about me and this blog

Reblogs and texts posts at the moment.

Autism, ADHD, chronic illness, art, and things I think are cute or cool or interesting. Other interests include space, being gay, nature, sailor moon, most animals, linguistics atheism, reading (of fiction and non), shiny things, soft things, and learning lots stuff about lots of things.

I am early 30s. Sometimes I may reblog things that are like, R-rated (e.g. jokes about dildos or funny anecdotes about sex) and I swear, but no NSFW images reblogs planned.

DMs may go unanswered because they sometimes stress me out but they are still welcome! asks too even though I'm a total newb about them!

Ummm new to Tumblr and trying to respect people's boundaries with likes/follows/reblogs but if I fuck up, I do I appreciate a very direct "please don't do that" if you're willing/able (but I won't take it personally if you need to just block me instead).

I aim to include descriptions when I can, and use the undescribed tag when I can't. I reblog a lot of art, some described some (tagged) undescribed. Feedback on my own IDs is welcome if you've got tips.

I think that's it for now!

pfp from the talented @magentasnail (pfp ID: a drawing of Autism Creature with purple line art. Autism creature is wearing headphones and looking out with a neutral expression.) (Banner ID: digital painting of pink and purple clouds like a sunset over some trees, reflected in water. The colors match the pfp.)

PORNSTAR!HARRY WITH THE NEW BEARD (me? wet)

“What d’you think, then?”

Harry scratches absentmindedly at the thick stubble covering the lower half of his face, the coarse, light brown hairs heavily dusting his upper lip and haloing around his mouth and chin.

His eyebrows perk up at Y/N expectantly, awaiting her response as he sits across from her in the break room, laid out on the sofa with his head mounted against the elbowrest. His arms tighten around the maroon velvet cushion he’s hugging to his chest, a certain anxiousness jittering in his veins. He doesn’t know why her opinion matters to him or why the suspense is tearing his stomach to shreds, but it does and he can’t stop it and it’s fucking annoying, to say the least.

In his line of work, Harry had learned not to make severe emotional attachments to his partners. A platonic relationship is fine— he tended to naturally attract people without much effort and he thrives in social settings; friendships were bound to form— and a casual “friends with benefits” type of arrangement isn’t off the table, either. However, the industry had hardened him into being the kind of person who doesn’t care what others think of him. He never put much thought into people’s mundane concerns towards him (like whether his new beard was attractive or not) unless he had started to develop deeper connections, which then leads to him harvesting feelings, which in turn causes him to act like a complete lovesick moron and usually topples him into an actual solid dating situation. And if there’s anything Harry has painstakingly learned through multiple trials and errors is that being an adult entertainer while simultaneously engaging in a serious relationship never mixes well.

Yet here he is, waiting for their assigned filming room to be ready so they can go in and shoot a scene for a new video. Here he is, playing with a loose seam thread on the couch pillow, tugging at it nervously to give himself something to focus on other than the silence suffocating the room— a silence he himself had instilled by asking such a random, pointed question. Here he is, with sparks firing off in the pit of his tummy as the leg hanging off the side of the sofa bounces restlessly on his heel, toes curling in his pastel yellow Vans. He hasn’t felt this like this in so long he thinks he might vomit right onto the coffee table.

Y/N is extended across the loveseat opposite his, her legs draped over the armrest, knees bent and feet swaying back and forth distractedly. Her hands are cradled against her stomach, fingers sifted together as she taps at her knuckles, head snuggled into a throw pillow identical to his.

She had snapped her head to the side at his sudden question, surprised by the low thrum of his voice reaching across the still air since she thought he had fallen into a nap.

She’d run into him earlier as he had hurried inside the building, Nike gym bag slung over his shoulder and thudding against his hip as he made a beeline for his dressing room, itching for a shower. She figured that after exerting himself with a heavy workout and washing away the tension in his muscles with warm water, he’d probably want to get some sleep in before their shoot in order he to be at the top of his game. But evidently, Harry is wide awake, staring at her over the glass table between their makeshift beds, eyebrows raised in curiosity at her thoughts on the facial hair he’s sporting.

Y/N stares at him thoughtfully for a few seconds, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in this never before seen appearance.

She’d been working for this company for just over two months now and she had never seen Harry with more than just a light bit of stubble. One can imagine her shock when he had waltzed in with a decently thick bushel covering half his face. She almost didn’t recognize him, being so used to his clean, boyish face rather than a hairy, full-fledged man. She hadn’t quite processed the change since their fleeting interaction prior to his bath, but apparently her take on it interested him and for some unknown reason, that notion makes her cheeks sizzle.

The response she blurts out makes her wish she could implode on command.

“You kinda look like Paul Bunyan.”

Harry blinks at her blankly exactly three times, shifting upwards higher against the armrest and cocking his head to the side in awed confusion. “Pardon?”

Y/N parts her lips to speak but her brain can’t seem to find a way to justify the idiotic, nerve-induced comment she’d just made. After a moment of charged silence, she splutters out a semi-acceptable explanation.

“Y’know, Paul Bunyan. The lumberjack guy? With the blue ox?”

Harry continues to stare at her, emerald irises twinkling with a mystified haze and eyebrows scrunched down in bewilderment.

She swallows quickly, feeling heat crawl up the sides of her neck. “He’s this folklore legend that they use to tell us about back in grade school. Disney even made a cute little short film about him.”

He blinks at her again, not sure how to react to her response since he has no fucking clue what she’s going on about. All he knows is that he wants to calm the ragging in his belly and possibly ebb some type of compliment out of her to tide over the craving for her approval.

He takes a wild stab and hopes for the best.

“So he’s a lumberjack, yeah? That must mean he was ripped. Was he hot?”

Y/N bursts into a round of easy laughter, feeling all the tension wash out of her in a huge wave of relief. Leave it to Harry to be a total dolt at the perfect time.

“Yeah, he was, actually. I used to have a crush on him, despite the fact that he was a literal cartoon.”

Harry’s lips break into a cheeky, satisfied grin, his dimples pinching into place. He sits forward, dropping the couch cushion into his lap and leaning back onto the palms of his hands, head lulling on his shoulder as one of his knees bends upwards to rest his heel at the edge of the sofa. He gives his brows a cocky shrug, well aware of how her gaze momentarily flickers to ogle at his widely parted thighs. He’d made the right call to wear his Adidas joggers, the thin polyester material obviously strained by what resides between his legs.

“Guess that means you have a crush on me now, too. By association.”

Y/N’s glazed eyes dart back up to his face and she tries to cover up her little escapade by snorting humorously, shaking her head lightly in amusement. “He was a bit taller than you, though. Makes him sexier.”

