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theideasofarchimedes · 2 months

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JURASSIC PARK

screenplay

David Koepp

based upon the novel

Michael Crichton

and on adaption

Michael Crichton and Malia Scotch Marmo

December 11, 1992

1 EXT JUNGLE NIGHT

An eyeball, big, yellowish, distinctly inhuman, stares raptly

between wooden slats, part of a large crate. The eye darts from side

to side, alert as hell.

A legend tries to place us - -

ISLA NUBLAR

120 MILES WEST OF COSTA RICA

- - but to us it's still the middle of nowhere.

It's quiet for a second. A ROAR rises up from the jungle,

deafening. The trees shake as something very, very large plows ahead

through them, right at us. Every head gathered in this little clearing

snaps, turning in the direction of the sound as it bursts through the

trees.

It's a bulldozer. It drops its scoop and pushes forward into

the back end of the crate, shoving it across the jungle floor towards

an impressive fenced structure that towers over an enclosed section of

thick jungle. There's a guard tower at one end of this holding open

that makes it look like San Quentin.

The bulldozer pushes forward into the back end, the crate THUDS

TO THE FLOOR. A door slides open in the pen, making a space as big as

the end of the crate.

Nobody moves for a second, A grim-faced guy who seems to be in

charge (Robert Muldoon, although we don't know it yet).

MULDOON

Alright now, pushers move in. Loading team move it.

The movement as agitated whatever is inside the crate, and the

whole thing shivers as GROWLS and SNAPS come from inside.

Everyone moves back.

MULDOON (cont'd)

Alright, steady. Get back in there now, push. Get back

in there, Don't let her know you're afraid!

The men go back to the crate and begin to push it into the slot.

The crate THUDS UP AGAINST THE OPENING. A green light on the side of

the pen lights up, showing contact has been made.

FROM INSIDE THE CRATE,

we get glimpses of what's on the other side of those wooden

slates - - jungle foliage, MEN with rifles, searching searchlights.

The view is herky-jerky as the crate put into position.

MULDOON

Well lockedŠ Loading team, step away. Joffrey, raise

the gate.

A WORKER climbs to the top of the crate. The search lights are

trained on the door.

The RIFFLEMEN throw the bolts on their rifles and CRACK their

stun guns, sending arcs of current CRACKING through the air.

The WORKER gets ready to grab the gate when all at once - -

A ROAR from the inside the crate, and the panel flies out of his

hands and SMACKS into him, knocking him clear off the crate.

Now everything happens at once. The WORKER THUDS to the jungle

floor, the crate jerks away from the mouth of the holding pen flash, an

alarm BUZZER sounds - -

- - and a claw SLASHES out from inside the crate. It sinks into

the ankle of the WORKER. dragging him toward the dark mouth between the

crate and the pen. The WORKER SCREAMS and paws the dirt, leaving long

claw marks as he is rapidly dragged toward the crate.

Muldoon SHOUTS orders:

MULDOON

Tasers get in there, Goddamn it!

They FIRE their guns - the wood of the crate SPLINTERS.

Muldoon runs in and grabs the WORKER, trying to pull him free.

The wild arcs of currents from the stun gun flash and CRACK all

around, but in a second - -

- - the WORKER is gone.

CUT TO:

2 EXT MOUNTAINSIDE DAY

MANO DE DIOS AMBER MINE

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC

DONALD GENNARO, forty, in a city man's idea of hiking clothes

and a hundred dollar haircut, approaches on a raft being pulled across

a river by TWO MEN.

On the hillside, JUAN ROSTAGNO, thirty-ish, Costa Rican, a

smart-looking guy in workers clothes, is waiting for him.

ROSTAGNO

Tengo mil pesos que dicen que se cae

(I have a thousand pesos that say he falls)

(or)

Apuesto mil pesos que se cae.

(I bet a thousand pesos he falls)

Gennaro finally lands, and Rostagno helps him off the raft.

GENNARO

Hola, Juanito

ROSTAGNO

Hola, bienvenido

Rostagno leads Gennaro towards the mine. Dozen of shirtless

WORKERS claw and SCRAPE at a rocky mountainside that is the site of an

extensive mining operation. The work is all done by hand, pick and

shovel instead of dynamite and bulldozer.

GENNARO

What's this I hear at the airportŠ Hammond's not even

here?

ROSTAGNO

He sends his apologies.

GENNARO

You're telling me that we're facing a $20 million

lawsuit from the family of that injured worker and Hammond couldn't

even be bothered to see me?

ROSTAGNO

He had to leave early to be with his daughter. She's

getting a divorce.

GENNARO

I understand that.

(or)

I'm sorry to hear that. We'd be well advised to deal

with this situation now. The insurance company - -

Gennaro almost falls, Rostagno helps him.

GENNARO (cont'd)

- -the underwriters of the park feel the accident raises

some very serious questions about the safety of the park, and they're

making the investors very anxious. I had to promise I would conduct a

thorough on-site inspection.

ROSTAGNO

Hammond hates inspections. They slow everything down.

GENNARO

Juanito, if they pull the funding, that will really

slow things down.

(or)

If they pull the funding that's going to slow things

down around here.

A WORKER hurries up to them and busts into the conversation,

breathless.

WORKER

(to Rostagno)

Jefe, encontramos otro mosquito, en el mismo sitio.

(Chief, we found another mosquito in the same place)

ROSTAGNO

Seguro? Muestrame!

(Are you sure? Show me.)

The WORKER and ROSTAGNO scramble back deeper into the mine.

Rostagno calls back over his shoulder to Gennaro.

ROSTAGNO (cont'd)

It seems like it's going to be a good day after all.

They found another one! C'mon.

Gennaro struggles to keep up.

3 EXT CAVE DAY

ROSTAGNO and GENNARO move into the dark, dripping cave, where at

least a dozen other WORKERS are gathered in a tight circle, staring at

something intently.

Rostagno fights his way to the center of the group. One of the

WORKERS hands him something and Rostagno examines it carefully.

It's a chuck of amber, a shiny yellow rock about the size of a

half dollar.

GENNARO

If two experts sign off on the island, the insurance

guys'll back off. I already got Ian Malcolm, but they think he's too

trendy. They want Alan Grant.

ROSTAGNO

Grant? You'll never get him out of Montana.

GENNARO

Why not?

ROSTAGNO

Because he's like me. He's a digger.

Rostagno turns and holds the amber up to the sunlight streaming

through the mouth of the cave.

With the light pouring through it, the amber is translucent, and

we can see something inside this strange stone - -

- - a huge mosquito, long dead, entombed there.

ROSTAGNO

(smiles)

Hay que lindo eres vas hacer a much gente feliz.

(Oh you're so beautiful. You will make a lot of

people happy)

CUT TO:

5 EXT THE DIG DAY

An artist's camel hair brush carefully sweeps away sand and rock

to slowly reveal the dark curve of a fossil - it's a claw. A dentist's

pick gently lifts it from the place its has laid for millions of years.

Pull up to reveal a group of diggers working on a large skeleton. All

we see are the tops of their hats. The paleontologist working on the

claw lays it in his hand.

GRANT

(thoughtfully)

Four complete skeletons. . . .

such a small area. . .

the same time horizon - -

ELLIE

They died together?

GRANT

The taphonomy sure looks that way.

ELLIE

If they died together, they lived together.

Suggests some kind of social order.

DR ALAN GRANT, mid-thirties, a ragged-looking guy with intense

concentration you wouldn't want to get in the way of, carefully

examines a claw.

DR ELLIE SATTLER, working with him, leans in close and studies

it too. She paints the exposed bone with rubber cement. Ellie in her

late twenties, athletic-looking. There's an impatience about Ellie, as

if nothing in life happens quite fast enough for her.

Her face is almost pressed up against his, she's sitting so

close.

GRANT (cont'd)

They hunted as a team. The dismembered tenontosaurus

bone over there - that's lunch. But what killed our

raptors in a lakebed, in a bunch like this? We better

come up with something that makes sense.

ELLIE

A drought. The lake was shrinking - -

GRANT

(excited)

That's good. That's right! They died around a dried-up

puddle! Without fighting each other. This is looking

good.

From the bottom of the hill a voice SHOUTS to them:

VOLUNTERR (o.s.)

Dr Grant! Dr Sattler! We're ready to try again!

Grant SIGNS and sits up, stretching out his back.

GRANT

I hate computers.

He shoves the claw absent-mindedly into his pocket and he and

Ellie walk toward the source of the voice. As they walk, we get our

first look at the badlands. Exposed outcroppings of crumbling

limestone stretch for miles in every direction, not a tree or a bush in

sight.

In the dig itself, the ground is checkered with excavations

everywhere. There's a base camp with five or six teepees, a flapping

mess tent, a few cards, a flatbed truck with wrapped fossils loaded on

it, and a mobile home. There are a dozen VOLUNTEERS of all ages at

work in various places around the dig. The Volunteers are from all

walks of life, dinosaur buffs. Three or four of them have CHILDREN

with them, and the kids run around, like in a giant sandbox.

Grant , Ellie and a Volunteer walk down the hill. Grant spots a

KID kicking dirt onto one of the digs. He notices and frowns.

GRANT

What's that kid doing?

(to the kid)

What are you doing there!? Excuse me! Can you just back

off? This is very fragile! Are you out of your mind?

Get off that and go find your parents!

(to Ellie)

Did you see what he just did?

The kid stomps away, pissed off.

KID

Asshole.

GRANT

(to Ellie)

Why do they have to bring their kids?!

ELLIE

You could hire your help. But there's four summers of

work here, with the money for one. And you say it's a

learning experience, sort of a vacation, and you get

volunteers with kids.

He and Ellie arrive to where several VOLUNTEERS are clustered

around a computer terminal that's set up on a table in a small tent,

its flaps lashed open.

GRANT

(to the Volunteer)

Ready to give it a shot, Jerry?

A LITTLE GIRL moves a little too close to the machine.

ELLIE

Want to watch the computer?

Ellie quietly moves her out of Grant's way, to a place she can

see.

VOLUNTEER

Thumper ready?

MAN

Ready.

VOLUNTEER

Fire.

The VOLUNTEER throws a switch on a machine that looks a bit like

a floor buffer. The whole thing hops up into the air as it drives a

soft lead pellet into the earth with a tremendous force. There is a

dull THUD, the earth seems to vibrate, and all eyes turn to the

computer screen - -

ELLIE

How long does this usually take?

VOLUNTEER

It should be immediate return. You shoot the radar into

the ground, the bone bounces back....

The screen suddenly comes alive, yellow contour lines tracing

across it in three waves, detailing a dinosaur skeleton.

VOLUNTEER

This new program's incredible! A few more years of

development and you don't have to dig any more!

Grant looks at him, and his expression is positively wounded.

GRANT

Well, where's the fun in that?

VOLUNTEER

It looks a little distorted, but I don't think that's

the computer.

ELLIE

(shakes her head)

Postmortem contraction of the posterior neck ligaments.

(to Grant)

Velociraptor?

GRANT

Yes. Good shape, too. Five, six feet high. I'm

guessing nine feet long. Look at the - -

He points to part of the skeleton, but when his finger touches

the screen the computer BEEPS at him and the image changes. He pulls

his hand back, as if it shocked him.

VOLUNTEER

What's you do?

ELLIE

He touched it. Dr. Grant is not machine compatible.

GRANT

They've got it in for me.

The Volunteer LAUGHS and touches a different part of the screen,

which brings the original image back. Grant continues, but doesn't get

as close.

GRANT

Look at the half-moon shaped bone in the wrist. No

wonder these guys learned to fly.

The group laughs. Grant is surprised.

GRANT (cont'd)

Now, seriously. Show of the hands. How many of you

have read my book?

Everyone stops laughing and looks away. Ellie raises her hand

supportively. So does the Volunteer, Grant sighs.

GRANT (cont'd)

Great. Well maybe dinosaurs have more in common with

present-day birds than reptiles. Look at the public

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shereen1 · 2 months

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Captivate the First Scroll: Mastering Top Feed TikTok Ads

In the lightning-fast, algorithmically curated world of TikTok, capturing attention is a superpower. And there's no better place to unleash that power than the coveted Top Feed position. Think of it as prime real estate, where your ad is the first captivating burst of content users encounter as they open the app. But with great power comes great responsibility. So, how do you craft Top Feed TikTok ads that not only grab eyeballs but also leave a lasting impression? Buckle up, because we're diving deep into the art of TikTok ad sorcery.

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Crafting Content that Converts:

Now, the real magic begins. You've secured the VIP spot, but what do you put on display? Here's how to craft Top Feed ads that captivate and convert:

Hook 'em in the First 3 Seconds: Remember, users can skip after 3 seconds. So, hit them with your most captivating element – whether it's a hilarious skit, a stunning visual, or a relatable hook.

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Mastering Top Feed TikTok ads unlocks a world of possibilities. It's not just about vanity metrics; it's about building brand awareness, driving engagement, and ultimately, achieving your campaign goals. So, embrace the power of the first scroll, experiment with different formats and creatives, and let your brand become the captivating opening act for millions of TikTok users.

Remember: Top Feed is a powerful tool, but it's not a guarantee of success. Treat it with respect, use it strategically, and never stop refining your approach. With the right mix of creativity, data-driven insights, and a dash of TikTok magic, you'll be dominating the feed and watching your brand soar to new heights.

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jcmarchi · 5 months

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What is AIR One™ from Advanced Image Robotics? - Videoguys

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/what-is-air-one-from-advanced-image-robotics-videoguys/

What is AIR One™ from Advanced Image Robotics? - Videoguys

AIR One™ is a groundbreaking remote production platform consisting of robotic digital cinema cameras on the front end, and a full cloud production platform on the backend. It’s cloud-native, meaning we’ve built it from the ground up to minimize equipment and optimize distributed computing. From offsite or onsite, you now have full camera control with real-time precision pan, tilt, zoom, focus, and position set & recall via intuitive touchscreen UI, and a full cloud switcher that can feed any CDN. No need to roll a truck! Everything connects over a standard gigE LAN and broadband ethernet. On the back end, AIRcloud™ acts as a central hub for project setup, permissions, routing, media storage, communications and shoot day management.

How long does it take to setup?

Because of the self-leveling head and ability to ship fully assembled, you can pop it out of the case and be up and running in under a minute.

What’s the ROI?

We’ve consistently demonstrated more than 50% savings in production costs in our test cases. But that’s not all! Because a lot of the work can now be done remotely by a distributed team, AIR One™ reduces the number of crew needed to travel. Because crews spend far less time setting up and breaking down equipment, you get more engaging content, faster, which translates into more eyeballs on your work.

What is AIRcloud™ and what does the subscription include?

AIRcloud™ is our remote production operating system. It securely connects your onsite cameras to your offsite crew and enables you to run industry-standard production apps like vMix®, Adobe Premiere® and more from the cloud. Your subscription includes remote connectivity + control, direct-from-camera streaming, shoot prep software, and 500GB of storage. Cloud switching, routing, and editing is available by the hour.

What about latency?

We’ve demonstrated ultra low latency AIR One™ camera control at a distance of ~60 miles. We’ve also demonstrated virtual AIRcloud™ switching from over 3,000 miles away with imperceptible latency. The bottom line is that using robust connections in roughly the same region of the continent, controlling your AIR One™ camera and AIRcloud™ switcher remotely is largely indistinguishable from running it on premise. And if you’re talking latency from location to home viewer, using the AIR IP-from-origin workflow and a specific CDN we’ve demonstrated glass-to-glass (live location to home viewer) latency <2 seconds, that’s faster than over-the-air broadcasts.

Can I use the AIR platform for IMAG?

While fine for remote operations, IP based systems using switchers like vMix® generally introduce too much latency to be acceptable for IMAG (Image Magnification). However, AIR One™ is equipped with an HDMI output so you can configure it for control over IP and switch the signals using traditional baseband equipment. Contact us for more info.

Can you use other cameras / tablets?

We’re launching with the Z CAM E2-M4 as our core camera module due to its open API, connectivity options and affordability. You can also upgrade to any other Z CAM model in the flagship line. Eventually, the AIR platform will be camera-agnostic as other manufacturers’ open APIs allow. For tablets, we plan to stick with iPad® for now (which is included in the base package) thanks to its ubiquity and ease-of-use.

Can you use other lenses?

Absolutely. General guidelines are: MFT or EF mount, 1Kg weight, max 180mm in length, focal lengths up 300mm. Some lenses slightly outside these specs may be compatible.

What output formats are there?

For live streaming, 1080p or 4K, h.264 or h.265 with transport via RTMP or SRT. Internal recording h.264, h.265, ProRes, ProResHQ. Up to 4K at up to 120fps.

Check out this AIR overview.

youtube

Learn more about the AIR One Charter Kit here!

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casspurrjoybell-22 · 9 months

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Master - Chapter 8b

*Warning: Adult Content*

"Kalem?" I ask, stopping my reading at the look of confusion that daunted his features as I read this chapter.

It took a few minutes but I was pretty sure now about what perplexed him in this reading.

"Yes Master," he answers turning in my lap to face me as I close the book for a moment.

"Do you know when your birthday is?" I ask curiously.

"What's a birthday?" he questions back, making my heart sink a little more.

Here was yet another thing so simple that Kalem had been denied even the knowledge of.

Reminding of just how disgusting that fucking slave house was.

"It's the day you were born. We celebrate that day each year when you grow older. People usually get lots of gifts and spend the day doing their favorite things," I say making him nod slowly. "How do you know you're eighteen if you don't know your birthday?"

"The trainers know everything about us, Master and they said I was eighteen," he explains with a small frown as he contemplates his words.

"Well, we'll just have to get you one," I say with a weak smile. "Is there any day particularly special to you love?"

Love, that title I'd denied for not even a full week before caving.

My self-control was practically non-existent.

He plays with his fingers as his eyebrows draw together in deep thought, after a couple moments they spread and his eyes find mine as he smiles widely.

"The day we met Master," he says with a large smile.

"Okay, that'll be your birthday," I say with a smile in return making his grow even more. "And next year we'll celebrate yours.”

"Thank you, Master," he basically squeaks as he hugs himself to my chest.

I run my hand up and down his back gently as he breathes against me, his heart calm and his body relaxed.

"Master, when is your birthday?"

I take the time to think, not wanting to share with him the full story of why I didn't have a birthday or at least one that I could remember.

That was a tale I'd never repeated to another and had no particular interest in sharing but I knew I'd have to one day to Kalem.

If not for me, to sedate his never ending well of curiosity.

Instead, I decide on the date of the earliest memory my mind gave me access to.

"Today, I suppose," I say making him shoot up to a sitting position, his eyes wide and his heart suddenly now racing a mile a minute.

"Today?" he screams as he presses his small palms against my chest.

"Today's your birthday?"

"Yes," I say laughing at his expression.

"I'm a horrible Kalem," he mumbles to himself making a smile tug at my lips, pride swelling in my chest to hear him refer to himself as something other than a slave.

He'd shifted unconsciously to referring to himself in the third person rather than as a slave, it was strange but I preferred it over slave any day.

"I'm going to prison," Kalem continues and I can't help but laugh at this.

Since reading and building his knowledge, prison entered his vocabulary as a place people went when they did really bad things.

Not knowing my birthday apparently warranted a visit to prison.

"You're not going to prison Kalem," I say smiling as I run my hand through his hair. "You didn't even know and it doesn't matter, I'm too old to be celebrating it anyway."

"How old are you Master?"

"Eight thousand ninety-two, give or take," I say making his eyes practically pop in their sockets.

"E-Eight thousand and..." his voice fades away as he brings his fingers to his face in an attempt to count a little. "You're really old Master."

"First vampire," I say and I swear this time his eyeballs actually exploded.

"Ever?" he queries in disbelief.

"Yeah," I say letting my hand run from his hair to his cheek. "Are you scared me of now?"

"No Master, never," he says seriously as his little fingers curl on my chest. "But we need to get you lots of gifts and do what you love."

"That's not necessary," I say trying to brush the topic off.

"But you said that's what people do on their birthdays," he says with a frown. "It's your birthday, so we do that."

"Yeah but..." I start not knowing how to get myself out of this one.

I hated my 'birthday' because it wasn't really my birthday, just the first day I had any memory of.

But the light in Kalem's eyes told me I couldn't dare admit that to him and risk making it flutter away.

"Okay fine."

"Let's get gifts," he exclaims happily before jumping out of my lap taking his amazing warmth with him.

He pauses with a growing frown of confusion.

"Where do we get gifts? And what are gifts, Master?"

‘This shouldn't be as adorable as it is.’

"Gifts are nice things you give to someone you care about," I explain and Kalem nods before gasping.

He leans down to pick up the book we were reading and hands it over.

"Gift," Kalem says eagerly and bite into my lip to stifle my laughs, knowing it would probably make him cry.

"Thank you Kalem," I manage after a moment. "But most gifts are things which people don't usually have."

"B-But you have everything Master," he says looking around the library anxiously.

"That's why you don't need to get me a gift."

"But I want to," Kalem presses giving me the droopy lip and full eyes again.

I am an incredibly weak individual.

It wasn't that late in the afternoon so I knew at least one mall would be open along with some shops.

It'd be a great chance to get Kalem out of the house as well, so I couldn't find it in me to hate the idea of getting out too much.

"I have an idea," I said before standing.

We change quickly, Kalem no longer struggling to put on pants or fighting against me at wearing them.

As we approached to the car, fingers entwined, Kalem raises his eyes to mine.

"Why can't I sit next to you Master?" he questions with a tilt of his head.

"Because sometimes cars crash together and they're accidents."

"Cars?" he questions, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes, this is a car," I say pointing to the vehicle. "If we crash, it's safer for you in the backseat than the front seat," I explain clearly as I open the back door for him to get inside but he keeps holding onto me instead.

"But what about you Master?" he questions, his body unconsciously pressing into mine.

‘Dwindling self-control...’

"What about me?"

"You're in the front, you can get hurt," he says with clear fear in his eyes.

It was actually cute that he thought I could get hurt and heartwarming that he cared.

"I'm a vampire Kalem, the first vampire," I state with a chuckle. "It'll take a whole lot more than a car accident to hurt me."

He looks at me unsurely at this but slides into the back without another word.

I place a small container of strawberries and apple chunks into his lap before closing the door behind him.

