyes, but didn’t dare take his hands off you. He only glanced down at your hand, where his eyes fixed on Connor’s bracelet. “Hey, is that…” You leaned your head onto his shoulder, squeezing his hand tightly. “Yeah. It is.” Connor winked at you from across the circle.

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gohyuck · 7 years

Text

Haechan - Drive

runaways au

fluff and implied past angst (mentions of abuse)

some lapslock in a dream sequence but otherwise i use normal capitalization

bad attempts at humor

really bad

im not funny

Gas station lights pollute your thoughts. The pockets of time when the whole world stops, white noise and radio silence, come and go easily, intermingling with the occasional car honk and on-and-off chirps of crickets. You aren’t sure whether they’re the saviors of your loud mind or whether they’re burning holes into your skull and flicking the ashes into your heart. You fiddle with the car door lock, flicking it back and forth with your index finger mindlessly.

The driver’s seat door opens and in slides your what if, your maybe, your hopefully. Fingers stop messing with the lock, reflexively defaulting to running through your hair for a split second before moving to secure your seat belt across your lap. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, opting, instead, to turn on the engine, check his mirrors, and put his seat belt on. One hand grips the steering as the other rests on your leg, soft denim separating his palm and your knee.

“Are you sure about this?” The unspoken “About me?” follows, hanging, heavily, in the air.

He isn’t looking at you - how could he be, he’s shifted into reverse and is backing out of the parking space - but it still feels as if his eyes are boring holes right through your profile. You let air escape from between your lips before glancing at him from the corner of your eyes.

“Yeah, I am.” You’re surprised at how soft your own voice is, and clear your throat.

“Yeah. I am.” Repeating your words again, albeit louder, you don’t miss the there-and-gone rise of one corner of his mouth.

“Then let’s fuckin’ do this.” Donghyuck, or Haechan, as he forces everyone but you to call him, flashes you his beautiful, beautiful grin as he changes gears to leave the steadily more and more eerie by the minute parking lot. Both of your phones have been abandoned, left to be discovered behind the redbox machine on the side of the convenience store. It’s one thirty in the morning and there’s nobody else out except for the two of you and the cashier leaning tiredly against the counter in the store.

A thrill passes through your body as Donghyuck drives onto the main road, immediately accelerating to what you’re sure is at least five or ten above the speed limit. You startlingly realize that you’ve never felt more alive.

“We’re going to have to dump this car in a few hours.” It’s been a good half hour of fairly silent driving, both you and Donghyuck in your own worlds. You cover the hand on your thigh with your own. He moves so his palm is facing upwards, and you intertwine your fingers with your best friend’s. Simultaneously he voices his agreement with you.

“I know; in those three or four hours we can cover a couple hundred miles, though,” Donghyuck swears under his breath as he notices a tailgater, causing him to change lanes. He continues, “Especially since my mom filled up on gas not three hours ago before driving home from work.”

“Bastard finally did something good for once.” You’ve never felt sympathy for Donghyuck’s excuse of a mother, and you know he feels the same contempt for your legal guardians.

“Yeah, by funding her kid’s escape.”

A comfortably silent ten minutes passes, although your heartbeat is loud in your ears. You realize that you’re on a service road.

“How about we get on the highway here?” You point at the upcoming ramp.

The faster you two get away and the farther, the better.

“We’re getting interesting now.” He chuckles but obliges, moving both hands to the steering wheel as he accelerates. “Hey, get some sleep - I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn to drive.”

You want to argue but your eyes seem to agree with him. Leaning your head against the window gingerly you close your eyes, willing yourself to drift as quickly as possible. You’re not good with sleeping on command, but with the gentle jostling of the car and with Donghyuck’s comforting presence by your side, a dream finds you within the next fifteen minutes.

you and donghyuck are lying in a field, surrounded by the sun’s warm rays. both of you are dressed in all white, and when you look over at him he looks ethereal, even more breathtaking than usual. there are no splotchy bruises on his collarbone, no trademark scars from his mother’s nails on his chin or elsewhere in his skin. his eyes are raking up and down your frame, though not predatorially.

“your scars are gone.” he speaks first, turning to gaze into your eyes.

“so are yours.” you turn complete sideways and place your hand on his chest as he lies flat again, pulling you into his right side with his arm. his left arm is folded to support his head.

“hyuck?”

“yes?”

“you know that you’re my best friend, right?”

“uh...new phone who dis...”

“donghyuck!”

“i’m sorry but i really don’t - ow! quit poking me! fine, yeah. for real, though. you’re mine, too.”

a beat passes. he talks first, this time.

“you know that you’re my soulmate, right?”