His voice comes out slathered with fake pained insult. “That’s no fair, I can’t even control that! How tall was he? Bet I could take him.”

She bites into her lower lip, a small playful grin peeking around her teeth at the ensuing banter. “Well, according to the myth, he’s seven feet tall.”

Harry scoffs dismissively, swinging an arm forward and settling his wrist over his bent knee, hand turning palm upwards for emphasis. “I can take him, no problem. A foot is nothing.”

Y/N props her chin onto her shoulder, maintaining her comfortable position stretched out across the couch, her back supported by the armrest. She sucks at her teeth in disagreement, pursing her lips with exaggerated contemplation. “I dunno, H. A foot is more than you think. What are you gonna do, jump on his back?”

He points at her warningly with his index finger, tone adamant. “I just fucking might!”

She releases another fit of bubbly giggles, cupping her tummy instinctively and for some reason that simple, unintentionally adorable action makes Harry’s pulse flutter in his temples.

He remains quiet for a bundle of heartbeats, just admiring the way her entire face glows when she smiles. He loves how bright she is— how lively and tender and easy-going. Her personality always shines through, no matter the instance. Whether it’s at a restaurant with their friend group, or at a get together at someone’s house, or when they’re sitting in the break room having a random, silly chat, or when he's balls-deep inside her with cameras trained on their every movement and there’s people watching every brush of their swollen lips, every caress of their heated skin, and every desperate plead whimpered onto eager tongues — no matter the tone and texture of the situation, she’s always the most blinding factor in the room. She’s just so golden.

“So you really think I can’t take this Bunyan bloke?” Harry inquires with a joking edge, his two front teeth chewing at the corner of his mouth to keep himself from grinning like an enamored fool.

“He’s a pretty big guy.” Y/N quips matter-of-factly, giving her shoulders a gentle shrug.

The edges of his lips twitch into a sly smirk. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty big, too...and you can attest to that.”

Even from across the room, he can see the way her whole body tightens at his lascivious dig. Her fingers halt the tapping on her knuckles and her eyes can’t seem to break free from his coy gaze, air struggling to expand her lungs.

Harry somehow always manages to make her speechless and she wishes he didn’t have that hold over her. They’re friends and coworkers; this influence on her could end in a real mess if she isn’t careful and the gig she has here at the company is too good to risk it. The porn industry is littered with producers that exploit their workers and women are more susceptible to this abuse than men, but somehow amidst the pile of shitty businesses, she had managed to book a permanent spot at a facility that treats their workers with the respect and dignity they deserve. Harry had been working here way longer than she had— he’d been here before she even knew the company existed. If things went downhill, she would have to be the one to leave.

Technicalities aside, Y/N’s worst fear is ruining her relationship with Harry. He had been the person that had comfortably eased her into the whole world of sexual entertainment and she would forever be thankful to him for making her experience smooth and seamless. They’d developed a decent friendship along the way, their personalities clicking together perfectly from the second they had been introduced, their chemistry practically palpable. Harry had been her partner in almost all of her videos— save a handful she had done with other stars as a way of testing the waters and branching out— and had introduced her to all of the friends she had made here. He’d shot with her for her first ever video in this profession and helped welcome her into something she had been extremely terrified to try. She cherishes him beyond words, which is why the idea of allowing some harmless flirting to grow into something with the potential to end in disaster outright ices her blood.

What she hates the most is that such a simple cocky comment had sent her into a midlife crisis.

She anchors herself back into reality, clearing her throat softly as her lashes flutter. “You’re a moron.”

Harry cracks a self-assured simper, messing with the chunky rings of the hand hanging off his knee. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Y/N huffs offhandedly, finally breaking the intense eye contact he’d pinned onto her, glossy eyes zoning in on tracing the checkered pattern of her worn sneakers. “Your dick is obviously big or else you wouldn’t have a job here.”

The deadpan bluntness behind her tone sends Harry into a round of boyish snickering. “I know, but I just love hearing you say it. Strokes my ego like nothing else.”

Y/N picks at one of the tears of her cosmetically tattered jeans, a strangely contented smile threatening to string across her lips at the idea of him enjoying the way she specifically praises him. “And we both know how much you love having things stroked, now don’t we?”

Harry bites into the inside of his cheek, humming in agreement deep in the back of his throat. He absolutely adores the way she can go toe to toe with his vulgarity. “Touché. Although, if I recall correctly, you never seem to have any complaints about being the one doing it.”

“S’part of the job.”

“I’m pretty sure your kitchen isn’t one of the designated filming rooms.”

“Practice makes perfect.”  

Y/N’s jaw clenches as she feels Harry’s delighted condescending stare boring into the side of her face. He swings his arms out from behind him, slumping into the backrest of the couch, flexing forearms settling across the light blue fabric of the vintage Mickey Mouse t-shirt stretching over his broad chest. The foot resting on the ground braces itself onto the edge of the coffee table, the one on the couch shifting some, his thighs parting open even wider. She has to resist the urge to look, having to make due with the blurry image registering from her peripheral vision. Even out of focus, he looks incredible.

“D’you know what we’re shooting today?”

The change in topic gifts her the chance to recuperate and regroup; work talk is a sanctuary she is more than happy to inhabit.

Y/N cranes her neck to look over at Harry, refusing the impulse to check him out in his new, much more revealing position, meeting his eyes with an indifferent attitude that hides how buzzed he truly has her. “It’s something for a series you’re doing on your channel, right?”

Harry bobs his head in an easy nod, thumbing over the inside of his right elbow— a mindless mannerism. His lips twitch into a goofy grin. “Wanna know what I named it?”

“Something dumb, probably.”

“How Many Licks Does It Take To Make a Cherry Pop?”

Y/N sighs heavily through her nose. “Expected no less. It’s a bit long, though, don’t you think?”

“Maybe a little but the Wow Factor outsells.”

“Whatever you say.” Y/N checks the time on her phone, slipping it back into her rear jean pocket. They’d been sitting here waiting for their call for almost fifteen minutes now. “So from the looks of it, it’s mainly based around eating girls out?”

Harry scratches at the back of his neck casually, playing with the ringlets that curl along the nape of his neck. “Mmhm. Just thirty minutes of me making you cum as many times as I can with my tongue.”

The shells of Y/N’s ears burn. “Sounds like a dream. I’m getting paid just to lay there and I won’t even have to take off all my clothes.”

“Good karma, I suppose.” Harry glances impatiently towards the door of the break room, eager to get started. He doesn’t really know why, but he’s just gained an abrupt hunger to be nose deep between her thighs right this second. “Although, do you think you can pull your shirt up? Y’know how much I love a good view and you just look so fucking good in lace.”