By the time we get to the mall, the container is empty and Kalem is a little energized.

It was more than gratifying to see that slowly introducing him to actual food with great patience was working.

He barely touched gruel anymore, only asking for it on random days.

Kalem immediately attaches himself to me once we got out of the car and looked around wondrously at the numerous people.

"Master, I think that I know what I want to get you."

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whitepolaris · 1 year

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The Place Where the Rocks Move

When you’re tired of sand dunes, dangerous abandoned mines, and yet another interpretive sign, there’s only one place left to go in Death Valley: Teh Place Where the Rocks Move. A few rough miles from the end of the paved road lies one of the most weird and beautiful locales in this most desolate of national parks, and it is complete with the rocks that “race” each other, leaving tracks of their otherworldly movement behind for passersby to marvel at.

Most packaged tours and the blue-haired crowd step at the spectacular Ubehebe crater at the north end of the valley. Just before the start of the short loop that leads to the lip of this quarter-mile-deep hole, a track cuts off through the lava and recedes to the southwest. An unassuming sign posted at the intersection reads THE TRACETRACK-27. We’re talking racing rocks, and they’re twenty-seven slow miles away. About an hour of bad washboard gravel road rewards your vibrating eyeballs with the sight of a beige smear along the bottom of a huge valley. There is no camping allowed in the Racetrack Valley, so this is a day trip or a very dangerous drive out in the dark.

Your highly developed aesthetic sense thrills at the simplicity of the scene. A sizable conglomeration of uplifted bedrock called the Grandstand juts up from the center of an ancient dry lake, which stretches to the base of the bare mountains that surround it. Step onto the dried mud and look at it closely. The floor of the valley is covered with countless fingers of tiny cracks, stretching to the horizon. You could follow one of these infinite clefts anywhere on the playa without stopping. Be thankful you’re not on psychedelics, or this would be sensory overload.

It’s about a ten-minute walk from the first pullout area and ubiquitous Park Service information sign to the Grandstand. The blackish brown outcropping, about 100 by 500 feet, still resembles the island it once was. The demarcation between dry mud and hard rock is gradual, and rings the formation like a soft halo. Climb up the hundred feet or so to the top and have a look around. The dark, rough rock is stippled with a beautiful pattern of lighter reflective strips of some micalike compound. It’s positively hallucinatory.

Don’t look for the traveling rocks here. This is just the prelude.

The hearty might want to make the two- to three-mile walk to the southeast end of the racetrack to see the main attraction. Laziness (or heat-in the summer months) draws others back to the car and a short hop south to the next pullout sign. Walk almost due east for fifteen or twenty minutes across the lake bed until the floating, shimmering black dots on the horizon resolve into hundreds of very dark, scattered rocks.

The mystery rock race apparently moves at glacial speeds, and no one has ever witnessed it actually happening, but the evidence is clear. Smeared depressions all end at a rock. Some of the tracks are hundreds of feet long. It’s as if some spectral hand decided to use the mud as a doodling pad. A few of the tracks are ramrod straight; others curve, zigzag, and even turn back on themselves. It’s creepy and exhilarating at the same time. Many of the rocks have even pushed up a lip of dried mud in front of them, which blows away the “rocks-move-by-wind-pushing-across-frozen-surface” idea. The nail in that coffin is the fact that only a few appear to have moved in the same direction. Selective winds? some are at the hell did these things from the nearest mountain. Perhaps they have been traveling for a millennia.

In his excellent book The Rebirth of Pan, author Jim Brandon remarked that the mud flats are honeycombed below ground with abandoned mine tunnels and theorized that some kind of force is present in such places (there are at least three other “racetracks” on other dry lakes), and he delights in the apparently pointless lark of moving rocks when no one is looking. There are rumors that there have been attempts to photograph the rocks in time-lapse, but we could find no evidence of such a study. The rangers hadn’t heard of such a project.

Some of the tracks stop in mid-slide, which suggests stupid human activity. Apparently, someone has moved a number of the rocks. Don’t spoil the fun for the next tourist. And, if the ranger catches you, there is a very heavy fine. Riding a bike on the dry lake is also a big no-no. No mechanized transportation is allowed in the designated wilderness. Rangers hide in the hills and appear out of nowhere to ticker scofflaws, so behave!

#weird california #type read

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clara-licht · 3 years

Text

You Belong With Me

Part of Best of Me Series

Summary: 5 times (Y/n) Stark felt jealous and 1 time it was Peter’s turn. (set before Just Out of Touch, can be read as a standalone)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warning: mention of blood and maggots

Note: after a whole year, it’s finally here! Here’s another story set in the world of Just Out of Touch! This story can be read as a standalone, but reading JOOT might give you a bit more context. But if you haven’t read it, spoiler for JOOT, Hecate is (y/n)’s vigilante persona. (Y/n)’s pronouns are she/they, where they is specifically used when they’re out as Hecate. Since this story focuses on (y/n) and not Hecate, I used she/her throughout the story. In future stories both she and they will be used when there are both (y/n) and Hecate. Without further ado, enjoy the story!

Title Inspo: Taylor Swift - You Belong With Me

Best of Me Masterlist | Marvel Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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1: Compliment

——————————

(Y/n) side-glanced at Peter who was pacing back and forth in her room. She let him mumble and curse at himself while she laid on her bed, bored.

"Oh I'm so stupid! How could I have done that?! Ugh, she must hate me now!"

She rolled her eyes. "You're not stupid, Pete. You're in STEM school by scholarship for a reason, you know."

Peter stopped his pacing to look at (y/n) with his big doe eyes and panicked expression. "That's got nothing to do with this!" He exclaimed.

Rolling her eyes again, she asked, "What did you do again?"

He groaned and banged his head on her bed, mumbling something.

"What?"

"I complimented her skirt."

If she had to roll her eyes again, her eyeballs would probably be stuck that way.

"What's so bad about that?" She asked.

Peter didn't even lift his head from the soft duvet. "I sounded like a pervert, (y/n)!" He groaned. "She totally knew I've been checking her out the entire year!"

(Y/n) shook her head exasperatedly. "You couldn't have known that. You just complimented one piece of clothing, Peter. She wouldn't know you've been staring at her clothes every day."

Peter only let out another groan and turned over, pulling the duvet to cover his face. "No, she definitely knows!"

"What did you say, exactly?"

"I said the color suits her and asked if it's new…"

"…So?"

He removed the duvet and stared incredulously at her. "What do you mean, so?"

(Y/n) shrugged. "I don't see what's so bad about that. I mean, it's flattering?"

"Oh, you don't get it!" Peter threw his head back. "I asked if it's new! Meaning that I already know her clothes and noticed that I've never seen that skirt before!"

"Now that you said it like that, you do sound like a pervert."

"UGH!"

Chuckling, (y/n) lifted the duvet and removed it from Peter, eyes glowing soft blue. "Calm down, Spidey. What did she say?"

"I don't know. I ran away afterwards."

Her chuckle turned into a full-on laugh as Peter turned away with a pout, hoping to hide his flaming face.

In between her laugh, she shuffled closer to the boy and ran her fingers gently between his hair. "Well, if it was me, I wouldn't think much about it. I would just be flattered that you think a skirt looks good on me."

Still pouting, Peter mumbled, "But it's not you."

Her laughter ceased, replaced with a slightly sorrowful smile.

"But it's not me." She agreed.

——————————

2: Jokes

——————————

"What's taking him so long?" Happy grumbled.

"It's only been 10 minutes."

"10 minutes too long!"

(Y/n) only hummed and looked out the window. “It’s high school, Happy. It’s where he socializes with his friends, of course it’s going to take time.”

“Not if I can help it.” He muttered.

Shaking her head fondly, her eyes swept through the entrance of Midtown High, trying to see if the young vigilante was anywhere near them. Today was a scheduled lab day and she volunteered to pick him up with Happy. Since she already finished any lessons she had for the day Tony had let her go.

As she kept watch, she couldn’t help but feel a little bittersweet. Sure, she enjoyed her studies online, but she knew that she was missing that typical high school experience. Going to classes, eating lunch in the cafeteria, walking home with friends… But she was also aware that it was all for her safety.

The woes of having a famous father.

(Y/n) was shaken off her thoughts when she finally noticed Ned among the students in front of the school. If Ned was there, then Peter was surely not far.

Sure enough, she could spot a familiar tuft of brown hair right behind Ned.

And apparently he wasn’t alone.

Peter was talking with a girl facing his way. (Y/n) couldn’t see her face but she had a good idea of who she was.

Peter had a shy smile on his lips and his cheeks were nearly blossoming, if (y/n) could say so. In true Peter fashion, he seemed to be stumbling upon his words and spoke a mile per minute. The girl seems as though she didn’t mind as she was laughing along. And yet, unlike the oblivious Peter she was used to, this Peter looked at the girl as if she was a goddess sent to the earth to absolve every sinner from their fated doom. This Peter smiled at her as if she handpicked each star to light up the darkest night.

His darkest night.

(Y/n) unconsciously took a sharp breath when she saw the girl laughing so hard she had to hold onto Peter to stabilize herself. The way she clutched Peter’s arm and the color on Peter’s cheeks…

“There he is! Call him, tell him to hurry up.”

“Just… Just give him a minute, will you, Happy?” She mumbled, eyes never leaving Peter. She was unaware of Happy glancing at her with a frown on his forehead. Like her, he did notice that Peter had a girl with him. He just hadn’t yet connected it to why (y/n) looked off.

As (y/n) sat there looking at the window, the tight feeling in her chest kept getting more painful as time went. On one hand, she would love to get out of the car and go to him, replacing the girl’s position beside Peter. But on the other hand, she knew that things didn’t work that way.

‘He’s happy, that’s all that matters, right?’

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Peter already saying his goodbyes and approaching the car. It was only when Peter sat beside her that she was shaken off her trails.

“Hey, you good?” He asked.

(Y/n) smiled, a hint of sorrow that Peter didn’t notice on her lips.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

——————————

3: Flirt

——————————

The silence was quite awkward, if (y/n) must say.

Tony was out on a conference of some sort in Japan, and as much as (y/n) would love to visit the country, her father couldn’t literally pay her to sit through that conference with him. While she would inherit the company one day, she’d avoid any stuffy meetings if she could.

That day was another scheduled lab day for Peter, though. Tony had forgotten to tell him to reschedule, so he still went to the tower. Peter was going to leave until (y/n) called Tony and he told Peter to just mess around in the lab.

And there they were. In Tony Stark’s personal lab. Just the two of them (along with Dum-E).

(Y/n) could tell something was off with Peter. The first sign was when he said he would go home when he heard Tony wasn’t there. Usually he’d just stay and watch a movie with her. And now he was all quiet while fiddling with his webshooters.

Of course, one could say that perhaps he was focused on fixing or upgrading it, but (y/n) knew that there was nothing wrong with his webshooters and they already installed the upgrade a couple weeks ago. They hadn’t come up with new ideas since then.

“Hey, Pete?”

“Hm?” He didn’t even look up.

“Is there anything in your mind?”

“Huh? No, nothing.” Peter mumbled, still fiddling with his webshooters.

(Y/n) frowned. Something was not right, indeed.

A few minutes passed with silence between them. (Y/n) kept sneaking glances at Peter and Peter kept toying around with the shooters on his wrist. He wasn’t even doing anything. His eyes were unfocused and he was deep in thoughts.

Heaving a sigh, (y/n) removed the goggles she had on. She was doing a project for SI, but it could wait.

“Okay, let’s talk about this,” she said.

Peter finally looked up and stared at her, confused. “Talk about what?”

“Well, this,” she said again, gesturing at Peter.

“...you’re gesturing at all of me.”

“Of course I’m gesturing at all of you! You’re acting weird!”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are! You’re so quiet and you kept playing with your webshooters! Is there something wrong with them or what? You look like you’re thinking so hard and we both know you’re smart enough to not have to think that hard about your shooters!”

Peter didn’t say anything for a while as he stared at (y/n), eyes slightly furrowed.

“Well?” (Y/n) prompted. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Peter sighed and bit his lip. He looked up, as if pondering whether or not he should tell (y/n) about what was on his mind.

“It’s, uh, it’s about Liz.”

(Y/n) heart dropped.

“W-What about her?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

The frown made another appearance on Peter’s forehead. His fingers returned to the webshooter strapped on his wrist and started fiddling again. It was then that (y/n) noticed that this was his way of fidgeting. He used to fiddle with his fingers and then it was with his shooters.

“Well, I saw her today…”

“...and?”

“She, um…” Peter swallowed. “She was, uh, flirting, I think? With Flash.”

By some miracle, instead of feeling that tightness in her chest from the mention of her, she felt truly confused. “Flash? The same Flash that picks on you and doesn't believe in your internship?”

“Uh, yeah…?”

“Why would she? Doesn’t she know what kind of person he is?”

Peter laughed dryly. “He’s rich, (y/n).”

“And so am I, what about it?” (Y/n) raised an eyebrow. “I’m not as obnoxious as that guy, am I?”

“Of course not. You may be getting a big head, though.” He teased with a grin.

(Y/n) only swatted at his arm.

(It took every single will in her not to make a dirty joke then and there, telling herself it wasn’t appropriate for the topic.)

“Anyway! Why did you think she was flirting with him?” (Y/n) asked, ignoring the tight feeling that finally arrived despite the miracle earlier.

“Remember last week? When you picked me up with Happy?”

(Y/n) nodded. ‘How could I not?’ She thought bitterly.

“I don’t know if you saw, but uhh we were flirting, I think?”

“You think?”

“Well, Ned said we were…” Peter mumbled. “We were joking around and she kinda laughed so hard she had to hold onto me…” He recounted, a blush starting to make its way on his cheeks.

(Y/n) took a deep breath to try and calm her erratic heart. Her heart felt like it was sinking with each word coming out of Peter’s mouth. Had she not been a strong-willed young woman with experience in keeping her face neutral, she was 100% sure her eyes would be all watery by now. Not that she didn’t feel the burn on her eyes as she pretended not to hear Peter whispering ‘her hand was so soft’.

“And was she doing the same with Flash?” She asked, and again, by miracle, her voice didn’t crack.

Peter’s hand fell from his wrist and he nodded dejectedly.

“I thought she liked me, you know?” He muttered. Unlike her, Peter was an open book. He was never good at hiding his expression that it was a wonder that his secret identity was still intact. (Y/n) could clearly hear the pain in his voice.

It honestly infuriated her how easy it was for him to affect her.

(Y/n) cleared her throat. “Don’t take it to heart, Pete. Maybe she was just being friendly with him.”

“Or maybe she was just being friendly with me.” Peter mumbled, still dejected.

It filled her heart with grief that he could make such a pained expression in front of her. Had it been her, she could say with certainty that she would never let this boy in front of her go without a smile. But then again, who was she to do that? It wasn’t her that he wanted to put that smile on him.

And so, with a heavy heart and a smile hiding sorrow behind it, she told him, “Why don’t you ask her to do something with you? Like a date?”

——————————

4: Date

——————————

“(Y/n)? Where’s Peter?” Pepper immediately asked when she saw (y/n) lounging alone on the couch.

(Y/n) shrugged half-heartedly, shoving a spoonful of her favorite cookies and cream ice cream to her mouth. An older season of CSI: Miami was playing on the screen in front of her. She kept eating her ice cream unbothered as the screen showed a bloody corpse full of maggots. Oh, apparently it wasn’t a corpse and she was still alive. Who would’ve thought?

“Don’t you guys usually spend Sundays together?” Pepper asked again.

(Y/n) mumbled something that Pepper couldn’t hear.

“Sorry, what?”

“He has a date.”

Pepper blinked once. “A date?”

(Y/n) nodded.

“With… who?”

“...a girl from his school. An upperclassman.”

“Huh… Is that so?” Pepper hummed, taking a seat beside the young Stark.

She glanced at the angsty teen, still enjoying her ice cream accompanied by a pool of blood and maggot and David Caruso on the screen. “How are you feeling?”

“What do you mean? I’m totally fine.” (Y/n) answered through a mouthful of sugary dairy.

“I don’t think so, honey.” Pepper smiled at her, taking the tub away.

(Y/n) didn’t bother to answer, stubbornly keeping her eyes on the screen.

“I always thought both of you would end up together. What happened?” Pepper tried to ask.

“Us ending up together, huh?” (Y/n) chuckled dryly. “Not a chance, Pep.”

“Why do you say that?”

(Y/n) turned to the CEO of the company that one day would be hers. “Have you looked at Peter? Really looked at him?” She asked. “Because if you have, then you’d know that his eyes were never on me. Not once.”

Sighing, she reached to take back the tub of ice cream from Pepper. “A friend is all I am to him.” She muttered.

(Y/n) was perfectly fine with returning to her angsty mood accompanied by ice cream and crime lab, but apparently Pepper was not.

Pepper stood up and asked FRIDAY to turn the screen off.

“Aw, Pep! Why did you do that!” (Y/n) whined, not unlike a child getting her toy taken away.

“No wallowing in self pity, young lady. Now up you go! We’re going out.”

She groaned and plopped her face on the couch.

To say she would regret going out would be an understatement.

Because an hour on her outing with Pepper, she actually saw Peter on his date.

He was wearing a shirt and grey sweater, like how he wore to school, though the collar was neat. He definitely combed and gelled his hair. She didn’t like it, to be honest. (Y/n) always loved his curls that would fall to his eyes when it got a bit too long. She loved the soft unruly strands that felt silky when she ran her fingers through them.

Peter and his date, Liz, were in a cafe together. It was a cute and aesthetically pleasing one too. (Y/n) was in the Italian restaurant right across the street. Pepper sat with her back to the glass window, so she couldn’t see them, but it was as clear as the sky for (y/n).

And (y/n) wanted to look away, she really did. Yet for some reason, she just couldn’t stop staring at the happy couple. She watched as Liz reached a hand out to wipe something off the corner of Peter’s lips. She watched as Peter laughed shyly. She watched as he hesitantly tried to hold Liz’s hand on the table. She watched as Liz grinned and took his hand in hers.

She watched as they smiled at each other like they were the only people in the world and she was nothing but a speck of dust.

She watched, with bitter heart and a sorrowful smile as she told herself, as long as he’s happy, right?

——————————

5: Broken Heart

——————————

How could this have happened?

They were having such a great time together!

So why...?

“Peter, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s not your fault, why are you sorry?”

“I was the one who pushed you to ask her on a date…”

Peter chuckled. He tried to look unbothered, but he was still so easy to read. (Y/n) could basically hear the pieces of his broken heart rattling around as he moved.

It hurt her more than seeing him with her.

“Well, you couldn’t have known everything, (y/n),” Peter said. “Besides, at least I tried, you know?”

(Y/n) bit her lip.

Logically, she should be happy, shouldn’t she? Liz had told Peter that she wanted to remain friends, that she couldn’t be with him. That meant Peter was free for the whole world. Whether or not she had a chance was something else entirely. And yet, she felt extremely guilty.

“I’m okay, really!” Peter grinned with a fake cheerfulness. “I had a great time and I appreciate her telling me the truth instead of leading me on. I’m sure we’ll remain great friends even after this.”

‘But you were never great friends with her…’

“I guess she’s just trying to focus on her studies, you know? Since she’s a senior and all.”

‘But she did lead you on…’

“And you know what they say, there are plenty more fish in the sea!”

‘But you were so fixated on her…’

Peter’s eyes softened when he realized how quiet (y/n) was. “I’m really alright, (y/n). It’s not your fault at all.”

“Besides,” he grinned, this time genuine, “Maybe now it’s my turn to help you find someone! Your help was greatly appreciated and now I can return the favor!”

(Y/n) refrained from smiling sardonically at the irony. The only way he could help her find someone was if he magically fell in love with her, but she knew better than to be wishful like that.

“Thank you, Pete, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Whaaaaat why? I can give great love advice!”

“Yeah? Like what?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Uhh…”

“Exactly.”

“Anyway! When you find someone, tell me, okay? I’ll try my best to help you, since you were so helpful to me.”

Helpful, huh?

Why can’t you see it?

How badly I want to say those words?

Instead, (Y/n) smiled, sorrow seeping into her being. “It was my pleasure.”

——————————

+1: Reverse

——————————

arachnophobia: wanna go out tonight? hecate hasnt been out for a while

ironlady: cant today

ironlady: harley’s coming

arachnophobia: harley? the one whose garage mr stark broke into?

ironlady: yep!! cant wait to see him

ironady: its been a while

arachnophobia: can i meet him?

ironlady: ofc just come here

The moment Peter stepped out from the elevator, he could hear the laughter already. He didn’t need his enhanced hearing to know that (y/n) was positively joyful.

He followed the sound to the penthouse’s living room where he could see (y/n) sitting on the couch. Beside her was a young man his age with sandy blonde hair. Both of them were talking animatedly with each other.

“Hey.”

“Oh, Peter!” (Y/n) turned around, a big grin on her face. “This is Harley Keener, the potato boy dad and I told you about!”

“Potato boy?” Harley frowned.

“It’s either that or problem child 1, which one do you prefer?”

“Tony’s been calling me that?”

“Yep!”

“And what are you?”

“Problem child 2, duh.” (Y/n) rolled her eyes.

Harley scoffed. “Yeah, right, il mio tarassaco.”

“Hey! Only dad can call me that!”

“I know, I know, don’t get your panties in a twist, Princess Stark.” Harley laughed as he ruffled (y/n)’s hair, much to her chagrin.

Peter couldn’t get one word out. He watched as (y/n) tried to get back at Harley and mess with his hair as Harley dodged her. He watched as (y/n)’s face was overtaken by a huge grin and her eyes lighted up in joy.

“Harley stop it!”

“You started it!”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did!”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did!”

“No I- you know what, I’m not doing this. You haven’t even greeted Peter!” (Y/n) huffed, gesturing at Peter who was still standing still behind the sofa.

“Oh, yeah, my bad,” Harley said. He stood up and dusted his pants, then reached out a hand.

“Harley Keener, at your service,” he grinned.

Peter took his hand hesitantly. “Peter Parker. Nice to meet you.”

(Y/n) beamed at the two of them. “I’ve told him so much about you. I think you guys will be great friends!” She told Peter. “Dad is talking about making Harley his intern too, so you two will be Stark Industries first and only high school interns. Tony Stark’s personal interns, to be exact.”