“i thought i was the side hoe...”

“what? no-”

“how’re you going to break the news to mark?”

“to ma- christ. you had me scared for a second. although you’re not wrong...”

“shut up, hyuckie. i’m the one for you and you’re aware of it.”

“glad we’re on the same page. wait, though... if we’re both together and we’re both super hot... who’s the alpha hot one in this soulmateship?”

“you’re a big dork, you know that?”

there’s nothing but fondness in your voice as you upturn your face to look at him. he’s glowing brighter than the sun as he moves his arm out from under you to use his hand to tilt your chin up. he leans in closer and closer. your eyes close a split second after his do, and your lips are about to meet in your first kiss with each other-

A light pinch on your arm wakes you up, causing your eyes to fly open. A blush spreads across your cheeks as you recall what was happening in your dream, what you so desperately wanted to happen in real life.

“I need to pee...like...really badly. Map on the sign to the entrance of this rest stop says there’s motel nearby here, by the way, and we’re a good couple hundred miles away from where we started. Now’s a good place to stop as any.”

You unbuckle your seat belt, shoving open the prone-to-stick door as hard as possible to get out. Donghyuck does the same on his side, locking the car after.

“Kind of going to miss this car.” Remarking offhandedly, you read out your hand. Your best friend’s larger one finds it easily in the dark night.

“Me too... You can drive us to a couple blocks from the motel, if there’s some parking lot or empty space we’ll just leave it there. Get it over quickly.”

“We can freshen up and take a really quick nap before leaving.” You smile at him, nervousness blooming in your stomach as you realize that it’s really happening - you have a chance of being free of everything with the only one who’s ever felt like home.

He grins, immediately grimacing afterwards.

“This’ll all happen but I really need to- can we walk faster?”

The toyota’s been left in an old lot that looks like it hasn’t seen people since the last worldwide depression and the meager amount of money, a good five hundred dollars made through months of pulling weeds for neighbors and after school part time jobs is safe in Donghyuck’s pocket, and your legs feel like lead after the three mile walk following the car dumping. Donghyuck’s eyes are slits, his eyelids drooping lower and lower every minute, only to pop open in panic whenever he almost dozes off on his feet.

Neon red is a welcome sight as the slightly crooked motel sign comes into view. You grab Donghyuck’s elbow and speed up, both of you breaking out into a sprint in no time. It’s barely been a few hours into your new life and neither of you are roughed up by it, but you admit that the idea of sleep is still a pleasant one.

The process of paying for a one night (more like three hours’) stay goes by quickly, and the smoke of the clerk’s cigarette follows the two of you down the torn down carpet of the singular hallway. Donghyuck wraps the rest of your money in his jacket and places it under his pillow as you wash up quickly in the shower. Once you’re done he swaps places with you, and you find yourself in one of his larger shirts and your own shorts, lying down on one half of the queen bed looking up at the creaky, slow moving fan.

Thoughts flood your mind, of your “parents”, your old life, what’s to come, and, of course, of him. You find your tongue tied, suffocating yourself. He needs to know, you decide, but how can you tell him when it might ruin everything?

After all, he’s all you have.

The question is lost, however, the moment the bed dips and you find him beside you. He turns off the only source of light, the lamp on the bedside beside him. You can’t see his smile but you can feel it, blinding you even when you’re in the dark and not looking.

The words can’t be stopped.

“Hyuck...what if...maybe...hopefully...”

He says nothing, but you sense him propping himself up on his arm to be able to look at you as you speak. He’s waiting, you know. You always say what you think, in the end. You wince. It tumbles out of your month in one almost indiscernible sentence.

“I think I love you.”

The light doesn’t turn on. Neither does the weight by your side leave. Both are unexpected.

Instead, a pair of lips finds its way to the junction between your neck and collar, leaving a chaste kiss in its wake.

“I know.” He pauses. “I don’t think. I know that I love you.”

You sigh, the last weight off of your shoulders. Turning around to face him you can’t miss his gorgeous smile or the happy glint in his eyes.

After what feels like an eternity his arm finds its way under your head while the other rests gently on your waist. One corner of his mouth turns up higher than the other as he leans in closer. Your noses touch, and you can’t help but let out a small laugh.

It’s five in the morning in a cramped town you’ve never heard of and you’re sleep deprived and broken and in love... and you don’t think you’ve ever been happier.

“Are we gonna kiss or what?” Your conclusion, your definitely, your hope teases, mirth in his tired, but sparkling, eyes. Rolling your eyes, you nod slowly.

“I think the former works just fine.”

idk how to end anything im sorry i love u all...this is kinda short but i was rlly just feeling the idea of driving today

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