She kinks an eyebrow up in mild shock at his accurate statement, pushing down the way his admiration makes her pulse skip a beat. “How did you know I was wearing lace?”

His tongue sweeps over the front of his teeth teasingly, Cupid’s Bow curving with a hint of perceptive glee. “Because you know it makes my balls ache.”

Y/N’s thighs unintentionally clasp together at his crudeness and she decides to put his insight to the test. “What color am I wearing, then?”

Harry sits forward, interest elating his limbs, forearms flushing against his thighs as he twiddles his thumbs between his separated knees. He takes a second to think it through, tilting his chin up slightly with a confident air. “Pastel peach.”

Her hands slap down against her tummy, the action tainted with disbelieving outrage. “How’d you know?!”

He chews on his bottom lip pensively as if carefully sewing his words together. “Because I complimented you the last time you wore it.”

A rush of white hot energy surges through Y/N’s entire nervous system. “Didn’t think you’d remember since you always compliment everyone.”

Harry shakes his head gently, twisting a metal rose ring around his middle finger. “Always remember you.”

An electrified silence falls between them, zizzing every molecule in the chilled air.

Y/N is well aware of the large number of people Harry’s been with and she had always assumed she would melt into the masses without much of a second thought. But here he was, telling her that she stood out to him enough that he could vividly recall the little odds and ends of flattery he gave her. It probably wasn’t much of anything and he was just being his polite, courteous self, but it made her stomach somersault nonetheless.

Her lips part open as if to speak, but her vocal chords can’t seem to find the pitch of her voice. She just lays there with her mouth agape for a second or so, fishing for a response that her brain has yet to conjure. Harry waits in anticipation, wanting to know her thoughts on small but meaningful confession.

Y/N is saved by a collection of swift hard knocks to the door of the room.

The knob turns and the door cracks open, a familiar face peeking in, bare chest covered in a sheen of short, disheveled hair and a complimentary company robe. Niall— a mutual friend and fellow entertainer— throws up a relaxed wave, icy blue eyes lighting up with the effortless jolliness he’s so well known for.

His voice filters through the heavy atmosphere, his thick Irish accent cutting the tension like a knife. “Oi, Jeff told me to come get you. Room’s set up.”

Harry licks over his lips absently, keeping his muted olive irises glued to Y/N for an extra heartbeat before breaking away, forcing an easy smile for Niall’s sake and matching it with banter. “Couldn’t come get us himself? Lazy prick.”

The sky-eyed young man shrugs his shoulders sloppily, his exorbitant laughter bouncing off the walls. “Was headed for my dressing room to clean up and you guys happened to be a pit stop on the way so it wasn’t much trouble.”

Harry pushes himself onto his feet, stretching out his back and twisting his torso from side to side. “S’about time, too. Been sitting here so long I thought my bones were gonna cement.”

Niall whistles sympathetically. “That’d be real shit for business.”  

The British boy sputters into his next sentence with a flurry of giggles. “Fuck off.”

Y/N speaks up for the first time since before Niall burst in. “Jeff would basically lose all his income. Can you imagine the headlines? ‘World renowned adult entertainer Harry Styles hospitalized, leaving mother company in shambles!’”

“A right Shakespearean tragedy, that is.” Their blonde friend cackles, the suspicious bite marks on his lower lip tinting darker as his skin stretches.

“Lucky for me, I already have experience with Shakespearean tragedies.” Harry quips proudly, walking towards the exit and standing beside Niall with his arms crossed over his stomach nonchalantly.

The fellow pornstar scowls jestingly, reaching forward and tugging at the corner of Harry’s mustache. “Romeo and Juliets: The Four-Crossed Lovers doesn’t count, Obi-Wan.”

“Whatever.” Harry snaps in return, slapping Niall’s fingers out of his facial hair and smothering him with the palm of his hand, shoving the boy out the door. “Go clean the jizz off yourself.”

“Go clean the jizz off yourself.” The shorter man mimics mockingly, backing away from the door with both of his middle fingers prevalent.

Once Niall’s gone, Harry glimpses back at Y/N over his shoulder, coughing awkwardly. “So I guess I’ll see you in there, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She gives him a timid, watery smile, barely nodding her head.

“Alright. Show time, Peach Lace.”

The joking nickname eases the pressure of the situation to a bearable level. She repeats his phrase in agreement, shrugging her brows as cool and collected as her churning tummy will allow. “Show time.”

Harry’s messy quiff of curls disappears down the corridor that leads to their designated room and Y/N can properly gulp down air for the first time since he asked her what she thought about his beard.

It’s then that she realizes she never really answered his question directly, but she gets the feeling that he knows where her opinion lies.

Brothers seeing MC naked for the first time.

Slight nsfw? Maybe...? Not really? Probably just a tad spicy, more so? Meh! We’ll throw it on... just in case.

Also, I want to slip in a mini apology. In these snippets I’ve rather liked the idea of trying to keep things gender neutral, but no matter how hard I tried with Satan hemightbemyfave, MC just kept coming across female. But I mean... anyone can wear a dress!! Yes? Yes! And trust, the silk dress I had in my mind when I write (I own the dress) I’m positive anyone of any gender, or no gender, would delight in wearing it.

~

Lucifer.

You knew you were pushing your luck here, but you were feeling exceptionally confident and ready to take on the possibility that Lucifer was into you. You head to his room, wearing just your RAD coat, snug against you and knock.

Hearing him call out, you slip inside and close the door; giving him a smile when he looks up at hearing the lock click over. “MC?” He’s surprised but not disappointed by your unscheduled visit.

Taking a breath, you unbuckle the belt and standing as seductively as you can; slowly slip the coat off your shoulders and let it pool to the floor. You’re breathing is elevated; naturally of course, with Lucifer there was always the possibility of rejection.

His eyes trail down your body and back up as he stands from his desk; slowly walking his way over to you until mere inches apart, the close proximity forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze as an ungloved hand gently caresses your side.

“How very… sensual.” His expression dark with lust; fingers teasing across your chest before he instructs you to slink your way to his bed while loosening his shirt and tie, eyes wandering over you again as he follows you.

Mammon.

Mammon is pacing your room; very animated hand gestures as he relays to you his latest money making scheme. You watch with a smile on your face. “Mammon.” You call to which he either waves you off or shushes you.

“Mammon!” A more adamant called of his name grabs his attention. “What?! Will ya list-” His words cut short as he witnesses you wiggle out of your pants and peel your shirt off; throwing it aside as you proudly stood before him naked.

Mouth gaping like a fish as his wide eyes gawp up and down your body; stunned at the exquisite and unexpected sight before him. He shakes his head as you take a step towards him, as if your movement has broken the spell on him.