“Wait, intern?” Peter asked, clearly taken aback. “But don’t you live in Tennessee?”

Harley shrugged. “I’m moving here around next month. Not a lot of opportunities back home, so Tony offered to house and send me to school here. I’m here today to look around before the big day.”

“It’s a shame I can’t go to school with you, though.” (Y/n) complained. “I’m getting bored of this whole homeschooling thing.”

“What can I say, Princess Stark,” Harley said with a teasing smile, “a Princess must remain at her castle.”

“Yeah, well, this Princess can take care of herself and goes out at night alone, what about it?” She rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright, you got a point, Hecate.”

“I told you, I’m not Hecate right now!”

“He knows about Hecate?” Peter asked.

(Y/n) nodded. “He was the first one to know, even before dad. I told you of how Harley’s been coming here for years, right? He basically knows more about me than dad at this point.”

“That, I do.” Harley said, staring at Peter a little too long. Something dawned on him when he saw something on Peter’s face.

He turned to (y/n) and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Anyway, I gotta run and find Tony now, got things to ask him. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, you know where to find me.”

“Great! See ya later, Princess Stark.” Harley dropped a big kiss on her head and left the room, but not before giving Peter a meaningful look.

Peter was frozen on his spot.

In all his time knowing (y/n), not once did he ever see (y/n) that happy. She looked so carefree, as if she trusted Harley blindly and trusted him to keep her that way. It took him some time to get (y/n) to open up to him. He knew that he couldn’t compare himself to Harley who knew (y/n) longer than him, but for some reason it ticked him off.

But why?

And when Harley held (y/n) close to him like that? It felt wrong to Peter. Then he went and actually kissed her! Well, on the head, but still. Something felt off within Peter and he didn’t really know what or why.

Somehow, it was almost like…

Like it should’ve been him?

“Peter, are you okay?”

Peter was startled from his thoughts when (y/n)’s face suddenly entered his peripherals.

“I’m fine, why do you ask?” He quickly said.

(Y/n) hummed. “You look a bit off, that’s all.”

“It’s nothing, I promise.”

“If you say so…”

“So, uh,” Peter started, “that Harley… How long is he staying?”

“A week, I think. He’ll move in next month, on the 15th.” (Y/n) answered. “I can’t wait for next month, honestly. I missed him so much. Him living with me and dad here would be a blast.”

“When do you want to go out?” Peter asked, changing the subject immediately. Somehow, for some reason, he didn’t want to hear (y/n) talk about Harley anymore. Especially not about how he would be living with her.

“Ah, well… Not this week? Maybe after Harley’s back to Tennessee?”

“...oh.”

“You can still go out without me though! I know Spider-Man must be anxious to get out there!”

“...yeah, you’re right. Uh, you know what, I actually forgot I had to run an errand for May, so I’m going to leave now, okay?”

Peter quickly rushed out. The penthouse was getting stuffy for no reason and he couldn’t stand being there anymore.

What is wrong with me?

——————————

Taglist + Mutuals (let me know if you want me to untag you!)

@spn-assemble-seven @racewife2004 @lukesbabylon @serendipitous-amor @sovereign-parker @ifangirlninja @lyzalovealk @lookuptotheskiesandsee @tommysparker @starlight-starks @marvelexi @lou-la-lou @spiderbibby @hello--zuko-here @everydaymj @galaxystern08 @allegra-writes @spideyspeaches @delicatepeterparker @parkerpeter24 @terrifictomholland @quackeroos @angel-spidey @greenorangevioletgrass @awkward-darkness @chloecreatesfictions @tonguetiedholland @peterbenjiparker @and-it-burns-like-a-fire @sinisterspidey @bi-lmg

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman fluff #spiderman angst #mcu #marvel

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twofrontteethstillcrooked · 3 years

Text

26 Oct. Suptober: Happy homemaker

He loved Eileen. Wow. That was so nice to think about.

"Sam, for fuck's sake," Dean said.

au: saileen, deancas

The kitchen floor was unbelievably comfortable. Sam laid there in blissful silence for who only knew how long. Eileen had a made a pillow of his chest, and that was splendid too. Her hair smelled like suntan lotion from the '80s.

Marvelous. Coconuts were amazing. Eileen was amazing. Sam had never been happier in his whole goddamn wretched life.

"Oh god, not again," he heard Cas whisper harshly.

Cas?

"Heyyyyy," Sam said in greeting. His hand was very heavy and he picked it up to wave hello anyway. "How'd you get here?"

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam frowned in his mind; his actual face was so relaxed he may as well have been zapped with a million syringes full of botox. Botox: because having facial expressions was overrated.

Sam snickered. Eileen starting giggling-- Wait, was it sexist of Sam to interpret her laughter as giggling just because she was a woman? God, he loved how easily she laughed.

And she was a mind reader too? Handy. Or not. Sometimes she probably wouldn't want to know what he was thinking...about her butt. A truly first rate butt. Maybe irrelevant when they were knee-deep in cryptid frog legs.

She also had magnificent legs! And knees.

Best heart, too. Best brain. Sam was not a shallow person. He loved the whole person.

He loved Eileen. Wow. That was so nice to think about.

"Sam, for fuck's sake," Dean said.

"Dean," Cas said, in that deep authoritative tone, because Cas was in charge of reeling in Dean these days.

"Yeah, Dean," Eileen said, still giggling.

She seemed to be floating away though; the weight of her perfect skull was gone from Sam's chest. He missed it.

"Okay," Dean said, "you deal with her and I'll deal with him."

He must've been talking to Cas.

"Let's just get them both sat up against the cabinets," Cas said, sounding like he was struggling with something. "Yes, I know, hi, Eileen. It's good to see you as well."

Something was pulling on Sam's hands. "Heavy," Sam slurred.

"Yeah, you are," Dean agreed. "Could you help me out here by waking up a little more?"

"Nooo," Sam said. Why would he wake up when he could stay asleep on the alluring tile floor? Marble had many good qualities. "Everything is clearer now. Like the realtors said it would be."

"What's that?" Dean sounded winded.

"They were here, Dean," Cas said. "The Stewarts. They must have still been here after the open house."

"Assholes," Dean said under his breath. "What were they thinking coming here by themselves."

"Maybe that they are both seasoned hunters who can take care of themselves?" Cas responded. "Or usually can, at any rate."

Didn't sound like either Cas or Dean needed Sam to contribute to the conversation. He basked in another minute of floor time until he sensed that he was being dragged into an upright position. His head lulled against something with poky handles. Cabinet? Ugh, not as much fun as lying down.

Eileen took one of his hands. "Wake up, Sam."

Well, if she was speaking out loud, she probably meant it.

"Bright," Sam groaned. He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to open them more slowly, which was hard because his eyeballs were scratchy dry and sticky wet. "What the hell."

Cas clapped his hands together and a mustard-hued powder puffed into a copper bowl on the nearest countertop. He muttered something in Enchonian and suddenly Sam's head felt like it was being used as a church bell, one of those big iron ton-sized ones that would ring out for minutes over miles after a single strike of the hammer.

"God," Eileen said.

"Here, let me," Cas said, squatting to touch two fingertips to her forehead.

He repeated this with Sam, and the relief was instantaneous.

"Whoa." Sam looked at Eileen and gripped her hand more tightly. "You okay?"

She nodded, eyes soft. "We got whammied."

"Yeah." He wiped a smear of yellow powder off her forehead.

She did the same for him.

Sam looked up at Dean, who was watching them with an unreadable expression on his face. "Thanks for finding us."

"It was Cas who figured you'd come back here," Dean said, a kind of fake nonchalance in his voice.

Cas dumped the bowl's contents into a waste can he'd found under the sink. "I assumed you were still likely to be unduly influenced by your desire to live an arguably more normal, suburban life someplace you perceived as both safe and aesthetically appealing."

"Dude," Sam said.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting a house with a nice kitchen." Cas shrugged.

"Pretty sure you just implied there is," Sam said, standing up with enormous difficulty.

"Can we discuss this somewhere else, please?" Dean said.

"Of course," Cas said. He touched Dean's arm for a second.

Dean relaxed his stance. He looked at Cas and they seemed to have a little moment of mind-meld, or maybe just shared solace.

It was disconcerting, but only because Sam had trained himself to not pay attention to their whole in-love-but-never-mentioning-it bullshit. Seeing it and knowing it was all right if he saw it was actually kind of nice. Like maybe if Dean could find happiness he wasn't ashamed to allow himself, Sam had a shot at it as well.

Eileen slipped her hand into his as they walked through the house to the back door.

"I did like that fancy gas stove a lot," she said. "And the green cabinets."

"That was a great shade of green," Sam said, with possibly more enthusiasm than was necessary since Dean sighed loudly.

"It's not like we died, Dean," Eileen said. "Some of us have decorating goals that will not be denied."

Sam knew he loved her for many reasons.

Dean rolled his eyes. Cas just shook his head and smiled.

Except for the murderous witch realtors who'd have to be dealt with later, Sam was going to count this afternoon in the Could Have Been Worse category. He stopped for a moment to kiss Eileen and improved the day's overall ranking by at least fifty percent.

postscript, four days later:

"So, you don't want to live in the suburbs," Dean said.

Cas placed his arm over Dean's stomach and curled himself around Dean. He put a kiss on his bare shoulder before saying anything. "I want to live wherever you want to live."

Dean gave a tiny hum. "I don't wanna live in the suburbs."

In all honesty Cas was glad to hear it. He moved back a little as Dean turned over to face him.

"Where do you want to live?" Dean asked, his open face full of curiosity.

"I just said," Cas reminded him.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Leave it up to me and we'll be living out of an Airstream by this time next week."

"Fantastic."

Dean huffed. "I'm kidding."

"All right." Cas kissed his grouchy mouth that was still bitten red from earlier activities. "I don't know what an Airstream is."

"Yes, I know," Dean said with amusement.

"Oh, wait. Is it one of those portable metal houses that's shaped like a submarine?"

"Sort of."

"That might be fun to live in." Cas dwelled in a bunker currently; he was in no real position to be judgmental.

"I stayed in one for a couple of weeks once, when Sam was in college." Dean picked at the blanket trim. "To take a shower, you went into the bathroom -- which was half the size of this bed, by the way -- closed the door and the toilet lid, and then turned on the ceiling."

"Efficient," Cas commented.

"Like bathing in a coffin." Dean shuddered.

Cas pulled the blanket up over him and scrunched himself into his space, sighed into Dean's skin as Dean stroked his hands down his back. "I meant what I said," Cas whispered to him. "I will go where you go as long as you'll have me."

"Good," Dean whispered into his hair. He held him more tightly. "Good."

#suptober21 #spn #saileen #deancas #suptober #fic #destiel

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teacupfulofstarshine · 3 years

Text

LOVELY, DARK, AND DEEP CHAPTER 10

PLEASE HEED THE CONTENT WARNINGS!!! this chapter features Evil Scientist Lady and her Fucked Up WorldView a LOT, and there are also some Major Plot Events that involve Violence. i will put a summary in the end notes if you decide at any point that this particular chapter is too much - that's super valid! i will also mention here that no main characters are going to die in this story and no one dies in this chapter either.

huge huge thanks to @flamingfawkes for beta’ing!

CW: extreme disregard for human life, mentioned human and animal cruelty, toxic workplace environment, violence (both imagined and actual, mildly graphic), gun mention, minor blood, death threats, extremely unethical character, unethical science, stalking

chapter 1 // chapter 2 // chapter 3 // chapter 4 // chapter 5 // chapter 6 // chapter 7 // chapter 8 // chapter 9 // read it on ao3!

“This is the same result we’ve gotten the last twenty times -”

“I don’t care, Steven, run it again!”

Steven sighs, punching at the keyboard to run the statistical analysis sequence again. “This is ridiculous! I’ve run this sequence so many times it feels like my eyes are going to bleed. Why can’t we just turn in the results we have and -”

“Because she’ll behead us,” James snaps, “and then she’ll destroy our reputations and our families and they’ll get no severance. I have three young children at home, Steven, I need this money.” Steven softens a little, fingers running smoothly over the keys as he combs the data again. Next to him, James has a computer screen full of frame-by-frame stills of what little data they recovered from the probe before it was destroyed; Penny across the room is surrounded by ancient texts a mile high and at least three laptops.

“Why is she so interested in this, anyway?”

“It’s beyond me. Since when do we question the whims of what we’re told to do?”

Steven squints at the screen, pushing his chair back and rubbing at his eyes. “If I have to stare at these numbers for one more second, my brain is going to explode. I feel like my eyeballs are going to melt out of my skull. I wanna scream.”

James pulls up another image, staring at the blurry image of the merman before him. Steven pushes away from his own screen and squints at James’s. The merman in the photo looks young, not much older than his kid brother, but they don’t know anything about the lifespan of these creatures. He looks confused, squinting at the camera. As James flicks through the stills, the merman transitions from confused to angry to enraged, and then he attacks.

“He’s not happy about the camera.”

“Would you be happy about someone spying on you and your family?” James says, switching to the next still.

“I wouldn’t be happy if I thought someone was doing anything we do in this lab to me or my family.” James elbows Steven, but luckily no one else seems to have heard.

“This lab isn’t the most ethical place I’ve ever worked, but it pays the bills,” James mutters. “And we’re not even in the experimentation lab. We just do data analysis. We’re removed from the situation.”

Are we? Steven wonders. He sees James reach out and touch the framed picture of his daughters, and keeps his mouth shut. He turns back to his computer, watching the little spinning color wheel of his mouse as the program calculates the same numbers again and again. The results come up identical to the previous ones, and Steven clicks “Run Program” again wordlessly.

They work in silence for a while, the three of them, broken only by James’s muttering and the occasional thud of one of Penny’s books and the clicks of keyboards and mice. If they weren’t so reliant on technology, Steven thinks, there would be an enormous corkboard spanning three of the four walls, covered in pushpins and handwriting and red string connecting images. He debates actually building one, if only to increase the levity in the room, but decides against it.

He’s seen people punished or fired or who-knows-what-else for far less, after all.

Instead, after his program tells him for the twenty-third time that his results are the same (and didn’t someone say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?), Steven scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms and opens the data entry window. Maybe the problem with the results has to do with the entry of the data; did he input something wrong? It’s possible . . .

Here he goes again, he supposes. He stands up, stretches, and leans back to crack some vertebrae. “I’m gonna grab a coffee, take a short screen break, and go back to the beginning. Maybe there’s something in the input that I missed. You want anything?”

James groans, thunking his head against the desk. “I want something with enough caffeine to kill three elephants, please.” Steven nods, looking over at Penny. She shakes her head, and he heads for the shitty coffee machine a few doors down.

Several floors below, a young woman pulls her lab goggles up to rest on top of her head with her perfectly-pinned protocol-compliant bun. “The latest round of tests is completely done, ma’am. I think you’ll find the efficacy . . . striking.”

She takes the clipboard, glossy perfectly-painted nails pinching the sheets of thin paper and flicking between them. “I’m afraid I don’t do so well with the scientific side of things - Kathleen, was it? Explain this to me, would you?”

“Certainly, ma’am. As you know, the kill time for the most effective neurotoxin currently available, tetrodotoxin, varies from thirty minutes to four hours. Average time for symptoms to manifest is seventeen minutes, and from there the symptoms progress through tingling of the lips and tongue, headache, vomiting, muscle weakness, ataxia, et cetera. Death occurs as a result of respiratory or heart failure, and the poison is nearly undetectable if you do not specifically test for it.”

“The untraceability is a plus, but that is far too wide a range of times, and too slow a time even at its fastest.”

“Of course, ma’am, but as far as naturally-occurring marine poisons go - actually, as far as naturally-occurring poisons go, full stop - it is the most effective. Until now, that is.”

“Oh? What are your findings?”

“Which trials would you like to start with, ma’am?”

“The human trials, Kathleen. The only ones that matter. I hardly intend to go around killing mice and hoping that no one traces their deaths to a novel neurotoxin.” She laughs airily, and Kathleen nods along.

“Certainly, ma’am. The most recent data points indicate an average efficacy time of thirteen minutes for our compound neurotoxin, with a full range between nine and seventeen minutes passing before subject death. Subjects began to show symptoms around five minutes, give or take twenty-five seconds.”

“And those symptoms were?”

Kathleen flips through the document. “Seizures, vital organ failure, blindness, painful muscle spasms, suffocation from the inside out.”

She hums, tapping a manicured finger against the report. “Well, Kathleen, that is certainly impressive, especially for a preliminary human subject trial. These results . . . I must say, they are not nearly as disappointing as I anticipated when I came down here.”

“Ma’am?”

“How long have you worked for this company, Kathleen?”

“Almost five years, ma’am, but I’ve always been an assistant. This is my first time as lead researcher and biochemist on a project, ever since you . . . laid off the previous lead researcher.”

“Kathleen, let me be frank. These results are not what I hoped for. The efficacy time and symptom onset times are both far too long for my liking, and the range of efficacy time is too broad. By all accounts, I should consider this a failure.” Kathleen swallows, but remains poised. “However, you’ve managed to shave off a considerable amount of time from the tetrodotoxin readings. The range of symptom onset time is an acceptable breadth, and your results are far beyond anything your predecessor ever accomplished for me. This is truly impressive, all things considered.”

“Thank you, ma’am. How should I proceed?”

“I want the efficacy doubled - tripled - I want it upped by anywhere between four and five hundred percent. I want the pain increased, too. Feel free to increase your requests for test subjects, but get me the results I want. You said the original tetrodotoxin was untraceable?”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“Can you keep that feature intact?”

“As of right now, it is intact, ma’am. I will endeavor to keep it so in future experiments.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Welcome to your new position as head of this research division. Don’t let me down.” She holds out a slender hand, and Kathleen takes it, trying not to seem too eager.

“I won’t, ma’am.”

“How soon can you start this experiment up again?”

“The cleaners should be finished by tomorrow morning, ma’am, and I can tweak chemical formulas until then.”

“Excellent.” Her watch beeps, and she lifts it, pursing her bright lips as she examines the message she’s just received. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another matter to attend to. Someone will drop off your master access key for Lab Three within the hour.”

She steps into the elevator and lifts her watch up to her face, swiping through the messages from her secretary. One finger reaches out to press the button for the digital analysis labs floor, and the other taps away at her watch.

When she steps off the elevator, her secretary is waiting. “Ma’am.”

“What do they have for me?”

“Unclear. They said it was something they wanted to report directly to you and you alone, but it seems to be something big.”

“Hopefully it’s a big step in the right direction, or they’ll be taking a big step out of a job.” She relishes in the way the employees she passes all unfailingly flinch and then snap to perfect attention when they hear the sharp echo of her heels against the floor. She lifts her head and walks faster, striking the tiles with her heels like a gavel, sharp and precise against a judge’s desk.

The computer labs are disorganized when she enters, but there is a string of promising-looking numbers on the main display monitor. There is a woman surrounded by books and a man pulling up photos on his computer, and there is a third man standing in front of her like a toy soldier. She focuses on that one.

“I hear you have news for me? Make it swift, and make it good.”

He swallows, hard, and her eyes idly trace the line of his throat. If he disappoints her, perhaps she will drive her heel through it, to make an example of him. That would be far too messy; perhaps his dominant hand will do.

“I have narrowed down the location of the missing net, ma’am. I believe it to have washed up somewhere around these general GPS coordinates.” He fiddles with a remote in his hand, and the image on the screen changes. It shows an aerial satellite view of a secluded strip of beach, framed by rocky cliffs with larger rocks studded out into the open water. “It should have washed up somewhere in this one-point-three-seven-mile strip of beach. The whole area is property of one Doctor Thomas Sanders.”

She snarls. “That man. He won’t let us on that beach willingly until hell freezes over.”

The other man, the one scanning through photo stills and video footage, jumps up, knocking his chair backwards. “I found something!”

She turns towards him, and his excitement freezes and sputters into something much more controlled and terrified. “Show me.” He clicks something and pulls up video footage from one of their surveillance drones, zooming in on a particular patch of ocean along the stretch of Sanders’ beach. Her eyes widen when she sees what he’d noticed - a hump of red-and-white tail arcing above the waves before a pattern of ripples streaks off towards the cliff. He pauses the footage, rewinds it, uses a laser pointer to show an opening concealed in the cliff face.

“There’s some kind of grotto in there, hidden by the cliff. It’s on Sanders’ property, he has to know it’s there. And it looks like the merman from the destroyed drone knows it’s there too. Which means -”

“That must be where he’s keeping them.” Something burns in her chest, brilliant and terrifying and all-encapsulating, like wildfire. “We’ve found them, at long last.”

“What would you have me do?” her secretary asks. “I can arrange for a recovery squad at your earliest possible convenience, ma’am.”

“Assemble the squad, but do not have them move out. They will wait for my orders. When they go, you are to go with them.” Her secretary nods, once, sharp and sure. “Dispatch a crew to Lab One and clear it out. I want it prepped for containment, vivisection, chemical tests - the works. Get at least three tanks set up and one strap-down human table.”

“A human table, ma’am?”

“Yes. We have to deal with Sanders once and for all to ensure that he does not ruin any future experiments.”

“Will we be taking him as well?”

She hums thoughtfully. “No. Pull up the file we have on his known associate?”

A few swift clicks and flicks and a photo appears on the large screen: a young man with brown-and-purple hair, sleeves rolled up, carefully lowering a perfectly viable specimen into the ocean and letting it go, like some kind of fool. “His doctoral student, ma’am. The longest one he’s ever kept - this one has been with him a few years.”

“Excellent. When you raid the lab, take him.”

“Should we kill Sanders?”

“No. Rough him up a little, but leave him alive. Taking his protégé and leaving him alone, helpless to rescue him, will be the highest form of torture for such an insufferable person. The agony will eat him alive until his dying day.”

Her secretary nods, taking the notes down dutifully. The other employees look vaguely horrified, but she pays them no mind. No sacrifice is too great to be made in the name of progress, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a weakling who will never get anywhere in life.

She refuses to be one of those weaklings.

*~*~*~*~*

Logan wakes up confused.

He’s warm, warmer than he thinks he’s ever been in his whole life. When he stirs, he moves farther than he meant to - he must not be underwater. That’s enough to send a jolt of concern through his sleep-addled brain. Why isn’t he underwater? Why was he sleeping if he was above the surface? There’s no way his dad is here, and Roman hates surfacing, where are they? Where is he? But he’s so comfortable . . .