A wicked smile breaks across his face, fangs on show as he quickly closes the distance between the two of you; a squeal of laughter slipping from you as his arms wrap around you and lift you from the ground to tackle you to the bed.

“If ya think you can still turn me inta a stuttering mess, ya got another thing comin’.” A growl passing his lips as he snatches your lips in a wild kiss.

Leviathan.

Between the warm day and his growing comfort of your presence; it wasn’t usual for your time spent gaming together to be wearing bare minimal. Levi even relaxed enough to be sitting in only a pair of shorts as you tag-teamed a mission.

He had no idea that beneath your long line t-shirt was absolutely nothing at all; and as you had to wait for your character to respawn, you took that time to make you move. Standing from the couch you call his name and peel your top off.

You get a huff from him and when you look to him you’re amused to see his eyes hadn’t left the screen. Smiling, you throw your top at him and wait; watching him flinch at something being thrown at him. “Heyy normie… what’s the big…”

Holding up the top he looks up at you and freezes; face beet red and mouth quivering as he looks you up and down. The controller fell from his hand as he reached out and brushed his fingers across your hip.

Instantly he blushes more and removes his hand. You sit back down beside him, a leg over his lap and arms around his neck as you whisper, “The idea is you can touch me,” watching the shy smile pull at his lip as he runs his hand over your leg.

Satan.

Returning a book was the perfect opportunity; holding it securely in hand you made the short distance from your room to his and pushed the door open enough to call out to him before slipping inside entirely.

You set the book down carefully atop a pile of other books as your eyes stay on Satan; lounging on his bed with a book to his face. You wait for him to lower it, locking eyes before reaching round and pulling the bow tie at the back of your neck and let the silk dress fall from your body; watching Satan’s surprised expression follow the dress downward.

Flush cheeks, he immediately sets his book down and tip-toes around & over any book piles; eyes roaming your body before meeting your gaze. You notice it’s almost predatory-like; slowly stalking his prey and never wavers his stare until you’re face-to-face. Noses almost touching.

His breathing remains steady as yours begins to shake; desperate to know his next move; but he’ll take his time. His eyes will look up to your locks as his hands gently glide through them as they work their way down your body; his eyes following his hands and smiling with every change of your breathing.

Hands will suddenly wrap around your waist as he pushes you back into the door and seals his mouth over yours; growling at the touch of your hands through his hair. He finds your skin so irresistibly soft and perfectly scented fueling an insatiable thirst within him as he claims you against his door.

Asmodeus.

For all the countless flirting between yourself and The Avatar of Lust; you had only ever held hands, kissed cheeks and playfully caressed arms, legs or chest. But today, you would be taking the lead in the next step. A simple text: T_T I’m crying this outfit too cute come see!! He’s a sucker for fashion after all.

“MC!” You hear him sing as he swings open the door; momentarily frozen as his eyes fall over you lying very seductively on your bed and completely naked… okay, you accessorized with understated jewellery and simple makeup. You were gonna look like perfection for this demon.

With a squeal of delight, he’ll slam the door and lock it before Mammon can ruin anything; commenting on how utterly delicious you look laying there in wait for him; how devilishly wicked you are and of course swoon over your beauty.

But he won’t just simply dive onto you; oh no, no, no… you deserve a feast for the eye just as you gave him; delighting you in a perfectly seductive striptease. He is a temptress, a sexual divinity and he’ll have you at the thralls of rapture by the time he crawls his way on top of you.

He’ll take great delight in taking his time tasting you; feathering kisses and rolling tongue across every inch of skin while guiding your hands into his hair. His lightest of touch easily sending you into waves of constant euphoria before your bodies even merge to one, and he’ll use every trick he knows to elicit every debauched sound from your lips.

Beelzebub.

A personal gym inside the House of Lamentation that no one steps foot inside, except one. It was a perfect time to get closer to the ever hungry demon. You made your presence known by calling out to him; both of you smiling at one another as he lifts his head before going back to his bench presses.

Eyes wandered over Beelzebub’s body; his legs perfectly defined by a pair of compression pants and a loose fitting singlet capturing his sweat; you couldn’t help but bite your lip in appreciation before undressing.

He paused mid-lift, lifting his head back up as he felt you sit yourself down on his abdomen cross-legged and stared at you in astonishment. “MC… you’re naked?” His eyes are constantly darting across your eyes, dipping to your chest and back up again.

“Completely.” You will confirm with a wink; watching him carefully set the bar back in place before sitting up to admire your bare body while his hands skim over your thighs. He’ll have quite the smile on his face; wondering how he got so lucky with such a delightful post-work snack and just where he should first start.

Coaxing your legs to uncross, he’ll pull you in closer and encourage you to wrap your legs around his waist so he can get a better look at you; a better feel of you. Delicious skin bare before him; his smile darkening as he brings his head down to gently sink his teeth into your neck. A hungry kiss to say the least.

Belphegor.

The Avatar of Sloth was never a hard one to find; quietly you sneak down the corridors unnoticed, bounding silently up the stairs to the attic to find him snoozing in the plush bohemian style bed. You couldn’t help but smile at his form almost hidden amongst the incessant amount of pillows and throw blankets.

You call to him softly, fiddling with the buttons of your oversized sleep shirt and watch him stir; taking in a deep breath while he stretched before opening up one lazy eye. He smiles, giving you a hello before shutting his eye again; lifting his arms up above his head in another stretch and your eyes linger down to his exposed stomach as his top lifted slightly.

This time you unbutton your shirt as you call to him again; his eyes opening and closing before he sat up quickly and rubbed his sleepy eyes then took in the sight of you completely; your bed shirt now discarded to the floor.

“Well…” He would purr with a smirk; his fingers wriggling in a gesture for you to join him on the bed. Which, of course, you’ll happily do; slinking up beside him and drape an arm behind him; your fingers lightly scruffy his hair.

His eyes roam over your body before easing your back down onto the pillows and slither on top of you. Oh how tempting it would be for him to simply nestle down on your luscious body; arms wrapped around you and his head on your chest so the pleasant sound of your heartbeat could lull him back to sleep. Getting to know your body intimately, was just far more tempting.

:0 k will you write me creativitwin shenanigans :3

“Halt, Dragon witch!” The creative side called out grinning, pointing his sword up to the sky. The metal brightly reflecting light as a stream of fiery dark magic from above plumed towards him as he jumped to the side.

Circling in the sky the dragon witch craned her neck and swooped down, a heavy shrieking thud and her black and grey claws grabbed hold of the rock face of the cliff. Overshadowing the slightly scorched meadow near the ocean small faeries that had held their ground now fled from the open into the forest. Her maw opened in a teeth baring grin and staring down at him as he was poised and ready to fight, her talons still sunk into the boulder, the hulking dragon began to shrink, and shrink, and shrink; Until standing above him, was the figure of a somewhat dragon human.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth as his lip twitched. The dragon witch didn’t often use her human form, the only time’s she stood before Roman normally was either during a truce, or when she was up to something.

“My, my, my, Roman.” She spoke smoothly, yet with a rumble that seemed to bellow. “Another fight again so soon? Why, you can never seem to leave me in peace, so eager to be torn apart?”

“Please!” He scoffed. “You know i can defeat you easily, I’m the prince after all! And like I’ll leave you to do god knows what. You have caused terror upon this land for far too long!”

A slow building laugh bubbled, growing in intensity deep and hearty, yet filled with malice. Glaring down at him as though he was prey, the dragon witch smirked, put a hand to her belt of potions, and threw it. “I think you’ll find i have something new up my sleeve, naive little prince!″

And she took to the skies, growing, growing, growing.

He scrambled out of the way a second to late, and the deep red potion shattered onto the ground by his foot, and burst into dark swirling smoke. He coughed as spluttered as it filled his lungs almost strangling as he rasped, and then, a dull numb tingling filled his chest. It felt like he was being disconnected from something he didn’t have. And all at once the air cleared and he was on his feet again, charging out to ready to fight, the dragon witch cackled she opened her mouth, swirling grey-blues and white, and black and dark grey, magic beam blasting forward, as he took the first swing.

–

Watching on from the nearby forests, everything was going to plan so far. The faeries were now safe from the roaring battle, having helped make sure they had all left the area. He didn’t have particular attachment to them, as they lived in between to two sides of the imagination, but he didn’t want to see them hurt.

He sat crouched in the bushes, he kind of felt like, a cat maybe, a wild cat, waiting for one creature to fall in a fight so he could steal the kill.

Shifting his weapon in his impatient hands, he waited.

–

He ducked as rolled as plumes of fire burst from beside him. He panted slightly from exertion, though nothing he wasn’t used to. He had gotten a few good slices in and came out with only some nicks of his own. He bolted to the left and ran forward, stabbing the dragon witches leg, blood splattering the ground like a broken water spout. Taking a breath pausing behind a rock, he had definitely down much more running around.

And that was his downfall. A scaled claws clamped around him as he gasped  and squirmed, dropping the sword as he was lifted up in the air and held up to the dragon witches face. Stilted bright acid yellow eyes stared him down. She chuckled.

“It seems our game of cat and mouse is over.” He couch as smokey air burst into his face when she spoke.

“As if! You can never truly win, I can end this fights whenever i wish if i have to.” He grinned up at her.

Chuckling the dragon witch loomed over him, staring him down with great intensity. “Oh really? I’m afraid your not quite winning this one, this is permanent game over, prince.” She hissed.

“Oh?”

“I, leveled the playing field, so to speak. Months and months of effort, and it was worth it. You stumbled right into that potion. I know what you are, you know I’m smarter than some of the other figments, but I’m there isn’t much you can do with your powers now. I have your blood and your magic, and made a potion to sever your connection with your land of the imagination. You weak, you’re powerless, you have lost.”

It was silent as he stared up at at the dragon witch, eyes wide in surprise, and the dragon witch grinned back much too wide, scaled skin pulled back with fangs on full display.

“Wow. You just call your self the smartest figment in the imagination and then  hit me with that bullshit!” He cackled.

The dragon witches smile had dropped into absolute bewilderment, then anger, then rage.

“Excuse me?! Do you know what position you’re in you foolish boy?!” She squeezed him tight.

He laughed shrill and loud. “I do know what position I’m in, i could definitely think of some better ones though!” He wheezed. “But unfortunate for you Roman may be dumb as a rock but he’s not that dense, did you think he wouldn’t notice.” He grinned feral, showing sharp teeth to math as white bleed into black. “You’ve got the wrong side dragon bitch!”

The dragon witch only had a moment to drop him as she was hit with a sharp piercing hit to the back, a echoing scream as she crumbled smaller, smaller, smaller, and couldn’t move. As steps crunched on the grass in front of her, her head snapped up as she snarled, bound in magic chains.

The actual Roman grinned proudly above her, holding Remus’s mace that at the moment appeared to be twisting with red and green magic.

She sneered and looked behind him, a battle worn Remus grinning just as bright down at her, holding Romans sword.

–

“Well that certainly went well!” Roman clapped his hands together. “The day is saved by the noblest Roman, as always, I didn’t have to worry about the potion.” He pointed at the dragon witch. “That was like, really rude of you by the way.” 

Roman paused from listing things on his fingers looking to Remus. “And you got to beat things up, I guess. Perfectly to plan! Though i really gotta say your acting could have been better, you were not on your game today, I do not act like that thank you.”

“I was more trying not to get turned to fried flesh ashes or my bones crushed into pieces like twigs but fair enough.” He shrugged, grinning as he hit his own shoulder and popped it back into place.

“Eugh.” He shuddered glaring at Remus, who cracked his fingers too. He redirected his attention. ”Anyway! Dragon witch, as punishment for your crimes and general, uhh-”

“Fuckery!”

“That. You are going to be temporarily banished from my realm, dragon witch, for your rein of terror has gone on too long!”

She hissed as she glared up at him. “What are you going to do with me then? You can’t put me anywhere else.”

Roman waved his hand. “Oh I’m not doing anything, you’re going with Remus.”

“What!?”

Remus grinned bouncing on his heels and made jazz hands.

“So i suppose aside from that, that’s me done here. Also Remus stop swinging my weapon around like that, give me back my sword you fiend.”

“Whatever you say! Here!” He shove the sword into Roman’s hand, it was damp and wet on the handle. “I licked it!”

Roman dropped it on the ground face screwed in disgust and rapidly wiped off his hand on his pants as Remus cackled, before realizing he would still have to carry it and slowly putting it back in its sheath. “Ugh I’m going to have to bleach, like, everything.”

He snickered as he took his mace back from Roman.

“Anyway! This prince has too take his leave, Patton’s making cookies. Goodbye dragon witch, bye Remus!”

“Don’t forget to steal me a cookie from Daddy!”

Roman snorted but nodded, rolling his eyes. And with that he sunk out.

–

“Hey i know snakes do, but do dragons have two di-”

“I will claw your eyes out!”

“Kinky!”

Everybody Gonna Talk - Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x Reader (Animal Kingdom)

GIF Credit: X

Author’s Note: ‘Scene’s We’d Like To See’ idea by Ms.@mandy23b​ - Sorry sweetie, I kinda twisted the idea a little so it’s not exactly as requested - but I hope you’ll forgive me!