Someone shifts beside him, an arm draping across his waist, and Logan forces his eyes open. He shifts his lower half, confused when two things move instead of one, and there are layers upon layers of thin, flat, soft things wrapping around him. What is happening?

Slowly, slowly, his mind clears, and he remembers the events of last night. He grew legs - he was a human, once, before he was mer - he couldn’t sleep underwater with Dad and Roman - Virgil was teaching him to walk - Virgil put “clothes” on him - Virgil was embarrassed that he didn’t have those “clothes” on him - Virgil took him out of the lab to sleep - Virgil agreed to cuddle him since his pod couldn’t -

Logan feels the strange burning in his face again as he shifts. He can’t see well in this new human form, but when things are close enough to his face they’re relatively clear. And Virgil, still sleeping, is close enough that Logan can smell him - he smells like salt water mixed with something sharp and something sweet and something else that Logan can’t quite identify but finds addicting nonetheless. Sunlight streams in and pools around Virgil’s face, illuminating the tangled mess of hair spread around him and flopping into his face, the small puddle of water leaking out from his open mouth onto the soft thing he’s resting his head on, the way his chest moves slowly with every breath. His arm is wrapped around Logan, pulling him close. Logan thinks he might explode if he focuses on this any more, so he rolls from his side to his back as carefully as he can, not wanting to wake Virgil. Virgil tightens his arm around Logan and mutters something indecipherable in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake.

Rather than focusing on his very confusing feelings for the very pretty man next to him, Logan focuses on what he can see of the room around him. He makes a list in his mind of things that he plans to ask Virgil about later today, including:

1: There are many draws attached to the small, smooth cliffs surrounding them. How do they stay there?

2: There are lots of “clothes” scattered all around the floor, and there were several on the bed, too. Is that normal for humans?

3: Last night, Virgil did something that made the room light up with trapped sunlight! How did he do that?

4: How did Virgil get ice to stay in those big frozen sheets in such a warm place to let the sunlight in?

5: How did Virgil make ice into that weird shape that he filled with water and drank last night?

6: How did Virgil get the water to come into this place?

7: Do all humans have a specific area set aside for sleeping? Logan and his pod usually just sleep wherever they can, but Virgil seems to have this soft slab set aside with all of these soft things to be comfortable and sleep in every night. Is this a Human Thing or strictly a Virgil Thing?

Logan looks out through the sheet of ice that protects Virgil’s area from the outside and gasps. He can’t see well, but there’s a glittering expanse of blue that shifts and moves and oh, is that the ocean?

He’s spent his whole life (well, his whole remembered life, anyways) in the ocean, and he’s seen some truly wondrous things. He travels around the world with his pod, he knows the ocean is big, but seeing it spread out like this is . . . awe-inspiring. Logan has never seen the ocean like this, and now that he has he doesn’t think he can ever not see it like this again. It’s like a perfect sheet of sea-glass, rippling and unbroken but dynamic in a way that he never really gets a sense of when he’s beneath it.

He knows that there are waves, of course. There are smaller swells out on the open ocean, and larger ones when the Second Goddess dips her fingers down from the Upper Ocean and swirls the storms to a thundering burst. There are waves along the shoreline, ones that he frolics in with Roman and batter him against the shoreline. There are waves created when he or his pod members surface. But watching the movement of the ocean from up here is . . .

Even with his imperfect vision, he is completely at a loss for words as he stares at the ocean.

Eventually, Virgil stirs next to him, and Logan turns away from the ocean to stare at him. Virgil is close to him, arms wrapped tightly around him, face pressed against him. Logan’s eyesight is not great, but Virgil is close enough that he can pick out little details of his face. There are brown face scales scattered all over him, but they seem to cluster on his nose and his cheeks. Logan has wanted to touch them for a substantial amount of time, and he can’t stop himself from gently settling the tips of his fingers over Virgil’s cheek.

His face doesn’t feel like Logan was expecting. The scales don’t give texture to his face the way that Logan’s do; the skin is smooth and flat. There are little bumps all over, but the brown scales aren’t raised off the skin like Logan expected. He lets his fingers trail along Virgil’s face. His bone structure seems to be exceedingly similar to Logan’s, at least in regards to his head. Logan’s finger rests gently on the curve of bone under Virgil’s eye, and Virgil exhales warm breath onto his palm.

Logan wonders what it would be like to have this for longer than just his recovery period. He wonders what it would be like to wake up next to Virgil all the time, to get to run his hands over Virgil’s face and arms and chest and examine the differences between their anatomy. He wonders what it would be like to learn to walk without falling over, and he feels a sharp, unexpected twinge in his chest as he realizes that getting better at walking means no more closeness to Virgil.

His chest feels strange, like there’s a school of small fish swarming around and tickling his insides and making him feel all foamy, like the froth churned up by a windswept sea. He feels like he does when he’s underwater - free, weightless, mobile, limited by nothing except his own imagination. He feels unstoppable.

Virgil makes a sudden, sharp inhale, blinking his eyes open slowly. Logan thinks that, perhaps, he might not appreciate being studied unknowingly - he hadn’t appreciated Virgil doing it, before he understood what was happening, when all he knew was the loss of his pod aching like a scraped-out seashell. As Virgil wakes up, Logan shifts, turning his gaze to the rest of the room.

Virgil makes a sleepy grumbling noise, opening one eye. Logan chances another quick glance at him, and when his eye slides open Logan is struck by its beauty. He doesn’t get much of a chance to admire it, however, before Virgil is jolting backwards like Logan’s struck him with lightning. Logan is confused, reaching out and gently touching his shoulder. “Virgil?”

“Wassat?! Wait . . . L’gan?”

“It is me,” Logan says softly. “Are - are you upset with me?”

Virgil yawns, jaw dropping to his chest, revealing a flash of teeth and a soft pink tongue. (Logan wants to lick it. Why does Logan want to lick it? Why is Logan thinking about Virgil’s tongue licking his tongue - why is Logan thinking about Virgil - what in the Seven Oceans is happening to him.) “Wh - no, no, ‘m okay, I just - woke up, forgot I had you with me, got confused about another person in my bed.” Before Logan can start to feel bad, Virgil adds, “S’okay if it’s you, though,” and the foamy, floaty feeling is back.

“Did you sleep well?”

Virgil laughs, low and rumbling, and Logan can feel it in his fingers where he touches Virgil’s skin. “I never sleep well.” He sits up, and the fabric of his pajamas shifts to let Logan see stretches of soft, supple skin that he usually doesn’t. Logan wants to touch it. He very determinedly keeps his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “Gotta admit, though, last night was . . . better than usual.”

This appears to be the point where Virgil first notices their position - pressed together, arm slung over Logan, basically cuddling the way that Logan normally would with his pod. (No tangle with his pod has ever felt this . . . electric, this charged, this important to Logan before.) His face flares a brilliant red, and he shifts like he wants to move away but -

“I’m sorry,” Virgil says. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No!” Logan blurts out. Virgil blinks at him a little, and maybe he was a little overly enthusiastic, but - “I sleep in a tangle with Dad and Roman all the time. I have extreme difficulty sleeping without contact with someone else. It . . . helped me greatly.”

“Oh,” Virgil says, face turning redder still, smiling shyly. “That - makes me feel better. Thanks, Lo.”

Logan smiles, and Virgil smiles too, reaching up to gently move a piece of hair away from his face. Logan thinks that, as far as deaths go, his chest exploding (which seems to be getting more and more likely every fifteen seconds he spends in Virgil’s presence, only accelerated by all this skin-on-skin contact they’re having right now) seems to be the most pleasurable.

Virgil opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it was is interrupted by a Ping! noise from across the room. “What is that?” Logan asks. Virgil, sadly, untangles himself from Logan and the blankets, sliding out of bed and heading over to one of the other structures in the room (what did he call it last night? Dex?) and picking up a flat glowing rectangle.

“Is everything alright?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I - Thomas sent me a text, it’s a little weird.”

“What is a text?”

“It’s a kind of human messaging system, it allows us to communicate when we’re far away from each other.”

“Like a pod call?” “Kind of? I’ll explain more later, I promise, I just - I gotta go down to the lab real quick.”

“I’ll come with -”

“No!” Virgil snaps. Logan flinches, and Virgil softens, crossing the room and gently touching his shoulder. “Hey, no, Logan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just - this message, there’s something off. I think something might be wrong, and I don’t want to put you in any unnecessary danger. Just - wait here, okay? Wait in my room, where it’s safe. It’s probably nothing, he’s probably fine, but on the off chance that he’s not, I want you to stay hidden safely up here.”

Logan isn’t sure why this makes his face heat up slightly, but it does. “Okay. I accept your apology, and I . . . trust you.”

Virgil smiles, soft and heartwarming, and Logan is beginning to give more credence to his “chest explosion is fine, actually” theory. “Wait for me here, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

He leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him, and the foamy feeling in Logan’s chest dissipates a little. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something . . . off. If Logan didn’t know better, he’d think that he was sensing a predator approaching.

But that can’t be right, he isn’t underwater. His danger senses are likely just overreacting to his disappointment at Virgil’s absence.

. . . Right?

*~*~*~*~*

Thomas is beginning to regret letting Roman and Patton (specifically, Roman) out of the large tank before finishing his first coffee of the morning.

“I want some!” Roman complains.

“Do you even know what it is?” Thomas says. Roman pouts sulkily at him.

“. . . No,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. Thomas gives him the deadpan, no-nonsense, I-am-your-direct-superior-take-the-damn-samples-Virgil stare that he has perfected over the past few years. Roman wilts a little more, and Thomas feels slightly bad.

“It’s called coffee,” he says. “It’s a hot drink that lots of people have in the morning. Some people drink it plain, and some people add things to it to change the way it tastes. It helps me wake up more and get focused to start my day, and sometimes I drink it late at night to help keep me awake.”

Roman looks less like a kicked puppy and more like Logan, eyes wide and curious. “I want some!”

Thomas, taking a sip of his own two-seconds-of-cream-five-cubes-of-sugar coffee, nearly spits it out. He looks at Roman, eyes the very sharp, very detachable, very toxic spines covering his body, and says, “No.”

Roman’s demeanor changes entirely, switching from “curious toddler” to “toddler about to throw a temper tantrum” in a heartbeat. “Why not?!”

“Because when people drink coffee without being used to it, sometimes it makes them a little crazy.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“Do I need to recount to you how many times you’ve threatened me and my assistant since we met you?” Thomas says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not giving you coffee until I know I can trust you not to stab me with your poisonous spines that cover your entire body and can be fired at people.”

Roman pouts more, dropping under the water and letting out a gratingly harmonious string of mer that Thomas is pretty sure translates to Roman bitching about the coffee situation to his dad. Based on the pattern of Patton’s response, he’s pretty sure Patton is laughing at Roman.

More sulky chalkboard-violin music, and then Roman resurfaces grumpily. “Dad agrees with you and says no consuming strange human foods.”

“Did he laugh at you?”

Roman squints suspiciously at him. “You can’t speak our language.”

“Yeah, but I know what it sounds like when a dad laughs at his kid.” Roman, continuing to pout, sinks back into the tank, presumably to sulk some more. Thomas takes another very long sip of coffee that is definitely too hot for his mouth and turns back to his desk.

Virgil should definitely be awake and in the lab at this point. The samples he’s supposed to be analyzing are sitting in their little tubes, each neatly labelled with locations and dates and times and what, specifically, Virgil is supposed to be looking for. Thomas considers going upstairs and waking up Virgil, who’s almost never been late for work in this way, but he decides against it. Virgil is upstairs with Logan, and Thomas knows that there’s something building between them. He’s not sure how advisable that something is, but he trusts Virgil to make his own decisions.

Besides, he could probably use some practice. His water sample analysis skills are pretty rusty, he’s had Virgil doing them for years. “Virgil, you owe me big time for what I’m doing for you.” He carefully shifts the samples over to his own desk, slides his earbuds in, picks up a pipette, and gets to work analyzing the bacterial and algal concentrations for any abnormalities.

Thomas accomplishes about forty-five minutes’ worth of work before Roman interrupts him by flicking water at him and soaking the back of his neck. “Hey!”

“I tried your name, but your little ear bug things were keeping you from hearing me,” Roman says smugly. Thomas, not for the first time, considers retreating to the closet and throwing beakers until he feels better.

“Can I help you?”

“Dad wants to go hunting and bring back breakfast, but we can’t leave without you.”

“Are you not going hunting?”

“I’m going to stay here and observe you,” Roman says.

Thomas blinks. “Do I . . . need observing?”

“How do I know you won’t sell us out to your little human friends the second you get a chance? If I’m here, I can stop you. Plus, what if you do something to Logan while we’re not here to protect him? No, no, I’m staying right where I am and you can’t make me leave.” His spines ripple; Thomas steps closer to a whiteboard in case he needs to duck.

“I’m not going to do that, and I don’t want you to stab me.”

“Still! I’m staying here! Also, Dad’s bigger than me, and he’s a better hunter cause he’s faster and he’s been hunting longer.

“Does he need something to help him carry all those fish?” Thomas asks. Roman opens his mouth like he’s going to say something snarky, pauses, and stops.

“I . . . usually we just eat what we catch when we catch it. We make a pile of prey and take turns guarding it while the other two hunt. Then we make a sacrifice to the Seven Mother Goddesses and eat what’s left.”

After some debate, Thomas is able to fashion a sling of sorts from some waterproof tarps and leftover anchor rope to tie around Patton’s body. “You can put the fish in this pouch and carry them back here. Will you be able to navigate your way back to the grotto?”

“He will,” Roman says. “Dad knows more about the ocean than any human possibly could.” Another discordant song from the tank, chastising, and Roman huffs. “Dad wants me to reassure you that he’ll be fine.”

Patton settles into the mobile tank easily, and Thomas gets him down to the grotto leading towards the sea. “When you come back, let out one of your pod calls and Virgil or I will come and collect you and your catch. Take as much time as you need, okay?”

Patton reaches up and gently pats Thomas’s arm with one large, damp hand, and Thomas takes that to mean an agreement. “Alright, off you go.” There’s a whoosh and a rush of water as it flows from the tank into the grotto in a clean arc, carrying Patton with it. Thomas waits for a moment, letting Patton disappear into the open ocean, before returning to the laboratory.

Roman, for the most part, ignores Thomas. He asks the occasional question, which Thomas tries to answer in a way that he’ll understand, and leans over the edge of his touch tank, eyes guarded. Every time Thomas sneaks a glance, when he thinks Roman isn’t looking, his expression is wide-eyed and wondrous, like Logan’s usually are, but the moment he realizes Thomas is watching him his entire face closes up like a clamshell.

Thomas wonders what it’ll take to get Roman to trust him, trust Virgil, trust any human. Granted, he doesn’t know Roman’s history with humans, but he and Patton are both fairly scarred, and Thomas might not know the whole story but he’d bet a not-insignificant amount of his monthly income that the giant starburst scar taking up the majority of Patton’s chest isn’t the result of a clash with a marine creature.

He works quietly, fielding the occasional question, keeping one ear on the grotto tunnel for Patton’s return. He’s not sure how long he expected Patton to be gone, but he hears movement in the grotto tunnel far sooner than he’d expected.

“Thomas, what’s -”

“Shhhh,” Thomas says. He stands up, pushing away from his desk, but before he can say anything else, there’s a flood of movement coming from the tunnel. Bodies pour into the lab, swift and strong and carrying weapons that they immediately train on Thomas and Roman.

“What is this?” Roman snaps, bristling. He sounds betrayed, like he thinks Thomas is behind this. Thomas picks up a heavy glass beaker, fully prepared to shatter it upside someone’s skull if necessary, but something heavy and hard strikes the back of his skull and he feels his knees crumple. Roman cries out, and Thomas struggles to push himself up. A hand fists itself in his hair and yanks him upright, sharply. Thomas exhales sharply through his teeth, but before he can start struggling, something cool and round rests against the back of his neck, shutting him up and shutting his brain down.

Roman is puffed up like a hedgehog, apparently fully prepared to defend Thomas despite his strong and inherent mistrust. Before he can begin to attack, Thomas hears the click-click-click of shoes on the hard stone floor. Whoever’s holding his head yanks him back again, and he is forced to watch as a woman walks into his laboratory.

(It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke - a sick, horrible, twisted joke.)

She has black heels, black tights, a black pencil skirt, a black blazer, and a blood-red blouse. Her hair is scraped back into a tight bun, pulled so taut it must hurt, and is held in place with a pitch black stick. She carries a - clipboard? tablet? Unclear - held against her chest, and there’s a sleek silver weapon in her right hand.

“The one from the video?” she asks.

“Affirmative, ma’am,” says the person holding Thomas’s head. The woman nods, lifting her weapon, and fires at Roman. Thomas tries to scream a warning, earning himself another painful yank from his captor, but the projectile lodges itself in Roman’s shoulder anyway.

It isn’t a bullet, but something that looks like a small syringe. Roman swats it out of his shoulder, swaying a little, but it doesn’t stop him from swiping at the - mercenary, they must be - who tries to grab him with his elbow spines. The woman frowns, lifts the weapon - some kind of tranquilizer gun? - and fires again.

Roman screams, inhuman and animal, and tears the newest dart from his arm, throwing himself out of his tank and clinging to the nearest mercenary. His teeth tear into the man’s shoulder, spines piercing through his camouflage clothing and flooding him with neurotoxin. The man collapses against the concrete, alive but unconscious, and Roman snarls at the next man as though daring him to approach. He sways, weakened but awake, and bares his teeth.

“Of course,” the woman says, tapping something on her tablet. “His naturally produced neurotoxin must be providing him with some level of natural resistance. Unexpected, but not a limitation.”

It takes three more tranquilizer darts before Roman finally slumps down into his tank, unconscious. The mercenaries look hesitant to approach him, but the woman reaches for her tablet and they scramble to action at once.

“No - no, stop, let him go, he’s not an animal for you to cart off to your lab -” Thomas starts. The man holding him knees him sharply in the back and he cries out, coughing.

They wrap Roman in thick leather bands, roughly shoving his spines flat and binding them against his skin so that he can’t attack them again. The woman nods, once, short and sharp, and they drag Roman away, letting his head bang mercilessly on the ground. Thomas catches a glimpse of a logo - emblazoned on the back of the jackets, on the back of the woman’s tablet, on the side of her tranquilizer gun - and commits it to memory. He’s going to need it, if he gets out of here alive.

“- your phone,” the woman says, and oh, when did she get in front of him.

“My what?”

His mouth runs dry as she places the tranquilizer gun under his chin, barrel pressing against his throat, and tips his chin up. “I said, give me your phone.”

Thomas blinks. “My - the desk. It’s on the desk.”

She sets her tablet down, picks up his phone, and shoves it in his face. “Open it.”

“I - wh -”

“Unlock your phone, Dr. Sanders. Must I repeat myself a third time?” She rolls her eyes. “Doctorates are wasted on people like you.”

Thomas numbly punches in his passcode, and she swipes through to his messages app, frowning before turning the screen towards his face to reveal a message thread with Virgil. “Is this your assistant?”

Thomas glares at her, he’s not going to give her what she wants, he’s not going to just give her Virgil but then the - gun, it must be a gun, what else would they be holding against his neck like this - pushes into him harder, and it’s probably bruising, and he can’t get himself killed here because then he definitely won’t be able to take care of Virgil and -

“Yes,” Thomas says, hating himself for giving in so easily. “What do you -”

She turns away from him, nails clicking against his phone screen as she sends a text message - to Virgil, presumably, and that makes his heart sink like a stone - before dropping it on the floor and stepping on it to shatter it. “I have a message for you.”

“A - what?”

“Did they really hit you that hard, or were you this stupid before we came here?” she says coldly, picking up the tablet again and tapping at the screen. Thomas groans as the man yanks him to his feet, shoving him onto his chair and pulling a roll of duct tape out of one of his multiple pants pockets. He tapes Thomas’s wrists and ankles to the chair, keeping his weapon trained on Thomas’s temple at all times, before pressing it roughly against his head and gripping his hair again.

The woman sets the tablet on his lab table, and the screen flickers to life, and then there’s a woman in front of a dark black backdrop, smiling at him like a cat who’s caught a canary. “Thomas Sanders. How long I’ve waited for this day.”

Thomas recognizes her. He knows he recognizes her. She used to be his classmate, before . . .

His head hurts, so badly that he can barely keep his eyes open, and the memory slips away. “You . . . why are you doing this?”

“Why? Because I am a real scientist, unlike you. You refuse to do what is necessary, what must be done for the progression of the species. The sacrifice of some worthless animals is necessary for humanity to reach its zenith. You would really hinder the entire human race for the preservation of lower life forms?”

“Wh - I -”

“You think that ‘preserving the ecosystem’ and ‘keeping animals alive’ makes you a good scientist, but it makes you weak. You are weak, Thomas Sanders, and if the world was left in the hands of people like you, the human race as we know it would die out in a few centuries. Fortunately, there are people like me, who understand what must be done.”

“Caring about other people and things - it doesn’t - it doesn’t make you weak,” Thomas says, chest heaving, and the woman just laughs.

“One of many logical fallacies to which you subscribe, Thomas. They really gave you a doctorate? Of course caring makes you weak. All emotions make you weak. They corrupt your data and make your experiments worthless. You must be ruthless. You must be willing to do whatever it takes to pursue your goals and achieve the height of success. But no.” She rolls her eyes, face hardening, twirling a pen in her fingers. “You insist on ethics and principles and letting emotions cloud your judgement, and that makes you a failure as a scientist. It makes you weak. Your attachments will be your downfall.”

Thomas’s eyes slide shut, head pounding, and the man behind him yanks at his hair so sharply that he knows some has been ripped out. He forces his eyes open in time to see a smile slide across the woman’s face like a knife, teeth gleaming white as sun-bleached bone.

“You won’t - get away with this,” Thomas manages. He grinds his teeth together and curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep himself awake. “If you leave me alive -” Thomas, stop talking, why are you reminding her that she has the option to fucking kill you “- I will not rest until I find you. I’ll - you can’t -”

“You’ll what, Thomas? If you call the police, you’ll expose those creatures you’re so intent on protecting to the world. Are you really willing to take that chance?” Before Thomas can even begin formulating a response, she steamrolls him. “It doesn’t matter. Even if you were, I’m going to take some . . . insurance, shall we say.”