Thank you for requesting 😘❤

Everybody Gonna Talk - Carly Pearce  Disclaimer: Animal Kingdom characters not mine / Idea not mine / gifs not mine / lyrics not mine

Premise: PDA is not Andrew’s strong point, this you know for certain. But every so often, even Andrew Cody can’t help wanting you... 

Words: 3589

Warnings: Swearing

__________ You got the bad, I got the honey Got the whole town putting their money on you Breaking my heart and running, You got the goods, know how flaunt it Whatever you're doing is making me want it Baby, I'm falling If they got the time, we got the business If they can't stay on their side of the fence then, oh Let's give 'em a show now, whoa Kiss me underneath the streetlight glow Make sure they got a good view through them windows And watch the word get around Hey, people always gonna say anything they wanna say They don't know your touch could start a riot Be anywhere you wanna be, just as long as you're with me Ain't no need for us to keep this quiet Everybody gonna talk Everybody gonna talk anyways Just give me all you got No, don't you ever stop People always gonna talk Go ahead and let 'em talk Let 'em talk ---

The phone on the table beeped, to alert its owner to a text. It was just a burner phone, like all the rest had been – but there was one consistent number that showed up in all of them. Two, now. Andrew Cody corrected himself as he wandered across the room to it, picking it up slowly. Considering that the first number was Baz’s, and he was sitting in this room – the person on the other end of that text could only have been you. “What’s up Pope?” Andrew stared at the mobile for a moment before putting it down again, stifling a smile. He didn’t answer his brother, and Craig muttered something from the couch. Which Andrew also didn’t hear, heading outside. Darren, Jay, Craig and Baz all gave each other the same look – but the youngest three were the ones who scrambled upstairs fastest. What the hell could be going on? Andrew wandered around the side of the house cautiously, looking this way and that. No car and no person escaped the dart of his eyes – these days the police could be anywhere, and everything was unmarked. And he wasn’t just risking this, but risking you. And only when he thought it was safe, did he proceed down the road. His walk was slow, as if he was doing nothing more than passing the time of day – a leisurely stroll that just about anyone could be on. In the hope that maybe to other people he was exactly that – just anyone. Until he rounded the corner. You were sitting on the hood of your car, swinging your legs gently – smile on your face. “Hey stranger!” His lips twitched but he didn’t quite smile; “What are you doing here?” “Well I figured if you weren’t going to let me meet your family, I’d take matters into my own hands!” His eyes shifted from you again, down both streets, and along the parked cars. You’d already done all these checks – but Andrew could never be too careful. There wasn’t a soul in sight on this summer afternoon apart from the two of you, and yet he still had to confirm that for himself. “That’s never going to be a good idea.” You gave a shrug; “You gonna stop me?” Though you had no doubt it would be easy for him. “Here is close enough.” Andrew stopped that lazy walk of his just in front of you, legs brushing yours; “For now.” “I really don’t see what you’re hiding this for.” “When you meet them, I think you’ll understand perfectly.” He placed his hands either side of you, leaning in. You had to arch your body back a little to keep your eyes on his. His stare was always intense and haunting; even when it was gentle – dare you say loving – it saw right through you. You didn’t have secrets between you, you didn’t see how it was plausible to keep anything from a man like this. But then you were the secret, so there was that. Eventually you stopped leaning, smile almost teasing; “But I have to meet them first.” His body remained close to yours, and your tease didn’t make him pull away; “Don’t expect it any time soon.” You supposed that would mean suggesting something else, considering you’d driven all the way up here; “…So you want to take my car around the block?” His blink was slow, and his face scrunched a little, in what could only be described as confusion. But you supposed he really meant ‘now, why would that be a good idea?!’ There was something nearly electric about the buzz of his body this close to yours. Andrew wasn’t as emotionless as he looked – at least not behind closed doors. It had taken you a little while, but no holds barred intimacy - where you literally bared and gave each other everything – proved this man could feel nearly anything. And with him not even inches from you now – foreheads almost touching, all you could think about was the feel of his skin against yours – and it was driving you wild. “Heck – or we could just make out here?” The chuckle came out as more of an exhale, but it was Andrew Cody that was confident enough to initiate the kiss. And you tangled your hands in his hair as he lay you back against your car. “Who the hell is that-!?” Craig was nearly at full volume as the three of them peered out of the window (open window no less, considering the outside temperature) – crowding around for the best view. “SHHHH!!! They’ll hear us-!” Baz almost rolled his eyes as he also ascended the stairs; “What are you doing-!?” “Yo! Baz, you’ll know, does Pope have a girlfriend-!?” “What are you…?” Of course Baz was about the only one that knew you existed, but he hadn’t actually met you yet, and he was curious. Peaking around the window frame he indeed was faced with the scene of a woman sitting on a car talking to Andrew; that must have been you, just by how close he was getting. And you weren’t afraid of him – Baz could tell by your body language. In fact, anything but, you wanted him closer. It was when Andrew leant in to kiss you that the other three almost started screaming. Which attracted the unwanted attention of Smurf. “What on earth is going ON up there-!?” “Pope’s got a fucking girlfriend!!!” Craig cackled disbelievingly, making Baz give him a shove; “Well if you can get one Craig, I’m sure anyone can!” “Yeah – but POPE!?” “What!?” Smurf, who of course wanted to know exactly what they were all hollering about, pushed through them, to watch her eldest