“Why not just kill me?” Thomas spits. Excellent idea, Doc, poke the murderous lady with a stick like a god damn hornet’s nest, the tiny Virgil in his brain hisses. Her smile, somehow, only widens, and that’s . . . that can’t be good, can it? Smiles are supposed to be good! They’re supposed to make you happy, but all Thomas feels is creeping dread and pain, so much pain, and -

Yeah. He’s . . . pretty sure he has a concussion.

“Because if I kill you, you get to take the easy way out. Your suffering will end. But unlike you, I don’t put limits on my science. I know how to cause you the maximum amount of pain.”

Thomas eyes the toxin gun, but the on-screen woman just laughs. “Not yet, Thomas. We need something from you, first.”

“You already took Roman,” Thomas says. “What more can you possibly take from me?”

“You named it? You’re even weaker than I thought.”

“He told me his name, he’s not an it, he’s not a thing for you to play with and - and I -”

There’s a strange sinking feeling in Thomas’s chest as the woman onscreen laughs. “I knew you were emotional, Thomas, but I can’t believe this! It looks like I’ll have more hanging over your head than you thought.”

“You -”

“Say, Tommy-boy, have you heard from your precious little assistant recently?”

Thomas’s entire body flushes ice-cold and then white-hot, immediately struggling against his duct tape bindings despite the man tearing at his hair and shoving the gun into his neck and snapping at him to shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up before I do something we’re both gonna regret -

“Don’t you touch him!” Thomas snaps. “If you hurt him, I swear to God -”

“You’re not in a position to be making demands, and if you don’t calm down, I’ll paint your boring little lab bright red.” Thomas freezes, holding his entire body tensed like electricity is running through his blood.

There are footsteps on the stairs. “Doc? I got your text, what’s -”

“Virgil, run!” Thomas chokes. Virgil comes around the corner, holding his phone, staring at the screen in confusion. He looks up, eyes widening in horror as he takes in the scene.

“You know what to do,” the woman onscreen says. The other woman lifts her tranquilizer gun, and Thomas is sure that he’s screaming, his mouth is open and sound is coming out but his blood is rushing through his ears and his heart is pounding like waves against a boat in rough sea and he can’t - he can’t -

Virgil turns to run, but the tranquilizer dart hits in him the back of the neck and he collapses like a sack of bricks. The woman lowers her gun and jerks her head at the two remaining conscious, unoccupied mercenaries, who step forward and grab Virgil.

“Let him go!” Thomas screams, and his throat feels raw and his chest feels raw and his wrists are rubbed raw and his soul feels hollow and raw, like he’s been scraped out with a jagged piece of metal and only an empty shell remains. Virgil’s head lolls against his chest as they drag him down the grotto tunnel, and Thomas struggles and screams and stares after them until Virgil is out of sight.

His face is damp, and his eyes are burning, and he isn’t sure if it’s blood from his head wound or tears or some strange, morbid mixture of both.

“The greatest torture of which I can conceive,” the woman onscreen says, and it takes him a moment to realize that oh, she’s talking to me, “is to leave you alive, knowing that your precious little protégé is with me, and that there is nothing you can do about it.” She leans forward, and any trace of a smile is gone. “If you try to come after me, I will kill him. If you call the authorities, I will kill him. I already found you, Thomas. Don’t think I’m not watching. If I catch so much as a whiff of you planning something, his blood will be on your hands. Do you understand me?”

Thomas, numb and shocked, can’t even respond. “Knock him out and bring the specimens back to me,” the woman onscreen says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t even feel the tranquilizer dart hit his neck, but he welcomes the sweeping darkness.

(Summary: Evil Scientist Lady has been spying on Thomas and she finds the entrance to the grotto where our mer friends have been hiding. She sends her assistant and several armed thugs to invade the lab, they drug Roman with tranquilizers and kidnap him. Thomas gets knocked around a lot and is mocked for being an ethical scientist and caring about people by Evil Scientist Lady and she gloats at him through Evil Facetime before kidnapping Virgil in the same way they did Roman, knocking Thomas unconscious, and leaving him tied to his lab chair. During this whole scene, Patton is out in the open ocean hunting and Logan is safely hidden in Virgil's room.)

#starshinewrites #lovely dark and deep #romantic analogical #sanders sides #platonic TLAMP

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macgyvermedical · 3 years

Text

The Time My Mom Got in a High Speed Chase with a Transphobe in a 2011 Manual Subaru Forester on her Lunch Break

I think it is time for you to hear the tale of my mom’s crowning moment of awesome.

It’s been a couple years now, which I feel has put enough time between the thing and it coming out on the internet that she probably won’t be arrested for it.

First, I need you to picture my mom:

She is in her late 50s, a white suburban mother of 2 married to her husband of over 30 years. She is a social worker/ADRC specialist for the county. Short, kinda frumpy in the best way, totally unassuming, and the most liberal person in a mid-sized, half-rural, and very conservative county. She is also 100% down to fight whoever, whenever, as long as she can do it in a morally correct, legally defensible, or civilly disobedient way.

Which she can do, of course, because she is a white, straight, blond-haired, blue eyed, middle aged woman from the Ohio suburbs. And she knows it.

Anyway. She has spent the last 6.5 years as the leader of the only LGBTQ+ support group in the county. She’s used that position to spend nearly two years of that fighting the Catholic Diocese and Ohio Christian Alliance for a city ordinance for equal access to housing, employment, and public accommodations for transgender people. She’s won Ally awards from bigger cities for this. That’s a story in itself, but I’ll keep it to that for now because there’s a more exciting story here.

Naturally, these efforts have made her a lot of enemies, of which she is very proud.

On this particular day, my mom was at work when she noticed a woman gathering signatures out front. My mom, always a sucker for a good petition, went out to investigate. Clearly this woman did not know who my mom was, because she immediately launched into a spiel about how there was an ordinance in the city was going to allow men to enter women's restrooms and r*pe her children.

My mom listened as long as she could (I assume less than 3 minutes), and then got up in this woman’s face and said “and if even one kid dies because you think they shouldn’t be allow to access housing or employment, that they’re a second class citizen because of their gender identity because of your lies, that blood will be on your hands”.

The woman backed off, slightly.

But when my mom got in her car to drive home for her lunch break, guess who was sitting in the car next to hers? Why, Christian Alliance Lady with her clip board and everything, eating a sandwich. Well, my mom wasn’t going to stand for that. Instead of driving home, she decided a better use of her lunch break was to sit in her car and stare at this woman until she left.

After a few minutes of getting stared at by a possibly deranged ADRC Specialist with extensive civil disobedience training, this woman starts to get uncomfortable. She slowly backs out of her parking spot, parks in another spot, and continues eating. Well, my mom notices that there’s still a nice empty spot next to Christian Alliance Lady’s car’s new parking spot, and decides it’s only fair to continue the staring contest.

After an additional while of trying to ignore my mom’s extremely disapproving yet patient eyeballs, Christian Alliance Lady gets uncomfortable again. Her lunch break appears to be over anyway, so she gets out and goes back to the entrance of the county building, hoping maybe someone will notice her distress and tell my mom to bug off. My mom follows her, continuing to stare from about 10 feet away.

Everywhere Christian Alliance Lady goes, so does my mom. Staring.

It’s her place of employment after all, on her lunch break. This lady, technically, is the one trespassing. My mom ends up following her up a hill behind the building, through the parking lot, and all the way back to her car. Eventually I guess she gets tired of being slowly followed by a 50-something persistence hunter, because she gets back in her car and pulls out of the parking lot.

Well my mom’s not just about to fall for that.

My mom drives over to the other entrance to the parking lot and waits for this woman to try to sneak back in. Which she of course tries to do. Seeing my mom too late to play it cool, she casually tries to drive past the entrance. My mom calls her bluff, pulls out, and begins to follow her. They drive slowly through a movie theater parking lot, and then a Target parking lot, and finally out to the main road. My mom keeps following. They drive through the town square, my mom keeping a plausibly deniable distance navigating one-way streets and parking lots she clearly knows a lot better than this woman does.

Finally, the woman apparently gives up, and heads for the highway.

My mom follows.

I should break here to point out that my mom both only drives manual vehicles that look like they absolutely and completely belong in suburbia, and also has never once broken 55mph on a highway.

Well, there’s a first time for everything, and my mom chases this lady, several cars back but still very obviously, at a still remarkably plausible 70+mph. When this lady changes lanes, so does my mom, for over 10 miles, until she hits the county line. At which time my mom decides her lunch break must almost be up, and returns to work.

Christian Alliance Lady is never seen again at the county building.

While she probably went somewhere else in the county to collect signatures, my mom is confident that she at least cost this lady a solid hour of petitioning, which may or may not have contributed to a slightly-too-low number of signatures to successfully revoke the ordinance in question.

#transphobia #crowning moment of awsome #car chase #suburbia #LGBTQ #parents

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simtanico · 3 years

Note

Hi! I don't know if this is an annoying/difficult question, sorry if it is, but do you have any advice at all for modelling sims based off real people? Your sims are SO crazy good. When I try to make them they end up looking... eh... Vaguely like the person? But there's a huge gap between that and some kind of 'spark' some simmers seem to manage to capture.

Hello! Definitely not annoying. Difficult, as in how difficult it is to answer? Maybe. I'm gonna go off on a couple of tangents. But I'm gonna try my best to explain the process. Which isn't really much of one sorry.

There's a handful of tutorials and tips out there regarding reference photos and like... proportions and all that so I won't cover that.

I use that as a general guide of course, but mostly I just save some photos of the person at various angles and focus on one feature or two at a time. Literally going back and forth between reference photo and my game. I think if you try to get everything at the same time, it really makes it easy to get frustrated with whatever your sim looks like at the moment. Making sims in general is a combination of a LOT of things depending on your style.

I can point out ALL the flaws with my sims based on real people. In my experience, it’s about getting the defining features of a person close enough to the real thing so that it resembles them. I don't think you need a complete copy to get the point across, however i do think some people and features are harder to emulate than others. I've been working on some sims for YEARS, and they still don't work out lol

and take a look at this progression on my sim based on Z4ne H0ltz starting back in 2015!

that first screenshot:

Personally, I get a little lost if I work on a sim too much all at once. I find some time away makes me less tired and frustrated. Just pace yourself :)

Also if you need any help, shoot me a message here or on discord. I promise I don't judge or anything.. it's sims who cares lol

TO START...

I suggest starting with the head and its shape. Starting off with a game-generated sim, the first slider I get to is head width. It's usually too dang wide for my tastes. And then adjusting the general position of the the features. You can always change things later, so you don't have to know exactly what you're going to do, but as I've mentioned before, sculpting sims up in CAS is just practice with sliders! Also in the long run, you may want to use Pu+Chi House's Smooth Face Normals slider! I attempt to explain and show what it does here. I've uploaded the slider here: https://simfileshare.net/download/984204/

This is gonna be a doozy sorry in advance if the read more doesn't work

SLIDERS SLIDERS SLIDERS

Big sliders like Pu+Chi House’s face shape sliders dramatically change the face shape, and it could save you a lot of time! I highly suggest using these to get rid of the weird large jaw sims can get.

Play with different sliders and how they interact with one another! Example: jaw width and Cheek Fullness affect the same area. if you need a wide jaw and don’t want cheek distortion, you can use cheek fullness, lower the jaw width slider and then edit the cheekbones from there

Knowing what sliders move what and how it can work to your advantage is key! I cover this in my reply post about noses.

For visual reference:

I start out with my nose but I want the nostrils to sit further on the outside

so i go in and use the nose width slider and raise it to widen the lower nose:

Then lower the nostril scale slider

Comparison:

as you can see, i kind of achieved what I wanted, but also widened the nose tip too! Welp, that takes another slider I have, Tip Width. And I'll adjust that accordingly! It's really just a matter of what you're going for and what you're going to have to compensate for as a result!

That said, our community has made some awesome sliders that open up so many possibilities and even eliminate the need to do that multi-slider tango. I wouldn't even know where to begin (wish I wanted to make videos because I could talk for an hour about sliders)

For example @pitheinfinite made sliders that can make sims look better and more realistic, I'm jealous at what they've achieved!

They have their Inner Corner to Nose slider that moves an area of the sim's face hat make eyebags and the shadows and lines appear farther out from the inner eye. It saves you from having to use cheek sliders to mimic the effect and thus ruining the face shape you have going

It's truly an INDISPENSABLE slider. One of many!

Since I make sliders, I usually just make some to specifically fix whatever issue I'm having. Granted they're made with general function in mind, which makes my cheater-y way of making things happen more useful in the future. I have about 50 experimental unfinished sliders in my game and can tell you that all my current sims use them for some reason or other. So I'm not working with nothing, I guess?

EYE SPY 👁

The best way to really get nice accurate looking sims is the eyes.

Pay attention to the slant of the eye, the shape and position of the upper and lower eyelids. you can use the game’s Eyelid Height slider, and AWT’s Eyelid width and height sliders (and many more)

and especially where the iris (green) sits relative to the eyelid. getting that shape and eyeball positioned correctly really makes a HUGE difference

I do suggest Bloom’s Eye slider (left and right) that rotate the eyes left and right. That along with their Lazy eye sliders can give your sims a less symmetric face and position the eyes to be FAR more accurate and realistic than the default.

I also recommend their vertical sliders (Eye lift or drop) to help with eye positioning.

I can't stress the importance of the right contacts or eyes for your sims. Of course it all depends on how you make your sims's eyes and all that. Take the last sim i posted about. It took forever and a half to find the right contacts that didn't need severe or intense editing to capture the same vibe the person he's based on. The problem is pretty persistent for me, and I am just speaking for myself when I say this is necessary. Iris size, shading, recolorability, detail, catch lights, and pupil position are things to consider for your play style and preferences.

In addition to seeing what eyes will do the trick, I do edit the catch lights in the screenshots to give the eyes a different emotion or look. (I use defaults that get rid of the game-generated catch lights, and supernatural eye glow.) It's nice when that's all it is and I don't have to go in and photoshop things in and out to make them look human lmao

Perfect, schmerfect

And just know that as long as you have the same vibe or look going on it doesn't need to be perfect! Things will evolve over time, and you can change and perfect things as you go along, but close is better than trying to achieve an exact replica. We are working with the limitations of sliders and the optimized meshes they work on! So yeah there might be jagged bits or the profile might not exactly match and some things might not be accurate, but that's okay! Considering what sims look like at their default, you should be proud! I use the same mf eyebrows on all my sims basically and I tell myself they're just placeholders (yeah, right), but I manage to make them work with what I have!

Sliders, Makeup, and Skins, oh my!

a good base skin is critical, but not the end of the world if you pick the wrong one. They determine kind of definition and types of features highlighted on a sim 100000% and you might lose a feature you like or dislike when you change them! Feel free to switch up between skins you have to find the best fit.

Makeup can be a game-changer though!!! Any details you can add and help make your sim look the most like the person you're basing them off can go MILES.

In some cases, I've actually gotten really interesting results trying to get my sculpt as close as possible to real life references so the makeup makes a difference but don't define the features by themselves. Still, though, I utilize makeup up a LOT. [remember that if you use Nraas, you can layer makeup. Right-clicking makeup will also remove it if it's applied :)]

Here's the last sim i posted about when removing makeup:

no nosemasks really replicates the face-claim's nose (too shiny at the lower part) but it'll do 🤷‍♀️

Freckles, eyebags, highlighters, face shadows, pores, nosemasks, etc are all great!!

The way you move your sliders WILL effect how these look, so don't rely on makeup that adds super-specific detail or goes over an area you know is a jumbled mess because of sliders!

I do have a mess of recommendations and wcifs for skins and makeup. replies tag | wcif tag

[also I love compiling wcif cc lists for my sims it's great]

Finally, I appreciate your comment about my sims, mainly because I know they're not ever really exact copies or as close as I want to be to their real life counterparts, so thanks!! I've seen fellow simmers get really good results without messing as much as I do and I love when people can make really good maxis match likenesses because it's just so damn cool! It's truly a talent. I'm not one of those lucky few, but I like to try my way at it anyway. After what feels like some good progress I'll post a pic here. Even after doing this forever I don't feel like I'm an expert or can get good results in a shorter amount of time, but it's just fun to see the progression (or regression) of how my sims look.

#long post #replies #no tutorials just rambling and vibes~~~~

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Stark Spangled Rebirth

Chapter 7: You Know, It’s Kinda Growing On Me

Summary: Steve and Katie assemble a team to take the fight to HYDRA.

Warnings: Bad Language words. Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Katie Stark

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Again, used a fair bit of creative license with this but, what is Fan-Fic if not exactly that? This series is my contribution of sorts to the CATF 10 Year Anniversary Challenge. Thanks to @angrybirdcr for the lovely edit, and also the totally NSFW one that I daren’t post for fear of being flagged, however if any of you want to see it, send me a PM! He he he...

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Katie Stark and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

SSR Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 6

“The fifth one was here in Poland, right near the Baltic,” Steve bent over, marking the location on the map which was spread out in front of them on the table at the underground SSR base in Whitehall, London. “And the sixth one was… about here,” he marked another spot, “thirty, forty miles west of the Maginot Line.” He straightened up as a soldier rolled the map and carried it away, his pencil lightly bouncing against his fingers as he jiggled it a little in his hands. He looked up to see Katie and Agent Carter exchanging a glance with one another, a soft smile playing on Katie’s face. “I just got a quick look.” He finished.

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Peggy said, the slightest hint of humour in her voice and at that Katie winked at Steve, the three of them walking over to where Phillips was studying some other locations that Katie had already marked on another map on the wall.

“These are the weapon factories we know about.” She explained as Steve stepped up behind her, his eyes quickly taking in the markers positions.

“Sergeant Barnes said that Hydra shipped all the parts to another facility that isn’t on this map.” Steve added, his tongue lightly poking the inside of his cheek as he tried to spot something in the seemingly random locations of the factories that would help them find the other one, but there was nothing jumping out at him.

Phillips mused for a little moment before he turned to Peggy. “Agent Carter, coordinate with MI6. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main Hydra base.”

“What about us?” Katie asked.

“We are gonna set a fire under Johann Schmidt’s ass.” Phillips retorted, taking a piece of paper from a female, blonde private, turning to face them both. “Whadd’ya say, Rogers? It’s your map, you think you can wipe Hydra off of it?”

“Yes, sir.” Steve nodded eagerly. “I’ll need a team.”

“We’re already putting together the best men.” Phillips informed him and at that he saw Katie bristle a little over the Colonel’s shoulder, clearly picking up on his use of the non-inclusive noun. Phillips obviously didn’t see her being part of that team, and that wasn’t something Steve was prepared to let slide. She deserved to be there, alongside the best of them, because, well simply put she was the best of them. He’d seen first-hand how she’d handled herself in that base, fighting her way through more guards and HYDRA soldiers than he could count. She’d gotten their men out of the factory, been instrumental in strategizing and plotting how to get them home safely, and she had the respect of the six guys they had already chosen to make up a specific command with the sole focus of taking down HYDRA.

He locked eyes with Katie, giving her a significant look before he turned to Phillips. “With all due respect, sir. So are we.” Phillips blinked for a moment, before he turned back to Katie who shrugged as Steve continued. “I saw those men in action. Myself and Agent Stark also experienced first-hand their different specialist skills and various aptitudes during the escape and along the journey home. I think we’re best qualified to assess exactly who fits the bill.”

Phillips looked at him before he gave a small jerk of his head in agreement and Steve flashed Katie a smile. With that she turned and headed over to a table at the back, picking up several files before she returned.

“I had these prepared earlier, so that you could take a look.” She explained, holding them out.

Phillips took the files from her and opened the first one, Steve noticing Bucky’s photo looking back up at him from where it had been paper-clipped inside.

“Huh. B-A-R-N-E-S.” Phillips spelled out Bucky’s surname, a smirk flickering on his lips. “How about that Rogers, I can spell.” Despite himself, Steve gave a snort as Phillips tossed the files down on the table and looked at Katie, then Steve. “Not interested in what those files say. You said you know these men, so give me the low down. You got five minutes.”

Katie took a deep breath and opened the top file that Phillips had thrown down on the table and pushed it forward a little. “Okay, starting with James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. Barnes and his unit were ambushed by the Wehrmacht troops at Azzano. Barnes is a trained and accomplished marksman and holds a lot of inside intelligence on how HYDRA operate, he heard a lot of tactical conversation when he was on the isolation ward. Seems the people watching him were too arrogant to think he’d understand.”

Phillips gave a jerk of his head to show he’d understood and Katie then moved to the next file and opened it, placing it down next to Bucky’s.

“Private Gabe Jones. 92nd Infantry Division.” Steve spoke, nodding to it. “Also Captured at Azzano. Jones is another expert marksman and one of his unit’s main gunners. He’s also multilingual, fluent in English, French, and German.”

“Useful.” Phillips nodded as Katie reached for the third file and opened it, displaying it alongside the other two.

“Corporal Timothy 'Dum Dum’ Dugan, 69th Infantry Regiment, or the Fighting Irish, another one who was captured at Azzano.” She looked at Phillips who arched his eyebrow at her. “You know Dum-Dum, Sir, so you don’t need me to tell you he’s good with a gun and also exceptional at hand-to-hand combat.”

Phillips nodded and waved his hand telling her to move on and she then opened the next file and Steve once more took up the explanation.

“Jacques Dernier, French Resistance.”

Phillips gave a scoff. “What the fuck was his French ass doing in North Western Italy?”

“He wasn’t, he was captured in Marseilles by HYDRA and transported to the factory as labour.” Steve explained. “He’s a self-proclaimed explosives expert, a claim backed up by the other men who escaped the HYDRA base alongside him.”

“He managed to wire a truck up to explode.” Katie looked at Phillips who gave a snort. “Don’t ask me how, because I have no idea, but I want to introduce him to Howie, see if they can come up with any new ideas to make things go bang.” She paused as she opened the next file. “Private Jim Morita. Served in the Nisei Squadron as a Ranger. Pretty good with tech as well as being another good shooter and also fluent in Japanese.”

At that Steve reached for the final file and opened it, tossing it down on top of the others, nodding down to the photo displayed. “Major James Montgomery Falsworth of the British 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade.”