making out with a woman on the hood of a car. Baz very nearly cringed at the look that began to set in on her face, because livid didn’t even cover it. But, being Andrew’s best friend – and wanting to significantly lighten the mood… knowing if everyone was on side, the argument now bound to happen wouldn’t be so bad as expected - Baz wanted to take this into his own hands, and encouragingly whistled; Craig joined in “DAMN MAN! GET IT!” Andrew couldn’t have pulled away any faster if he’d have tried; hissing. “Fuck!” You wanted to laugh, but as usual he’d made you breathless. His blue eyes were wide, and he tilted his head away from the house, scowling at the tarmac instead, this time voice a little louder - “Fuck!” You sat up, and pulled him back to you; placing a kiss to his forehead and temple, before catching his lips to catch him of guard; “Don’t worry baby, I’m sure nothing like this ever goes as planned.” And you didn’t let him protest that. Pulling him even closer to you than he was before. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smirk against his lips as the cheering intensified. And if you pissed some people off in the meantime, so be it. *** It was always obvious to you that Andrew was not a PDA guy. He never would be, and that was always fine with you. His occasional touches, the way he would brush his hand over your shoulders, or accidently link his fingers with yours for five seconds when you walked together, grazing his cheek against yours – occasionally it’d be his lips and your heart would virtually skip - sometimes it would be the proximity within which he stood. Comfortable with you in his space – or protecting you by being in yours. Because Andrew had to know you were safe, it was about the only thing he really cared about. Or, his personal favourite, which was what he was doing this morning, just staring at you. You wondered how many could handle that. Sometimes it made you nervous, sometimes it made you smile so much your cheeks hurt. You wondered what it was; if he just liked watching you, if he was curious, if he was trying to figure you all out in his mind. All three? You’d reckon so. Sometimes you liked helping Smurf out in the kitchen, you weren’t sure how much she enjoyed this, but you decided that if you were helpful and sweet and gave her no reason to hate you (besides stealing Andrew – and she made enough jabs to let you know you were certainly stealing him) then it was on her. And by this point all the boys loved you; so she wasn’t about to get rid of you easily either. You thought she might never say it, but sometimes you thought she was happy to have another girl around – because it wasn’t like Baz and Cath lived here. So with everyone already gathered around the kitchen table, you were finishing up, smiling at their ridiculous morning chatter, when Andrew appeared. He stood at the far end of the kitchen counter, observant as ever. Those blue eyes never missed anything. It was a couple of minutes before he moved, slow steps down the counter – you’d already noticed him, but turned like you hadn’t. He made a motion with his hand to enquire whether or not you would like a drink, and you smiled gently with a nod. Again, the movement of his mouth wasn’t a smile, but it was something – and he brushed his arm across your back as he passed you, fingertips grazing across your waistline and making you bite your lip. You turned, and watched him pour you and himself a glass before he returned to you. Stopping just short of being too in your personal space, before sliding the glass to you. “Thank you.” He nodded, leaning against the counter, head tipping again. “What?” Although by the way Andrew’s hand moved across the surface and took yours, fingers overlapping one at a time, before he laced them together, you knew the answer to your question. His other hand reached out, tucking back stray strands of hair. He noticed it was something you did when he watched you often, whether a cute habit or nervous tick, but he sometimes liked doing it himself. You waited for him to come to you, and he did, slowly. There were mere inches between you, but Andrew made it feel like miles, before his lips touched yours. Everyone else was too involved in their conversations; as your grip on his hand tightened, your other hand winding around his waist to pull him closer. Eyes closed, he had the same idea, drawing you to him. The chatter ground to a halt, starting with Craig – who shut everyone else up. And soon cutlery was clattering to the floor or the table. Andrew!? PDA!?.... ANDREW!? They all turned to each other, as Andrew unlinked your hands to wind his other arm around you, to check everyone else was also seeing this. The kiss didn’t break, and he was the one to initiate the pressure changes, soft to rough and back again, how deep he wanted to go – you’d let Andrew break it too. And usually he did – then he’d pull away as if nothing happened. That’s the way he was. But when his lips were on yours, like this, you savoured every second of it – you wanted him closer, you wanted him so close that you didn’t know where you ended and he begun anymore. Though – preferably not in the kitchen of his mother’s house. And Andrew wasn’t that kind of man. Which only made you yearn for it more. “What the hell-!?!” Was the cry you heard from the table, but you didn’t bother paying attention to it. All that was running through your head was ‘Hell YES this is happening – and you’re gonna sit down, shut up and fucking witness it!’ Which came across as the smug smirk on your face. But it didn’t stop Andrew from kissing you. And you were proud of him for that. Smurf was probably sitting there freaking out once again but you also didn’t care about that. Liking or hating you was her decision. But Andrew was yours, and you were his. You moved your hand from the counter, raising it to them with a middle finger – directed as Craig specifically. Which raised a clamour from the table that you were satisfied with. This was thrilling and fast going to your head, and Andrew caught that – breaking from your lips, he kept his eyes on you – placing his forehead to yours. You closed your eyes once more, linking all your fingers with his. Sometimes, even this man could make you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. How many others could there possibly have been?