“A Major, huh?” Phillips looked at Steve, a smirk on his face. “He out ranks you, Captain.”

“That’s kind of a moot point, Sir.” Katie shook her head, giving a snort. “They’re not even part of the same army.”

“I’m aware of that.” Phillips looked at her as Steve took a deep breath.

“I don’t care much for titles.” He replied. “I’m interested in his abilities. He’s logical, a strategist and tactician.”

Phillips paused for a moment before he nodded. “Alright, if these are the men you-“

“There’s one more.” Steve spoke and Katie’s head shot up from where she’d been studying Monty’s file to look at him, curiously. He turned to Phillips and inclined his head towards her.

“What?” Katie spluttered and Steve looked back to her as she stared at him, her mouth hanging open. Steve knew she’d resigned herself to being merely their support from Base now that an actual male Captain was stepping up to lead the charge against HYDRA so to speak, but he wasn’t about to let that happen.

“You told me yourself, if it hadn’t been for you I’d never have made it into or out of that base alive.” Steve spoke gently. “You have the intel on HYDRA, you have Dum-Dum’s ear and the men trust you. I want you on the front lines with us.”

She blinked, before she stuttered for words and Phillips gave a bark of a laugh. “Look at that, for once she’s got nothin’ to say.”

Steve gave a little smile and raised his eyebrows. “How about it?”

“Yeah, I mean, of course, I’m in.” She replied instantly, looking to Phillips for approval and he took a deep breath.

“I can’t really argue against it, not when you’ve been leading the fight against these guys for so long.” He sniffed. “Plus, telling you no would simply be a waste of both breath and energy.” He turned to Steve and nodded. “You want these men, you go get ‘em. I’ll clear this up the chain. Report back to me tomorrow when you’ve spoken to everyone.”

***** “We need a name, for the team.” Katie excitedly spoke as the pair of them made their way through the grounds of Albany Street Barracks. They’d remained at base for an hour or so after Phillips had left, coming up with a list of things they needed to do before calling it a night when they’d exhausted all their ideas.

“Why don’t we use the one you had for your guys, you know, when you led the raids?” Steve asked and Katie wrinkled her nose.

“We didn’t have an official name as such”

“But you had an unofficial one?”

Katie grinned. “Well, don’t forget technically it wasn’t my team, I’m a woman.” Steve rolled his eyes as she continued. “I was off radar, non-existent. Phillips was the official commanding officer. So for that reason, Dum-Dum nicknamed us Chester’s Angels.”

Steve gave a snort and shook his head. “Yeah we are not calling ourselves that.”

The pair of them fell silent, the only noise they made being the click of their boots against the cobbles as they headed towards the living quarters. The Barracks they were staying in normally housed The King’s own Hussars, the cavalry regiment of the British army, and under some agreement made between the British War Office and the US Senate, room had been made to house the members of the SSR whilst on British soil. The building was gorgeous, neatly built of brick and occupied an area of eight acres and a half. The messing and accommodation areas were situated on the east side of the parade ground, running parallel to the stables and service buildings. Katie had stopped on their way in to say hello to a couple of the British horsemen, gently stroking one of the large, black horses on the nose, Steve hanging back. Whilst they were beautiful animals, horses scared the crap out of him.

“What about Cap’s Commandos?” Katie broke the silence. “You know, I mean commando is already a term for a special operations unit.”

“Huh.” Steve pondered. “You know, I like the sentiment.”

“Sentiment?”

“Yeah, the word Commando derives from the Latin commendare which means to recommend.” Steve informed her and Katie shook her head, laughing softly.

“Huh, you know, I never knew that and I feel like I should.”

“Guess you don’t know everything after all, Doll.”

Katie paused at the entrance door as the soldier guarding it moved to one side to let them in. “Rude.” She narrowed her eyes and Steve laughed as they both walked into the building. “So if we called ourselves that, it would literally mean Cap’s Recommendations. Very apt, don’cha think?”

Steve wrinkled his nose as he followed her down the coridoor where she took a right. “Yeah, but it makes it sound like I’m the boss or somethin’.”

“You are.” Katie snorted.

“Well, maybe, but we’re a team.” Steve shook his head, an exasperated noise escaping his nose.

They both entered the small, communal kitchen and Katie headed for the steel coffee pot, rolling her eyes as she found it empty.

“Well, what about we pick some kind of alternative adjective or verb and make it ironic, a little joke maybe”

“A joke?” Steve frowned.

“Yeah.” Katie shrugged as she grabbed a foil packet from a cupboard. She tore it open and sniffed the contents before she turned to look at him. “So like this is all supposedly being done by stealth and using the element of surprise, let’s use something that alludes to the opposite.”

“Like the Screaming Eagles?” Steve offered and Katie pointed at him.

“Exactly.” She gave a definitive nod as she tipped the contents of the foil packet into the coffee pot.

“So something like the Screeching Commandos?” Steve looked at her, his eyebrow arched.

“No.” Katie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like screeching, it has negative connotations, I mean when has anything good ever screeched.” She turned and grabbed a match, lighting the stove for the kettle.

“Shrieking?” Steve offered and she moved, across the kitchen, kettle in her hand.

“That’s better. But it needs to be something strong.”

“Caterwauling.” Steve said with a grin and she snorted, giving him a dig with her elbow as she passed to grab a container of water.

“Shut up.” She scoffed. Steve watched as she filled the kettle and placed it on the stove before she leaned back against the counter.

“Okay, so something alluding to being loud, that’s powerful.” Steve pondered.

“Roaring?” She offered. “I mean that’s what lions do, it’s powerful and they hunt in packs, we’re gonna be a pack.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, that’s good, but I don’t like cats.”

Katie looked at him, blinking, before she burst out laughing. “Oh my God!”

“What?” Steve chuckled as she snorted, shaking her head.

“They’re not domestic cats, Steve!”

“I know that, but they’re still cats. I much prefer dogs.” He stated matter of factly before he grinned, a sudden memory washing over him. “You know, when I was a kid our neighbor had a huge dog that I was convinced was a wolf. He had this trick, if you offered him a scrap he would howl on command…”

At that he trailed off, a sudden warm feeling flushing through his system as they both locked eyes in a moment of realization before they spoke at the same time.

“Howling…”

Steve grinned. “Now that I like. The Howling Commandos. It works.”

“Yeah, yeah it does.” Katie beamed.

As they stood there, smiling at each other like two complete idiots, the kettle started it’s own loud howling and Katie moved, clearing her throat as she removed it from the heat and added the boiled water to the metal coffee pot.

“We’re gonna need an insignia.” Steve spoke, now completely wrapped up in the thrill of the moment, his mind running away with him a little, the passion of leading his own unit completely sweeping him away. “Maybe a wolf’s head?”

“Well, the Screaming Eagles have an eagle, Old Abe, so a wolf’s head makes sense in that respect but…” She trailed off, grinning. “Chester always said our symbol when I was operating the unit should have been wings.”

“Why wings?”

“Because we were operating on a wing and a prayer.”

At that Steve snorted. “That’s kinda funny.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, it made us laugh, even if it was true.”

Grabbing a strainer, she poured the now brewed coffee into two mugs, setting the pot down on the side. Steve took the one she offered to him with a thanks before he took a sip and spoke again.

“Okay, how about we go with my name and seeing as you’re gonna be my second in command, we’ll take your insignia. Good team work, Agent Stark.”

“Your second in command?” She blinked. “Seriously?”

Steve nodded. “Well, yeah. Unless, you don’t…”

“No, I do, I just…” She shrugged. “I thought you’d have chosen Bucky or Monty.”

Steve took another sip of his drink, cocking his head to one side as he studied her for a moment. “Well, you know the type of work we’re going to be doing. You’ve done it before. It made sense.” He paused again before he smiled. “Plus, from a purely selfish point of view, you’re a lot easier on the eye than either of those guys.”

Katie smirked over the top of her mug. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Captain.”

Steve’s grin turned into a softer smile, before he stepped forward, the hand not holding his mug moved to her hip. With a gentle tug he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to hers in a soft kiss.

“You know,” she whispered against his mouth as he pressed his forehead to hers, “you can’t be doing that out in the field, you’ll be gettin’ accused of favouritism.”

“Hmmm, is it an accusation if it’s fact?” He quipped back and she laughed, as he gave her another sweet peck.

Pulling back, she smiled a little, her eyes and expression soft. “I should go, Peggy wants me to help her get ready. She’s going to some fancy Officers’ dinner or something later with Phillips and Howie.”

“Are you not going with them?”

“What and sit around listening to a load of posh bastards rabbitin’ on about how hard it is on the front lines when they’ve never set foot outside their offices?” She scoffed. “No thank you. They epitomise everything that is wrong with this damned war.” Steve smiled at her indignation and she shrugged. “Besides, if you’re gonna ask the guys officially to join the team I should be there, you know, as your second in command. Call it team bonding.”

“That’s a really bad excuse to use because you don’t want to attend some pretentious dinner party, Doll.” Steve smirked and she shrugged.

“I don’t care. It’s my story and I’m sticking to it. But, for the record, not wanting to be in the company of imbeciles isn’t the only reason I don’t wanna go.”

“No?”

“I wanna spend time with you.”

Steve smiled and looked down licking his lips before he raised his head and met her eyes. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, yeah you will.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave his cheek a soft kiss before she turned and headed out. Steve watched the sway of her hips as she left, casting him a coy look over her shoulder that had his cheeks and neck feeling very warm.

And his uniform pants feeling very tight.

*****

“So, let’s get this straight.” Dum Dum looked at Steve as he sat at the table in the small bar in London.

“We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?” Jones looked at him and Steve gave a little grin.

“Pretty much.

“Sounds rather…fun, actually.” Monty grinned and across the table Morita belched loudly.

“I’m in.”

A string of French then escaped Dernier and Steve watched as Jones replied, Dernier shooting off a couple more words in his mother tongue before the men laughed and shook hands. Steve exchanged a look with Dum Dum who was as puzzled as he was, and they both turned to Jones who gestured between him and Dernier.

“We’re in.”

Steve smiled and then turned to Dum Dum. “Hell, I’ll always fight. But you got to do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?” Steve asked as Dum Dum drained his pitcher and set it down on the table with a quiet belch.

“Open a tab.”

With a scoff of laughter, Steve stood up and gathered their empties into his hand and walked over to the bar. “Another round.”

“Where are they putting all this stuff?” The barman looked at him, his mouth hanging open a little.

Steve simply snorted and then moved over to where Bucky was sat at the bar counter, as in the background someone started playing the piano, a rendition of ‘There's a Tavern in Town’ ringing out across he bar.

“See? I told you.” Bucky gestured to the men at the table as he took a drink from his glass. “They’re all idiots.”

“How about you? You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?” Steve looked at him and Bucky scoffed, shaking his head.

“Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight.” He turned to Steve and shrugged. “I’m following him.”

Steve smiled a little, the sentiment not lost on him as Bucky smirked a little and shrugged. “But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”

“You know what?” He glanced over his shoulder at the poster advertising his now cancelled USO show, depicting him in his spandex. He smiled and looked at Bucky “It’s kind of growing on me.”

Before Bucky could quip anything back, Steve was suddenly aware that the singing in the bar had stopped and the two men leaned back to look through the door, to see both Peggy and Katie walking into the pub. Peggy was dressed in a tight fitting, deep red dress, all heads turning her way as she strode confidently towards him but Steve only had eyes for the woman behind her. Katie was dressed slightly more demurely than Peggy, her dress was a floaty, cream coloured material with frills around the sleeve caps, which trailed down the front of her dress, blending into the flowing, knee length skirt. The soft looking material was patterned with bronze coloured leaves, which were matched perfectly with the patent brown heeled peep-toe sling-backs on her feet. As Peggy continued towards him, Katie stopped by the table he’d vacated minutes ago, Falsworth standing up politely to offer her his chair.

“Captain.”

Steve’s eyes jerked to Peggy as she stood in front of him and he nodded. “Agent Carter.”

“Ma’am.” Bucky flashed her his best smile and Steve had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good.” Steve nodded, his eyes flicking once more to Katie who was now settling herself at the table, smiling at Falsworth in thanks as he pushed her chair in for her.

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She quipped and Steve gave a smile.

“You don’t like music?” Bucky asked.

“I do, actually.” She turned to smile at him. “I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bucky deployed his usual line and Peggy flashed him a smile before she turned back to Steve.

“The right partner.”

It was no coincidence she spoke those words to him, the words he himself had said to Katie all those weeks ago. As his eyes locked onto Peggy’s, she gave him a small smile and arched her eyebrow, the faintest jerk of her head back towards Katie confirmed his suspicions and he flushed slightly at the fact he had clearly been the subject of a conversation between the two women, and unless he was very much mistaken, the one stood in front of him was giving him a silent instruction.

Or warning, he wasn’t quite sure.

“0800, Captain.” Peggy finished, before she turned and walked away.

“Yes, ma’m.” He cleared his throat, answering both her spoken and unspoken orders. “I’ll be there.”

“I’m invisible.” Bucky scoffed, referring to the rejection he had just been slapped with from Peggy. “I’m…I’m turning into you. It’s like some horrible dream”

“Don’t take it so hard.” Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe she’s got a friend.”

“She does,” Bucky grinned, “but her friend seems kinda into you.”

Steve rolled his eyes, a smile flickering on his face as once more he glanced over at Katie. This time she looked straight back and flashed him a demure smile and he felt his cheeks flushing again. Fuck, was there any time he was never going to do that?

“You gonna go find out what your dame wants to drink?” Bucky asked and Steve turned to him.

“She’s not…”

“Whatever, Punk.” Bucky snorted, shoving him harshly in the back. Steve cleared his throat as the two men made their way over to the table, Bucky flopping into a seat opposite Katie.

“S’up Doll Face?” He quipped and she raised her brow.

“Barnes.” She smirked a little as he leaned back, eyeing her for a moment before Steve took a deep breath.

“Agent Stark, what can I get you to drink?”

“Gin please, Captain.” She smiled. “Straight over ice if they have any.”

“Ooh Lady Lieutenant, you getting on the hard stuff already?” Dum Dum teased and she shrugged, turning to face him.

“Well if I’m going to keep up with you reprobates out there in the field I might as well start as I mean to go on.”

At that all the men turned to one another, surprise on their faces and Steve groaned, realising he’d forgotten to tell them that.

“You’re coming with us?” Falsworth asked and she looked at him nodding.

“Is there a problem with that, gentlemen?” Steve was quick to jump in and he saw Katie smile to herself as she looked at the table.

“Hell, no.” Duggan snorted. “I know better than to question her, I got a black eye last time.”

“You deserved it.” Katie narrowed her eyes as various snorts rang around the table. “You challenged my authority in front of the entire unit.”

“Exactly, which is why I’m not gonna do it now.”

“Do you hit everyone who challenges you?” Steve asked, thinking back to when she’d taken Hodge down the first day he’d been at Camp Lehigh.

She turned to him, and shrugged. “Depends on how exactly they’re doing the challenging.”

At that the group gave a few loud guffaws at her innuendo and Steve rolled his eyes as she fixed him with a stare.

“That drink aint gonna buy itself, Cap.”

With a scoff, and another loud roar of laughter from the table at the fact she’d just sassed him, he shook his head and turned back to the bar, a large smile on his face.

****

A few hours and several drinks later, Katie decided to call it a night. As she rose from her seat, all the men around the table did the same, wishing her a good night and Steve excused himself to walk her back to the barracks, pointedly ignoring the looks the team shared. As Katie stood up, thanking Steve as he held out her shawl for her, he saw Bucky smirking in the corner of his eye. He turned to his best friend who simply raised his glass in his direction, arching a brow. With a roll of his eyes, but an ever so subtle smug smirk, Steve gently placed his hand on the base of Katie’s spine and guided her towards the door.

Once outside, he offered her his arm and she smiled, curling her hand over the crook of his elbow, leaning into him a little as they walked the short distance back to the barracks, their talk quiet. They both greeted the guards on the gate who saluted them as they passed and headed inside, their footsteps light as they walked the deserted halls.

“You know, you didn’t actually have to walk me to my actual room.” Katie opened her door, turning to Steve. “Pretty sure we’re safe in here.”

“I’m a man of my word. I said I’d walk ya home.” Steve’s mouth curled up at one side into a soft smile. “And, okay, it isn’t exactly home but…”

Katie gave a little chuckle before she looked down at the floor, biting her lip. “Such a gentleman, your ma would be proud.”

Steve felt himself warm at her compliment and he popped a shoulder as she looked at him, her eyes shining. There was a moment’s pause before he cleared his throat and looked down the corridor. “I should…”He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and Katie nodded.

“Yeah, you probably…should.” She stepped forward a little, her left hand curling on the lapels of his jacket, before she gripped his tie firmly in her right, yanking him towards her a little, Steve’s eyes widening at her sudden forceful nature. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, Steve trying to reconcile the war between his brain and his body. His mind was telling him this was bad, because he was a gentleman, and he should be walking her home and leaving it there. But damned, his body was already reacting, he could feel the stirring in his pants as he looked into her green eyes which were shining with mischief. It was same conflict he’d felt all those months back, the night before he got the serum when they’d made out.

“Stop thinking so much,” she whispered, the hand round his tie pulling further, his face was now mere inches from hers, “let go, Steve.”

And that was it, his lips crashed to hers and he backed her through the door, kicking it shut with his foot. The kiss was fierce, the pair of them stumbling around the small room as Steve’s arms wrapped around her, hands splaying on her back, holding her as close as he could. A soft moan escaped her mouth which resonated in his lust addled brain like an alarm, and he pulled away, his breathing deep.

“You sure you wanna do this?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to hers, his tongue wetting his lips slightly.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” She replied, her voice barely audible over her own deep breathing.

And Steve knew then he was a goner.

He surged forward once more, his hands cupping her face, hers reaching out to undo the buttons on his jacket. She pushed it back over his shoulders and he shrugged it off, where it fell to the floor with a soft thud. Then, before he could even contemplate his next move her hands had reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it free of his pants. His back muscles twitched as her hands danced over his skin, the sensation of her gently dragging her nails across the base of his spine sent a spike of desire, like a red hot poker through his entire body and he let out a groan against her mouth, which caused her lips to curl up at one side. Steve pulled back a little, watching as she quickly undid the knot in his tie and then her manicured fingers popped each button on his shirt, her eyes following her actions before she raised her head to meet his gaze as he shrugged off his shirt, carelessly tossing it to one side.

He swallowed as her hands gently pressed to his chest, sliding up over his shoulders, one tangling in the back of his hair. His own curled over her hips as he kissed her again, before he hesitated and felt her soft palms gently move over the top of his hands, guiding them round to the back of her dress. His fingers skated up and he found the zipper. With a deep breath, he looked at her once more and she nodded, and he pulled the small, metal zip down the track, causing it to fall forward slightly and he got a glimpse of her breasts, clad in a silk balcony style bra.

She pulled away from him this time and he watched as she allowed her dress to fall to the floor, and he swallowed again, his dick now rock hard at the sight of her in nothing but her underwear in front of him and when his eyes had finished travelling up her curves, she hooked her fingers into his waistband and tugged him closer to her. He let out a groan as her knuckles brushed over his sensitive stomach, the anticipation now killing him as she slowly undid his belt, taking her time, locking her eyes onto his again. The lust he had seen moments ago had now completely turned into something softer, her eyes shining like emeralds.

“God you’re beautiful.” He stuttered out and Katie giggled nervously before he kissed her again stepping forward a little. The force of his movement caused her to step back, and she almost fell as the back of her knees hit the side of the cot up against the wall. “Sorry.” He pulled back a little, and she shook her head.

“I’m not.”

At that point, Steve felt the nerves wash over him once again, what the fuck was he doing? God, this was all sorts of wrong, and incorrect, but…fuck, he was damned if he didn’t want this.

“Katie, I…” He stumbled over his words and she frowned a little.

“What? Don’t you wanna…”

“No, I mean, yeah. Yeah I do. I really do…but, Doll, please tell me you do too.” His voice was a nervous plea and she took a deep breath, her hands popping the button on his khaki uniform pants as she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Yeah, yeah I do.” she whispered.

“Good, okay, yeah, that’s…good.” He nodded, his lips back on hers as he kissed her again. She moved, climbing up backwards onto the cot, Steve chasing her mouth with his as she knelt up on the mattress, her hands cupping his face, the pads of her fingers softly pressing into his clean shaven jaw.

“You’re gonna need…erm…” she pulled away a little, and he looked at her, and she arched her eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t bring your standard issue little packet of protection?”

“What?” Steve frowned.

“I know they give you boys those.” Katie scoffed. “Put it on before you put it in, ring any bells?”

Steve flushed a furious shade of red as he groaned, his head falling forwards and pressing against hers. “Yeah, I know, but I didn’t, I mean this wasn’t exactly how I was planning this night to go down.”

“Hmmm, the Star Spangled Man doesn’t have a plan.”

“Oh for God’s-” his protest was cut off as she kissed him again, chuckling a little.

“Don’t worry, I’m one step ahead of you.” She nodded to where she’d tossed her purse. “Just so happens I might have swiped a couple.”

“You were planning for this?” Despite himself, his lips quirked up at the side and she shook her head.

“Not planning, no. Hoping.”

She kissed him again before she moved and stepped off the bed, hopping over to retrieve said item and Steve took the opportunity to sit down and rid himself of his boots. It took him a few attempts to get the laces undone his fingers were shaking that much and once he’d finally gotten rid of them, he didn’t have a second to contemplate his next move as Katie had tossed the small, foil packet onto the small lamp table by the bed and straddled him, her knees falling either side of his hips.

He was aware that his breathing had quickened and he looked at her, the lump in his throat thick as she reached behind her, eyes trained on him. He swallowed thickly as she undid her bra and his eyes flickered down to take her in. She was a sight to behold. All soft pink curves and rose bud nipples which were peaked against the sudden rush of air to her skin.

He was achingly hard now, and he needed to do something about it. In a flash he pivoted them so she was led flat on her back on the bed, and he propped himself up over her, caging her with his arms and legs as his mouth hungrily covered hers. His hands trailed up her bare legs, to her hips, up the side of her body and then onto her breasts teasing gently. She groaned, rolling her head back on the pillow at the sensation, her hips bucking upwards.

“Fuck.” He seethed out at the feeling of her grinding up against his rock hard crotch, and he nuzzled at her neck with his nose. She dragged her fingers up his spine, as he buried his face in the side of her neck, his lips working at the pulse spot beneath her ear, the little noises of pleasure she was making were music in his ear.

Shifting slightly, he took his weight entirely on his left arm, his right cupping her face until her fingers wrapped around his. Before Steve had figured out what she was doing, she’d guided his hand down to the waistband of her panties and in a movement that was pure instinct he continued, working his large fingers down through the elastic, over her soft curls. When he felt her slick against his pads he let out a groan, and she sighed as he gently began to stroke her.

It took him a little while, and some guidance, but soon he’d figured out exactly what was working for her as he moved his fingers, taking care to keep his strokes just right. His face watched hers intently as she bit her lip, her eyes falling shut in pleasure. Before long her hips started to move against his hand and he gently twisted his wrist, inserting two fingers inside her, swallowing at the way she felt, so soft and warm.

Her body was now reacting exactly the same way he’d seen before. Encouraged, he continued his movements. Her hand moved up to grab at his hair, pulling him down to kiss him and before long she was softly crying out, her back arching as her walls fluttered around his fingers as she came.

How Steve didn’t blow his load right there and then he had no idea, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to be in her, surrounded by her, feel her, claim her as his own. His hands both shot to the side of her panties, completely forgetting his strength and he heard them tear. He dropped his forehead onto her sternum, letting out a groan at his stupidity before he heard a laugh.

“I’m sorry…” he blurted out as she continued to giggle.

“Steve, it’s okay.” She shook her head. “You good?”

“Yeah, just, well, I’ve never…”

“I know, me neither, remember?” She leaned up, gently kissing him before she grinned. “And whilst I’m no expert, I expect you’re gonna need to take your pants off for this next bit.”

“Oh, shit, yeah…” Steve swallowed and stood up, dispensing of the rest of his clothes, the feeling of his cock finally being freed from his clothing was bliss. His eyes roved over her bare form as she lay on the bed, watching him, her own eyes flicking down his naked body and he blushed a little before she gave him a sinful look, her teeth biting her bottom lip.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Soldier.” She gestured with her head to the little table and he grabbed the condom. His fingers slipped a little as he tore the foil packet open, his hand shaking as he knelt on the bed between her legs, rolling it down over his shaft the way he’d seen it demonstrated, but, well it was awkward, and he was starting to get a little bit fed up when Katie put a hand over his and he glanced up at her.

“Relax.” She whispered.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Shhh,” she kissed him softly as she guided his hand down and once he was sheathed she led back down and he moved, his hands either side of her shoulders as he positioned himself.

With as gentle a movement as he could, he worked his way into her, letting out a loud groan, and her breath hitched a little.

“God,” Steve breathed, temporarily paralysed as the sensation of being buried in her for the first time washed over him, her tight warmth hugging his cock. His arms shook and he dropped down to his elbows, shifting a little to support his weight on his forearms so he didn’t crush her, his entire body coiled tight like snake.

“You okay?” she asked softly, clearly able to feel the tension in his muscles as he lay over her.

“Yeah.” He panted. “You?” “I’m good,” there was a little pause and she placed her hand on the bottom of his back, applying a little pressure with her palm, “go slow.”

So he did. He started thrusting. Slowly at first, picking up the pace a little as he gained confidence. Her hands slipped up his back and came to rest as her arms hooked under his, palms flat on the back of his shoulders.

Steve watched her carefully as he continued his movements, his eyes locked onto hers. She looked straight back at him as her body gently moved with each thrust he made. He leaned down to kiss her, and it was a little sloppy because his brain and body were that awash with this absolute new sensation of pleasure that he was struggling to function or focus on much at the moment. He broke the kiss, dropping his forehead to hers, his mouth slack as the heat tightened in his belly and he knew it wasn’t going to be long before he came.

"Katie, I'm not...I'm not gonna..." he started to explain, almost apologise even but she cut him off.

"It's okay," she nudged his nose with hers, “let me see you, Stevie."

He raised his head and she looked straight at him, and with a few more little thrusts he was gone, tipping over the edge with a little grunt and a cry of her name. As the surge of pleasure washed over him he pitched forward, burying his face into her neck, breathing deeply as the world span around him, the blood pounding in his ears was almost deafening.

Her arms held him close, hands gently sliding up his back, scratching at that spot on the nape of his neck, softly tangling in his hair as a final shudder ran down his body, the waves of pleasure finally began to subside.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out before he could stop himself, “You didn’t even – I’m sorry.” He said again still kicking himself.

“Just enjoy the moment, please.” She whispered, kissing his temple.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Steve sighed as he dropped his head to her chest, still inside her, as she ran her hand through his hair and down his neck. He stayed still for a while before he pulled out of her, careful to wrap his hand around the now filled barrier and he moved, sitting up so he could remove it. Once he had disposed of it in the small waste basket by the vanity, he retrieved his underwear and pulled it up over his legs before he turned around and looked at her as she sat up in the bed, the sheets clutched to her chest.

There was a moment’s awkward silence, neither of them really knowing what to do next. Steve was torn. One half of him wanted to climb back in and hold her against him, whilst the other was telling him he should dress and bail before they got caught and in a heap of trouble.

“Stay.” Her small whisper broke through his thoughts and he looked at her as she watched him, her face hopeful. “I mean, if you want.”

“Of course I want to.” He swallowed, crossing the room and dropping back onto the bed. “I just don’t wanna get you into any kinda trouble.”

He couldn’t help the trepidation he was feeling. Whilst there were no rules against what they’d just done, as such, it might be frowned upon. But then again, they’d been careful, they were both consenting adults…

“No one will come up this way, not for a couple of hours at least.” Katie shook her head, clearly reading the look on his face. “And, well, I don’t much care. They shouldn’t give out those prophylactics if they didn’t want us to fuck.”

“Jesus, Doll.” He grumbled at her crass nature and she giggled, softly. Cocking her head to one side.

“Sorry, should I have referred to it as making love?”

Steve rolled his eyes, before he took a deep breath. “That was more than just a fuck to me, you know that right?”

Her face softened and she smiled, reaching out to cup his face. “I know. It was to me too. So stay, please.”

With a nod he moved, working his way back under the covers. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, his large frame taking up most of the space but he moved so she was between him and the wall, making sure there was no way she’d fall out and she lay on her side, her leg thrown over his as her head snuggled into his chest.

His hand softly ran up and down her spine as she gave a sigh, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“Night, Soldier.” She whispered and he pressed a kiss to her temple, his eyes closing.

“Night, Sweetheart.”

She was asleep well before him. Steve lay awake, his sharp ears listening for any footsteps or any sign that they were about to be caught but, after half an hour or so of nothing but silence, he finally gave into the wave of tiredness that had seeped into his bones, and fell into a deep, contented sleep.

*** Chapter 8

#Stark Spangled Rebirth #steve rogers #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x original female character #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america #mcu #mcu fanfic

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regrettablewritings · 3 years

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Preference: Surviving the Holidays

Characters: Dewey Finn, Peter B. Parker, Tadashi Hamada, Bruce Wayne

Dewey Finn: Thanksgiving

Dewey’s relationship with Thanksgiving was wack, for lack of a better word. Really that could be said for his relationship with most holidays, but what made Thanksgiving stand out ever so slightly was just how obsessively tied to gatherings with loved ones it was when compared to other holidays: You could party for Christmas; you could party for New Years; you couldn’t really party for Thanksgiving. And given that most of his time growing up was just himself and his ma . . .Yeah, the guy wasn’t too crazy about what he considered to be a sham of a holiday. (Plus, he didn’t vibe with the parade.)

And none of that lessened as he got older, with his relationship with his mother becoming more and more strained. After a while, the most he really got from the holiday was tagging along accompanying Ned to his own family’s place. But once Patty came along, that window of opportunity closed.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t long for it. Quite the contrary, it had become sour grapes for Dewey: He could gripe and sneer about Thanksgiving being a “boring-ass” wannabe day all he wanted to; the truth simply was that deep down, he knew he wouldn’t really mind the idea of being in the presence of somebody who loved and appreciated him enough to share a meal with him. Or to be thankful that he was in their lives and wanted him to know it.

That, and he missed the option of not having to stay cooped up in the apartment he mooched off in, eating Kraft Mac straight out the pot while imagining others elsewhere eating homemade baked macaroni as a side to a much more delicious and filling meal.

You personally didn’t feel especially impassioned by the day one way or another to be frank. At least, not usually. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you -- maybe it was because the two of you had just moved in together and wanted to make a statement, or maybe the spirit of the season had finally possessed the both of you, or maybe it was because the delirium of moving in two weeks before a holiday had finally taken its hold (moving is statistically one of the most stressful events in a person’s life, after all) -- but there was a newfound determination in trying to “get this right.”

Of course, there’s nothing and no one who says that a house only becomes a home once it has been christened by a successful feast. But there was a sense of maturity that did come with the idea of holding down even a dinner for two that wasn’t picked up from the deli down the street, or delivered by some knock-kneed cyclist. And it was a maturity the both of you were far too eager to acquire.

Never mind the fact that most of your kitchenware was still lost amongst the boxes (what few of them you could fit in the glorified Fruit-By-the-Foot box you called an apartment). Or that you guys were on a budget. Or that the dinner table was an old plastic collapsible one reminiscent of the tables put up at parties held in gymnasiums. You two were adults, goddammit, and you were going to pull this off at least once! Just once, and things would go back to normal.

. . .

Like most things that tended to involve the great Dewey Finn, you had no idea how this happened.

There was no turkey, no green beans or corn on the cob or even mashed potatoes or a pumpkin pie. Instead, what cluttered the table was a plate of Bagel Bites, tater tots, a plastic case of Lofthouse cookies, and, of course, some Kraft Mac. Neither one of you said anything. At least, not out loud. But the sheepish expressions you gave one another said everything.

Time had gotten away from you both. As did proper ingredients to prepare the more traditional meals associated with the day. You supposed that, in a panicked haze, the both of you wound up grabbing and putting together whatever you could to salvage your pride efforts but you began to suspect that that might not’ve been enough.

“. . . At least we beat Snoopy’s meal,” Dewey tried. A beat passed. Then a snort.

“S-shut up!” you cried. How dare he criticize an animated beagle’s meal of popcorn and toast? Though you had to admit, he had a point: You’d take pizza-decorated bagelettes over popcorn any day -- including Thanksgiving Day, apparently.

In the end, it wasn’t the most . . . traditional situation. And it certainly wasn’t enough to change Dewey’s mind about the day. But you both had to agree: It was a feast that certainly christened your new home together as your own. And for that, you were quite thankful.

Peter B. Parker: Hanukkah

While it wasn’t the most important holiday on the Jewish calendar, Hanukkah still held a heavy level of importance in Peter’s heart. Growing up, it had served as a foundation for so many things in his life: In certain traditions, stability was established; in the togetherness it garnered, there was love; and in the activities partaken, there were memories. Memories of helping Aunt May in the kitchen and of Uncle Ben determining him to be old enough to recite the proper prayers. Of lighting the menorah and setting the room aglow with the history of a miracle . . .

It was therefore a huge regret of Peter’s when he had foregone observing both the winter holiday, as well as many others in his culture during the more recent years when his life began to slip and slide out of control. So when he reemerged from Miles’ dimension, ready and willing to take a chance on life again, it was only natural that Peter was also ready and willing to bring back more positive habits and influences – celebrating Hanukkah included.

And with you, now present in his life and curious and eager as ever, he couldn’t help but feel all the more encouraged to share it. And maybe perhaps show off. Just a little.

For example, once you removed the whole Spider-Man situation, Peter was a pretty simple guy. Especially when it came to foods: Far be it from Peter B. Parker to turn down a burger with some fries or some pizza or street food. So that’s what made it stick out all the more when, after the first night he announced his decision to attempt making challah. Followed by some latkes. Maybe a babka as well. And some sufganiyot. Never mind that he had never actually made some of these without the more experienced Aunt May taking up most of the task. But he was determined and literally and metaphorically hungry for success, and who were you to question his ambitions?

. . . Apparently somewhat saner and more aware than he was. The babka and latkes were simple enough, thankfully. But the sufganiyot? Peter couldn’t fry like that; not with the best materials money could by, when said money was provided on the budget of two people trying to make it in one of the pricier boroughs of New York. And the less said about the challah process, probably the better. . . . Though you still had plenty to say.

“You’re a spider, Peter – why is your weaving coming out so weird?” you questioned, eyeballing the tangled mess of dough. Peter huffed, trying to keep his glower on his failed efforts, rather than redirecting it at you.

“It’s not my fault the guy moves too fast,” he said, referring to the tutorial you had both played on loop. He muttered something along the lines of “for beginners, my ass.” At this rate, the real holiday miracle would be if you not only braided the challah correctly, but also if you didn’t burn down the raggedy apartment. You wanted to say that there would be no shame in calling it and just going to one of the nearby Jewish bakeries for a loaf, but your partner seemed invigorated by spite-induced determination to see this task through.

Never mind that the strands of dough flopped against one another in spite of his best efforts. At this point, it resembled less of a perfect princess braid and more like a flattened Tangela. It was pitiful, really, but you had to admit: The pout his failed efforts had earned him was cute. You didn’t want to think lightly of what he was deeming a situation, but it was quite nice seeing him like this at all. When you had first met he was quite nearly the opposite, all grumpy and aloof and wanting nothing to do with you.

Who would’ve guessed that in due time, he’d become the very man who stood before you, eager to interact with you and bond with you, sharing moments like these . . . Moments which you wish he would just go ahead and enjoy along with you.

“Hey, Peter?”

“Ye -- ” A small blast of flour collided with his crooked nose, stopping the man short. “HEY!” He cracked one eye open just enough to glare at your grinning face.

“Don’t be such a Grinch, Peeby -- ”

“Wrong holiday,” your boyfriend snarked as he wiped his face.

“Hush. Anyway, we still got a few more nights to figure this out,” you reminded. You placed a quick peck on his powdery cheek for good measure. His shoulders slumped with a sigh. As much as he didn’t want to say it, he knew you had a point. Maybe he had gotten a bit too (literally) wrapped up in getting all this right. Though he did feel his spirits lift somewhat as you placed your hand over his with assurance.

Somewhat. All that was missing was --

Pff!

“UGH! PETER!” Your hands flew to your face in an effort to wipe away the fistful of flour that now caked it. All the while, the offender himself laughed. He was probably going to have to appease you with some chocolate gelt “for damages” but as far as he was concerned, it was worth it. After all, what better way to share these important moments than with his favorite person?

Tadashi Hamada: Christmas

A local little cafe in the heart of San Fransokyo was simultaneously the best place to be for the holiday season, and the worst. The great things about it were the cute store-bought and homemade decorations that decked the cozy halls of the establishment; the seasonal baked goods and sandwich specials that made the Lucky Cat smell like cinnamon or roasted turkey; the cozy feeling that welcomed you like a hug whenever you walked in.

Alternatively, there was the whole to-do with picky or rude customers coming in from out of town; the saturation of Christmas music screeching through the speakers; and way-too-hype women taking up tables for hours at a time after spending the day shopping (and clogging the already small aisles with the bags from said shopping).

But all in all, Tadashi made it all better.

Having grown up in the Lucky Cat, he’d long since learned how to cancel out the grinchiness the holiday season brought out, and was more than happy to help you do the same using his own methods. If you focused on the little things, he figured, you could attach sweeter memories and associations to them. Especially if you veered a little off the usual path.

Sure, there was joining him in the kitchen to prepare and bake cranberry-speckled pastries and frost cookies to resemble familiar holiday characters and items. But there was also stringing popcorn garlands together (“Tadashi, you’re the youngest 70-something year-old I have ever met.” “Hush, you; I’m doing you a favor by laying my Christmas cheer all over you.” “Phrasing, ‘Dashi, geez!”). But at the end of the day, there was one thing in particular that your boyfriend did to sweeten the deal. The one thing only someone like Tadashi could do: Snowball fight a la manipulation of barometric pressure.

Following the incident with the snow machine two years ago, Tadashi had to make a promise to Aunt Cass to only use it outside. Away from the house. That suited Tadashi just fine. After all: What better way to pelt your loved one in the face using snow warfare than to do so in a wide-open space like the park? And while those fortunate (and unfortunate) enough to have come upon the unusual winter wonderland he had created, the facts still stood: This was about you and him. You vs him, diving behind mounds of snow, screeching with both joy and discomfort whenever the snow made an impact against bare skin, eyes tearing up from the cold . . .

You could’ve done this for hours, especially since you were pretty positive Tadashi was letting you win. If only he hadn’t called for an armistice.

“ ‘Armistice’? For what? You scared I’ll beat your butt again?” you taunted through chattering teeth.

“No, you ding-dong,” Tadashi shook his head. “Look at you: You’re clearly at your limit with the cold.”

“Nuh-uh!” As if to betray you, your body gave a sudden jolt; a release of shivers like a spring being let loose after coiling. As if unimpressed, the young man reached for your gloved hands and gave one a gentle squeeze.

“Does that hurt?” he questioned.

You winced. “N-no . . .”

You heard him click his tongue. “Ah. Enforced armistice.”

“No fair!” you whined.

“If you sign the treaty, I will include hot cocoa when we get back.”

. . . Well, he could make a mean hot chocolate. Not too sweet, not too bitter, it was perfectly creamy with only the slightest hint of cinnamon for kicks. It was the perfect thing to relax you, causing you to come undone as it’s warmth spread about you inside while the warmth of the kotatsu took care of you on the outside.

“Comfy?” your boyfriend asked. You purred, foregoing a more proper answer just to take another sip of the glorious hot drink. Your enthusiasm earned you a chuckle from him as he inched closer to you. Just enough to hold your hand in his. “For body heat purposes” he might’ve insisted, had you asked. Not that you minded it: It was just what the evening needed to feel complete. Not the goofy, awful ugly sweater he wore that made Rudolph’s nose blink when you pressed a certain spot; not the gentle crooning of Christmas classics sounding from the miniature stereo Tadashi had set up; not even stockings carefully lined along the makeshift mantle, or the presents glimmering beneath the lights of the twinkling tree.

Just the warm feeling of togetherness. That this beautiful man you get to call yours is so willing to share how he celebrates with you. And that you, it turn, get to celebrate with him.

“Hey, you made her cocoa?!” Hiro’s complaining ripped through the air.

And his small but nevertheless vibrant family, of course.

Bruce Wayne: New Years Eve

Let’s face it: New Years Eve sucks. All everyone wants to do is throw a party (even when they actually don’t really want to), the parties are either obnoxiously loud or awkwardly quiet (there is no in-between), there’s never any food because all people wanna do (or have been convinced to do) is drink, and the alcohol is usually crap by the time you get there because everyone already knew to tackle the good booze as soon as they arrived.

Suffice to say, you had some gripes when it came to New Years Eve. And in spite of the luxurious images that tended to come to mind, parties thrown by the wealthy weren’t any different from the average one thrown by the common man. Really, the only difference was that the alcohol was of higher quality and the gatherings were usually held at some large hall like a hotel ballroom or even at a prestigious gallery.

But even if you’d known that beforehand, you still would’ve accompanied Bruce to one such party. Bruce wasn’t fond of them himself, but he needed to at least make an appearance to save face with all the moochers and bigwigs from neighboring industries and enterprises. You were honestly just there for support, though it was just as agonizing for you as it was for him.

Well, at least you didn’t have to actually talk extensively with anyone, you mused. You’d been nursing your drink for the last half hour or so, trying to walk that thin line between going about undisturbed while also not coming across as frigid or wallflowery. Not too far off, you could see Bruce smiling at another partygoer: A buxom ginger, surely an important figure in her own right, but clearly seeing no harm in grinning coquettishly at the affluent Prince of Gotham. You felt no trace of jealousy within you, however. You knew Bruce’s real smile, and the one he was currently providing her wasn’t it in the slightest.

No, the real one was the one he flashed you when he glanced over at you to make sure that you were doing fine off and alone. A sweet, glorious smile that reached his eyes. Though, there were also traces of exhaustion. And you suspected that the smile you returned held just as much because soon after that, you watched him excuse himself from whatever conversation he’d been trying to carry before making his way over to you.

“How’re you holding up?” he inspected.

You shrugged and sighed, “It is what it is. I’m making peace with the fact that the last thing I would’ve eaten this year would’ve been an assortment of cocktail wienies, what I think might’ve been pate, and ginger ale.” You’d meant for it to come across as more humorous, but the dry tone you had delivered your words in ruined the effect.

Bruce winced and offered yet another smile: A wobbly, more sheepish one.

“You ready to go home?”

God, yes.

“No, no,” you replied. “Really, it’s fine. Besides, it’s almost midnight anyway -- it probably wouldn’t look good if Bruce Wayne ditched a party his glorious hosts have so graciously invited him to.”

You watched as your significant other raised his brow. “Honey, I’m Bruce Wayne: I’m known for ditching parties.”

“Oh,” you said simply. Fair point. To your minor relief and slight embarrassment, he huskily chuckled.

“C’mon,” he sighed, placing his hand on your lower back as guidance. “My ass is sore from all the butt-kissing. Let’s go home where it’s warm. And quiet.”

“And we can actually eat!” you chirped, a little too excitedly. Once again, your embarrassment was met with approval.

The outside was both quieter and just as noisy as the inside of the celebration. Quieter because of the muting effect the fallen snow had, but also more lively because of the surrounding restaurants and streets and bars filled with people cheering and blowing party horns and singing in slurred joy. You liked it better than the party, if you had to be honest. But maybe perhaps because as you wandered the snow-caked streets to reach where Bruce had parked the car, you felt his gloved hand wrap around your own.

Of course, it was probably just to keep your hand warm -- maybe even just to make sure you kept pace with him, or that if you wouldn’t fall if you hit a small patch of black ice. But in a little corner of your mind, you couldn’t help but romanticize it: It was like he was accompanying you into the new year in a way. Just you and him. No loud parties, no pressures, no being anywhere or with anyone you didn’t want to be.

“Thanks, by the way.” Bruce broke the silence in a puff of cold air. “I know these really aren’t your thing -- I mean, personally, they aren’t mine, either, but you really didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to. But I appreciate that you . . . that you did.”

Your cheeks burned, though not from the whipping cold of the late December air.

“Of course I did . . .” you reasoned. “I know it sounds goofy but . . . we’re in this together, y’know?” You gave his hand a small squeeze. He squeezed yours right back, but with a bit more power. The warmth of it traveled up into your chest and cheeks. You licked your chapping lips.

“Besides,” you continued, “if I had just stayed home, I would’ve been bored. And probably would’ve given my New Year’s Kiss to Alfred.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, who knows? New year, new me, right?”

You couldn’t have imagined what Bruce would’ve responded with next if it weren’t for the sudden distraction: The air, disorderly and sloppy mere seconds before, had all at once seemed to become uniform with the sounds of chanting. A count down.

You’d lived through so many New Years before, you weren’t quite sure what made this one different. There was no reason for you to pause as you did, your heart suddenly thundering in your chest at the realization of what was to come. It was just another year, right? A new year with new promises, new disappointments, new surprises both good and bad, new --

“ -- two! One! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”

You had barely had a moment to register the words before you became distracted with registering something entirely different: A pair of warm lips pressed against your own, the feeling of large arms wrapped about your waist to pull you in close.

As he parted from you, Bruce flashed you one of his real smiles once more. One that denoted the mischief only you were truly privy to.

“Beat him to it,” he teased.

And for as shocked as you were over the exchange of the midnight kiss, you couldn’t help but blink . . . and find yourself in a giggling fit. That was why this year felt different: You had never had a boyfriend on New Years before. Scratch that: You had never had Bruce for New Years. And that made a world of difference. You didn’t want to make any assumptions but . . . it was a pretty great way to start a new year, if you did say so yourself.

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wellhellotragic · 3 years

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These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal 2/3

Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself. It’s not his fault.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

Rating: Mature (mostly for language)

A/N: No, you’re not crazy. The chapter count grew a little. My sincerest apologies guys (especially to @searchingwardrobes.) I have a lot of stuff going on in my personal life that’s taken most of my attention. I really didn’t mean for this next part to be so delayed, and honestly, time has become an illusion at this point and I didn’t even realize that 6 weeks had passed. I was thinking closer to 3, so thank you for staying with me on this little journey, and hope you enjoy.

If AO3 is more your jam...

His jaw is killing him and he’s realized all too late that it was a mistake not taking the ice from Emma. But he couldn’t. He can’t have anything to do with her. He can’t even look at her. It’s just too damn painful in every way fathomable.

Sometimes, his heart aches to be near her, to see her smile and pretend for just a moment that it’s before. That everything is still fine and that they’re going to meet up for drinks later. To imagine that they’ll go back to one of their apartments and put on a movie. That she’ll fall asleep on his shoulder and he’ll move so that they’re spooning each other on the couch. It’s on those days he turns to the bottle.

Other days, the very thought of her sends him into a rage and it’s all he can do not to throw her desk out of the bullpen. He never should have agreed to take the Captain’s position. He should have gone back to the narcotics division, far away from her and the ghost of Liam imprinted into the very fabric of his chair.

He shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

He shouldn’t have gone to the Salty Winch tonight. He knew that it was her birthday, try as hard as he might to forget. And he wasn’t planning on going. But something in his subconscious had him driving there against his own better judgement. He was just going to peer in through the window, just go get a look. To see if she was happy.

And now he’s got a bruise on his face, he’s down a detective, and he’s going to have to call a cab in the morning to take him back to the pub to pick up his car.

He’s also got a text message from Archie telling him he wants to see him tomorrow before lunch.

He goes to bed, but sleep doesn’t come until hours later.

The next morning is a disaster. There’s two empty desks instead of one, paper work is piling up. Everyone is tiptoeing around him and he can see them watching him out of the corner of his eye. He can hear their hushed whispers, and as much as he doesn’t want to have to schlep all the way down to headquarters, he needs the retreat from being the star of his own tragedy.

Archie’s office is on the third floor, and it isn’t lost on him how many offices he has to pass on the way to what should be a private visit. But then again, nothing about his life has been private lately. He knows that everyone still talks about it. For weeks his portrait graced the cover of every newspaper in town, sometimes next to Liam’s departmental photo. The news was there that night to film him being carried to the ambulance on a stretcher. His name was on the tip of everyone’s tongue as the investigation and trial drug on.

His detectives don’t trust him, and he knows it’s a problem, as well that he should care, but most days he just can’t find it within himself to give a damn. He buries it all as deeply within himself as possible, just going through the motions. He’s gotten pretty good at ignoring the ways he feels, most times, but Archie is going to want to drag it all up again, especially after last night.

The office has been redecorated since the last time he was there for his psych evaluation and mandated therapy to determine if he was capable of returning to work. There are more plants in every corner of the room. No doubt the cricket’s way of cheering everyone up while he chirps in their ears. Not that he has anything against Dr. Hopper. The man may very well be the only reason Killian is even still human at this point.

“Killian, thank you for coming. Why don’t you have a seat?” He doesn’t want to, the black leather is worn and cracked in places, pinching the back of his legs even through his thick cotton pants.

The man just watches him, waiting to see if he’ll open up, to make the first move, but Killian’s never been much for spilling his guts. He’s not sure talking would even help at this point. Everything has become so twisted that no emotional epiphanies can untangle his problems anymore.

“So, I think you know why I wanted to see you.”

“Aye.”

“My next appointment called in sick so I have all day to wait for you to say something.

Killian sighs, ready to give in to the inevitable, although he’s not completely sure which part of it Archie wants to get into, and he’s treading water trying to keep as much of his life off limits as possible.

“There’s nothing to say really. One of my detectives was drunk, mouthed off, and hit me. His suspension was well earned. I’m not sure there’s anything more to it.”

Archie watches him for a second, tilting his head as he listens to Killian, and before he even opens his mouth, he knows that the cricket chirping in his ear is about to dissect the evening.

“Killian, I think there’s a lot more to it. Clearly there’s been some resentment and animosity building between the two of you for some time more, or August wouldn’t have brought it up.”

He hates this, the way Dr. Hopper is always trying to poke his way through Killian’s brain, trying to unlock doors with a metaphorical paperclip. A one size fits all therapy tool that with enough finesse can open everything he’s trying to hold back.

“I’ll admit, there’s no love lost between the two of us. We’ve never gotten along, even before. But August has never been one to make smart well thought out choices and last night was just another in a long line of mistakes he’s made.”

“Long line, or tipping point?” This isn’t going to work. He isn’t going to let Archie trip him up. He’s not leaving anymore crumbs to follow. “I know you don’t want to discuss this again, but I can’t help but think all of this stems from your relationship with Emma.”

“I don’t have a relationship with Emma.” He doesn’t mean to spit out the words as harshly as he does, it’s just a gut reaction and it’s too late to play it off. “She’s my subordinate, that’s it.”

“You mean she was your subordinate.”

It pisses him off more than he expects, partly because somehow this man miles away already knows that Emma has transferred when he only found out himself a few hours before, but also because it brings up emotions he doesn’t know how to handle.

“Aye.” All he can do is nod and clinch his jaw, which in turn reminds him of the punch he took last night. He’d give almost anything for some Motrin right now. Better yet, some morphine so he can fall into a sleep where none of this is real.

He’s not really sure what’s happening. He knows he’s in the hospital. He can surmise as much by the beeping machines and the blood pressure cuff that’s about to sever his arm clean off. But his eyes are too heavy to open just now, and he doesn’t remember coming to the hospital. He can’t remember why he’s here.

Until he tries to move, twisting his torso just enough that pain shoots clear up to his eyeballs and he screams out in pain without even realizing it.

There’s a nurse in the room, telling him to relax, and he thinks he hears another voice from the other side of the room, but now his arm is cold and he doesn’t even have time to think before the world goes dark again.

His mouth is dry. He tries to open his lips, but they’ve melding together and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. His body feels so weak and heavy, and it’s a struggle to speak, but even with just a slight moan, he feels his hand squeezed and he knows it’s her just by the way she fits with him. The bed shifts and he hears something new in her voice. She’s timid, like maybe if she speaks too loudly he’ll blow away in the wind. And to be honest, at this point, he very well may.

He forces his eyes open, blinking as much as he can to clear his vision. She’s standing at his side in a Boston PD sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big - pilfered from his closet after a night off of bar hopping turned into a movie at his place - and her hair is pulled up in a messy bun. It might very well be any other Saturday morning, except for her face. It’s puffy and red and she’s clearly been crying.

Emma Swan doesn’t cry. Ever.

He should be worried about himself, but in that moment, he can only think of her and how miserable she looks.

But then the blood pressure cuff goes off again, reminding him of where he is, and everything comes rushing back. The fight with Liam, the sound of shots ringing out, Emma begging him not to die. He told her he loved her, and he’s angry with himself for waiting so long. It shouldn’t have been a death bed confession. He shouldn’t have put so much stock in Liam’s approval.

Liam.

He barely gets his brother’s name out before he sees more tears running down her face, and she’s apologizing over and over again. There’s something about the way she says it, like it’s somehow her fault, like she was the one that fired the fatal shot. The pain returns and so does the morphine.

He wakes again, groggy and weak. His eyes are too heavy to open, but perhaps that’s better. Maybe if he can’t see the world around him, he won’t have to face everything to come. Liam’s always been there, even when everyone left, Liam stayed. He doesn’t know how to continue on in a world without him. He doesn’t know how to do anything now and all he can think about is how it should have been him. How he started the argument, he distracted Liam. How he was the one that raised his voice and alerted the killer to their presence.

He’s in the middle of his downward spiral of self loathing when he hears muffled voices come closer, likely entering his room from the hallway. They speak in hushed whispers as they move around the room, flittering about all around him, lifting his blanket and touching his feet, fumbling with his hand. He still can’t muster the strength to open his eyes, much less his mouth to tell them to leave, so they continue, completely unaware of the way he hears them. Unaware of how they are turning his life upside down.

“Why does this guy look so familiar?”

“Oh, you mean other than the fact that his face is all over the television?”

It’s silent for a bit, and he thinks that maybe they’ve gone finally, but then he hears a tapping noise, like fingers angrily hitting letters on a keyboard.

“It’s really sad actually. Remember Astrid down in the ER?” She waits for the other voice to agree before continuing. “I had lunch with her today and she was telling me how our guy here is cop. Came in with gunshot wounds, along with his brother. They were both in really bad shape. Whale was able to save this one but the brother was too far gone.”

It’s the first time he’s heard the words spoken allowed, and although intrinsically, he knew that Liam was gone, the words are a nail to a coffin.

The voice continues, telling the other one how they were both in shock, having lost so much blood, giving vivid details that tear at him to his very core, but it’s the end of the story that he latches to.

“So there’s nothing they could have done then?”

“I guess we’ll never know. I mean, by the time the ambulance brought him in, he was already gone, but from what Astrid overheard, I guess their back up got there late. One of them ran after the shooter and the other stayed to help and couldn’t save them both.”

“Damn, I can't even imagine. This guy is gonna have some hell of survivor's guilt.”

But it wasn’t guilt that overcame him that night. Instead, it was rage that crept in, filling the hole in his heart.

“So you still blame Emma then?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look up from the mark of the coffee table in front of him that he’s been starting at for the last few minutes.

“Killian, the mind is a tricky thing. You were still in shock, heavily medicated, and mourning. Is it possible that maybe you somehow misunderstood what the nurses said that night?”

That has his attention, and not in a good way.

“Are you insinuating that I’m a liar?” He leans forward, voice steady, focused on Dr. Hopper and the way he’s now squirming in his chair. “Or do you simply believe that I’m just crazy?”

He’s off the couch, steady quick strides for the door. He’s had enough judgment for the day, and needs to leave before he crams Archie’s notebook down his throat.

“That’s - Killian! That’s not what I meant.”

He’s halfway out the door, but something in the man’s tremble gives him pause.

“I- I just. I spoke to Emma, to August too, after it happened. I just mean that maybe you all have different accounts of what happened that night, and until you sit down and finally clear the air, none of you will be able to heal.”

That has him barking out a laugh. The very idea of either of them being able to make anything right at this point? It’s absurd.

Two weeks pass without much fanfare. August’s desk still sits empty, a magnet for other detective’s paperwork piles, but the seat stays cold. Emma’s desk on the other hand is now occupied by a short stodgy old bald man who seems to be compensating for his hair loss with a long salt and pepper beard that covers half of his face. The man has been nothing but surely since his arrival the week before. He’s managed to piss off most of Killian’s bullpen, and it’s almost laughable how quickly his life has gone totally shits-up on him, but then he remembers that Leroy is going to be August’s partner when he comes back and that’s almost enough to satiate Killian’s frustration.

Almost.

Because August isn’t coming back, at least not to his division. There’s an opening in Narcotics, Killian’s old team, and while is not a transfer Killian would ever normally agree to, it's not a typical assignment. Despite his reservations, he knows August is good as his job and the best fit.

That’s the only reason he finds himself walking back into the Salty Winch at 10:29 on a Tuesday morning. August isn’t there yet, which doesn’t surprise him in the least. The truth is, he doesn’t honestly even know if the man will show at all, never having responded to his message.

It’s odd being back in that building, the incident from a few weeks ago notwithstanding. The derelict bar has always been special to him in a way he can’t explain, like an extension of himself. Liam brought him there after his first collar, saying a celebration was in order, and that one night somehow became a long standing tradition. Looking at the scuff marks near the well, he remembers Ruby’s attempts at clogging in 6 inch stilettos and the pub owner nearly crying at the sight of his ruined wood floors. He remembers Lance throwing up in the peanut bucket at the end of the bartop at his bachelors party.

But taking a seat in the booth in the back right corner, all he can see is her face the night they met.

It’s been a damn good day, and each sip of the rum in his glass dances it’s way down his throat, warming him on the way down. He’s buzzed to be certain, but hasn’t had nearly enough to be drunk, and Will intends to remedy that as soon as possible if the third round he just ordered is any indication.

They’d been after a small time dealer for months, and on the day they finally go to bust the guy, they somehow luck into nabbing one of the largest suppliers in the city by sheer dumb luck. But no one needs to know that. Not when he and Scarlett have just received public commendations from the commissioner himself. Not when he’s wearing his medal on his shirt like a goddamn first place science fair ribbon. Not when his name is being floated around as someone to keep an eye on.

And sure as hell not when the most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on has just walked into his pub and sat herself four bar stools over. To say that he’s gobsmacked is an understatement. It’s dark, but even in the dim pendant lit room he catches a glimpse of her eyes. They’re emeralds, sparkling as the light from a glass bottle being poured reflects in them.

He’s so infatuated with this woman in her tight red leather dress that he’s apparently missed an entire conversation, only his name on repeat is enough to pull his attention back to his mates.

“Oh bloody hell, I think we lost ‘em boys.”

There’s a heat overcoming his face and he’s not quite sure why. He’s left with many a fine lass from this very bar on other, much less eventful nights. His boys are no strangers to the effect he has on women, but perhaps this time it has something to do with the effect she’s having on him. This enchantress that’s beguiling him.

Perhaps the last shot was a mistake.

After some merciless teasing he’s out of his seat, making his way to the empty spot on the other side of her. He waits for a second, casually watching her send an email from the corner of his eye before making his move yelling out to the bartender.

“Robin, can I get my tab? I need to head across the street and file a complaint.”

She’s startled, her eyes flitting between him, the bartender, and her phone.

“Oh, what for?” Robin walks over with a towel and glass in hand, and a coy grin on his face. This may or may not be the first time he’s used this ruse before.

“Well, this woman here has just stole me beating heart right from my chest.”

She groans and rolls her eyes, and while it may not be the first time he’s used the line, it’s certainly the first time it’s ever not been reciprocated.

“Please tell me that line doesn’t actually work on girls.”

He can’t help but smile despite how epically he’s failed. And while she’s clearly not amiable to going back to his place with him tonight, she doesn’t outright reject his offer to buy her drink, or even a second one after that.

Somehow the two of them move to the booth in the back. He learns that she’s from the 42nd, a vice cop just coming from her last shift. The red leather dress is a departing gift of sorts from her supervisor, by way of a prostitution sting. She’s transferring to his precinct tomorrow and just wanted to come get a feel for the area before her first day.

They talk until the bar closes somehow, and when her cab pulls up, he takes his shot one more time. This time she laughs him off and tells him she’ll see him tomorrow. He gets his own cab, and even though he’s going home alone tonight, he’s still got a shit eating grin on his face when he walks through his apartment door, her laugh echoing through his head like music.

August arrives in true fashion, twenty minutes late, and Killian isn’t sure if the man is just being disrespectful or trying to somehow create an illusion of control over the situation. Either way, he’s not happy, although he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to himself that he’s happy that the man won’t be around for a while.

Boothe has always rubbed him the wrong way. Even before Emma, August had a way of pissing him off, always shooting off his mouth and trying to one up him. In truth, his annoyance turned to hatred when he learned of how close the man was with Emma. They had inside jokes and secret looks, and Killian always felt like an outsider. Eventually he learned that August was practically Emma’s brother, having been raised together in the foster system, but hearing of how Boothe was the one that introduced Emma to her first love, and man that led her down a path of petty crime, it only solidified in Killian’s mind that August Boothe is an arse of a man with no redeeming qualities.

Which is also the exact thing that he needs right now. The two of them sit in that back booth, discussing the matter at hand. The narcotics division has been trying to catch the supplier of pixie dust, a drug that’s recently made its way to Boston from New York. They have a fairly good idea who the importer is, but they haven’t been able to catch him thanks to a mole in their ranks. One of their own has been tipping off Walsh Nikko and their captain is fairly certain it’s Jefferson.

A man by all rights is mad as a hatter. Killian had only dealt with the man a few times, but undercover work had taken its toll on Jefferson and he returned from a botched assignment with demons in his soul.

Killian explains everything to August. How Captain Humbert needs him to come in as a disgruntled cop, how he needs to break rules and make his distaste of the Boston PD known. That it shouldn’t be difficult given their recent encounter and his suspension.

He knows it’s working when snippets of August’s ranting about his character get back to him.

______________________________

His adrenaline is waning and his stomach turns. He barely makes it away from everyone on scene into a back alley before the remainder of his lunch is spilling out of him. He’s never been so terrified in his life, and nothing is right. Nothing makes sense, and he’s still hurling his guts out. There’s blue and red flashes of light coloring the clouds above them as nearly all of Boston has turned out to the scene.

There’s going to be mountains of paperwork, but that’s tomorrow's problem. Right now, he just needs to get out of there, far away from the flashing photography bulb and the interviews. Away from the smell of blood, the screams he swears are still echoing in the building. He just needs to get away.

He’s not sure how he ends up here. He’s not even sure how he knows that address, but his feet have somehow brought him here and he knows that he can’t keep holding everything in. He can only pack it all down so much before the latches break and everything explodes around him.

Dr. Hopper doesn’t even seem surprised to find him standing outside of his brownstone, just motions for him to come inside. Archie goes to get him a towel, which he tries to refuse. It’s only at the man’s instistance that he realizes that he has blood on his jacket, and that’s his breaking point.

There’s blood on his jacket, and despite scrubbing it for the length of the car ride back to the precinct, he’s standing on the steps to the 56th and it’s still there. He’ll likely have to burn the damn thing. As remissed as he is though to discard his favorite article of clothing, it’s not the jacket that causes him pause.

He’s thought about this moment a lot of the last year. Wondering if she will be happy to see him, if she’ll care at all. There was a distance between them before he left, a chasm of his own doing, and when he told her he was leaving, he couldn’t miss the look in her eyes. A flash of betrayal and distrust, and while she’s the only thing that’s carried him through the last eleven months, he knows the chances of her thinking of him in the same way are lower than he cares to admit.

He’s thought of it so many times, playing it out over and over in his mind. How he’s going to find her and finally confess his feelings. Of how he can’t keep pretending that friendship with her is enough from him, that he wants more. How the random kisses they share are like knives to his heart showing him of what could be but isn’t. He’s played it out so many times, but never was he standing before her in a blood stained jacket.

But now that she’s there and in his arms clinging to him just as strongly as he is her, he couldn’t care less. She’s soft and warm and still smells of cinnamon just as he remembered, and her touch soothes the monsters whispering inside him. He felt broken the whole time he was gone, but she’s mending him.

He finally breaks away, he needs to tell her, he needs to just get the words out, but before he can, Liam is behind him ordering him to the bullpen, and now isn’t the time. It’s not a rushed conversation to have with people yelling his name from another room.

“I, we’ll talk later, ya?”

She nods, and it’s only then that he notices the faint tears that have been freshly wiped away.

They never talk about it though.

Liam takes him out to dinner, just the two of them, and by the time he gets home, the monsters are back, reminding him of all the things he’s done. Of what a villain he is now, and he knows that he’s not good enough for her.

His monsters are back, screaming, drowning out anything good and all he sees is the dark. Archie brings him a glass of rum, telling him after the night he’s had, he deserves it. And they talk. For the first time, Killian lets the walls down and tells Archie about all of it. All of the dastardly deeds he did while undercover. About how everything that has happened since is his fault, it’s because people like him don’t deserve happy endings.

Archie rebukes everything he says, but it does little to ease his conscience. He leaves Hopper’s house feeling slightly lighter though having unburdened himself, and possibly hopeful for the first time in years. But he’s still got a lot of work to do, and he knows it’s going to take time.

His suitcase is packed before it ever even occurs to him to call his commander and tell him that he needs a sabbatical. He expects pushback. Hell, he expects the man to tell him he’s fired, but his commander understands and tells him to take whatever time he needs. That they’ll find a place for him whenever he’s ready.

Liam’s boat is still in the harbor just as he remembers it. She’s been neglected the past two years, his own fault to be certain, and she’ll need some work as well, but she’s sea worthy enough, and he can’t be in Boston anymore. The sails are unfurled and he’s just pushing off when he pulls his phone out of his pocket, making one last call.

She doesn’t answer, he knows she won’t, and perhaps that’s why he’s calling her now, when he knows she’s busy. Instead he leaves a message, telling her that he loves her, that he always has and always will, but that he’s broken. That he needs some time to clear his head if he wants to be a man deserving of her heart.

He’s a bastard and a coward.

And then he’s gone.

#these wounds won't seem to heal #cs ff au #captain swan

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