You reckoned you already knew the answer to that. You. Only you. *** Months Later…

 He was still asleep when you woke. Andrew’s sleep was usually broken by strange dreams, so if he was sleeping soundly or sleeping straight, you liked leaving him to it. God knows he needed it. You pressed a gentle kiss into his bare shoulder and left the bed – gathering your clothes and wandering on through into the bathroom. The house was quiet – but already opened up, light and airy meant someone was up. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was Smurf, you knew she didn’t exactly like the sway you had over her oldest, because it broke her hold on him, but she tolerated you – maybe had even secretly warmed to you. And for now, you’d take it. Besides, you’d been on her bad side enough to know that Andrew would defend you if necessary. You showered quickly, singing quietly to yourself, and dressed in a soft vest top and shorts. You’d seen the weather earlier, and it was going to get hot. Maybe you’d get to chill with him on the back patio today… maybe you’d all have a barbeque - you’d like that. Something quiet and peaceful, things like that were rare in this family. You were just finishing up in the mirror, letting your hair airdry, when the door creaked open. That was another thing about getting up before all the boys in this house; that lock was damn faulty. Not that the man behind the door really gave a damn about things like that, whether that be you or any of his brothers. Andrew blinked against the light, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. And making you wonder why he’d even bothered to get up yet. “Mornin’ babe.” “Mornin’.” His return of your greeting was groggy and he rubbed his eyes, pushing the door closed with his foot. “Did you sleep well?” Though awake he didn’t look like it “Mhm.” He shrugged, walking forward to place his head on your shoulder. You were happy enough to receive any kind of affection from him, and you ran a hand through his hair; “Honey, why did you wake up?” “Can’t sleep.” can’t go back to sleep more like. But then he pulled back, head tipped, look inquisitive “…Were you singing?” You very nearly blushed, “I was.” “…I was listening.” He kept staring at you like he was going to continue the sentence, but he didn’t. Not quite all the way to a compliment, but the sentiment was there. “Thank you.” You said it anyway, kissing his cheek. His face was scratchy against your clean, smooth skin – making your rub your cheek as you pulled back. But Andrew didn’t let you pull very far – you smelt clean, like your brand of body spray, but like all his shower products too. You smelt like him, like his things, and that did make him smile – which only made you smile to see one on his face. Before you giggled; “You need a shave!” “Oh? Yeah?” “Mhm!” You turned back to the sink, running the tap – and then rifling through the medicine cupboard for his razor. “Mm.” Andrew repeated the sound you had made, as if he’d just remembered something. He reached into the cupboard himself, for a little orange bottle clearly marked Andrew Cody - you raised a curious eyebrow as you watched him unscrew the cap and then dry swallow one, but said nothing else. It was like proving he’d done it and he felt better to do it with you. All you did was give him a gentle nudge of appreciation as you shut the tap off, but he knew exactly what that meant. “Alright…” You sat up on the bathroom sink, tipping your head to him, and tugging him a little closer to you; “Come here and I’ll sort this mess…” “This mess!?” To be honest he didn’t look too bad, but if you got to tease him and he was going to respond to you positively, then of course you were going to say something like that. This was the Andrew you knew, playful wasn’t the right word – but he was reaching for it. He was so close, and trying. You didn’t mind what Andrew was, as long as he was trying. He placed his hands on the side of the sink and leant forward, blue eyes still calculating – still trying to figure out what exactly was in your head. You ran a hand through his hair, with a little nod, biting your lips together. Andrew closed his eyes to the feeling for a moment – letting it run through him – he wasn’t so much touch starved as unaccustomed to having someone like you touch him. Affection still played out like a foreign term to him, and it certainly did to the rest of his family they still watched the two of you together like it was a mirage. But then there was you. And there was something even Andrew Cody couldn’t explain about you. You made him hold still as you evenly distributed shaving cream over his face, allowing him to once again savour the feeling of your fingertips over his skin. He’d never admit that out loud. He would certainly never ever act like this in front of anyone else – possibly not even Baz. But when you were alone together – you didn’t dare say he was a different person - but for a moment you were sometimes able to forget what he did for a living, and that the word psychopath was sometimes a little too liberally floated around. You took a deep breath, and Andrew went from subdued to completely motionless as you took a razor to his face; “Look I know some out there would like to take a blade to my throat, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do the job for them.” You very nearly laughed; “Was that humour, Mr.Cody?” “No.” And you thought that was pretty true. The razor moved smoothly over his skin, and with a little help from the warm water you had him nearly done. Except he decided to tip his head to look in the mirror and judge that for himself; “No! Don’t move, I’m going to cut you! Keep still…!” Then he did smile, nearly a smirk; “Shouldn’t let you near me with sharp objects if you have that little faith in yourself.” “Carful or I’ll do the job for them.” “You’ll probably do it better. At least you know what you’re doing. Just make it a quick cut.” Then he squinted slightly, “Could be a bit messy. And my mother would never forgive you.” “Ooh- Cold! I don’t think she forgive me anyway.” “You’re growing on her.” You grimaced, thinking that wasn’t what you’d call it, and retrieved a towel to dry his face. You stared at each other for a moment longer, and you placed your forehead to his; “Andrew, I love you.” You didn’t expect an answer, you hadn’t ever been given one yet. Maybe he’d never tell you those three words – but Andrew had his own way of doing so. He closed his eyes again, pushing his head a little firmer against yours, hands slid up your arms to frame your face. Then he leant in, lips to yours – and softly. That only made you pull him closer to you, arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist. You weren’t about to let this moment go to waste; but Andrew had the same idea. He let you deepen the kiss; slow and gentle, but needy. The kind of make out session that would usually lead elsewhere, hands tangled in each other’s hair – but right now you were sitting on the edge of a sink. And the moment may well have passed. Andrew pulled your body flush to his; kiss becoming fervent, passionate – the kind that was going to leave you short of breath. Darren didn’t get the memo, and the bathroom door swung open again. You broke apart – facial expressions varying levels of annoyed. Darren didn’t fancy his chances with either – covering his face “OH, SHIT! THIS AGAIN-!?!” Andrew’s face was suddenly back to what you were used to around his family, that vacant coldness that scared nearly everyone. His hands had dropped to your sides, but he hadn’t left you. “You wanna get the fuck out.” “Y-Yeah-!” Darren backed away and took off down the corridor, only making Andrew sigh angrily; “Close the FUCKING DOOR why don’t ya-!?” You stifled a laugh as he sighed angrily. “Good morning Cody household.” Andrew huffed, picking you up off the sink, - not willing to share you with anyone just yet - and carrying you back towards his bedroom, which had you internally ecstatic; “Not on my watch.”

---

@menndelsohn​ @3134045126​​ @happyskywhale​ @wltz-bby​ #MendoTagSquad

Dynamite with a laser beam

 Chasing Ghosts ‘verse

 ---

“You look like shit.”

“Mmmhm.”

It’s not the argument she’s expecting. Not even close. She waves a teasing hand across his face, trying to distract from the paper he’s glaring holes into. He bolts out of the spindle backed kitchen chair fast enough that the thing crashes to the floor.

She finds him in the bathroom, crouched over the toilet and hacking up the last dregs of the coffee he’d been working on at the table.

“Talk to me.”

“You read it.”

“I did.”

It’s not worth a lie to pretend she didn’t. She knows he hasn’t had contact with anyone of shared ancestry in more years than she’s been closer than blood. She also knows that the letter from some lawyer’s office claims he’s been given a laughable measure of an estate that didn’t give enough of a shit about him to keep him from a long succession of foster and group homes as a kid. The name and age of the dead old dude in the letter make it likely they’re related to the grandparents who dumped James on social services when he wasn’t yet in double digits. Probably one of the many relatives who was asked and refused to take him on. Doesn’t matter.

“Fucking sucks,” she says. It’s all that can be offered. There aren’t words for their childhoods. Not words that should be said out loud. Voicing them makes it too real.

He’s on his feet now, flushing the evidence away and rinsing his mouth at the tap. She waits in the doorway while he splashes water on his face, rubs harshly at it with a hand towel, and rinses his mouth out a second time. She watches until his breathing slows before she gets closer, keeping a close eye on the pulse point at his neck. She can’t see his heartbeat bounding away there anymore, and that means the hair trigger is reduced enough that he won’t swing.

“C’mere,” she tells him, stopping far enough away that it’s on him to reach out.

He shakes his head, stepping around her and striding down the hall to the sitting room. He collapses in a corner of the sofa, pulling his knees up and dropping his head to them like a little kid. Tasha runs through options. It’s been a long time since she’s seen him fall to pieces like this. She’s not altogether certain she has.

Talking is clearly out. There are things you just don’t say. Alcohol is a risky choice. James is and always has been a wild card there. Usually a calm, mellow drunk. Occasionally a little on the sad side. But once in a great while, he can be mean. Never to her, but still, not worth it. He won’t take opiates. She’s tried. They played with them plenty as kids, but he won’t let her feed him little tablets that numb everything down anymore. He hates amphetamines. Says he doesn’t like being so keyed up. That leaves benzos (probably the same risk as alcohol, though it’s been too long since she’s seen him on them to be sure) or her personal safest standby of little red pills from the cough and cold aisle.

Decision made, she retrieves several bottles from the back of her bedside drawer and combines them into one. With any luck he won’t asks questions when she hands it over. A quick check of her favorite drug calc app verifies that she’s guessed close enough. He outweighs her by better than double. He needs about that much more to get him out of his head long enough to come back down soft and settled.

She stops in the kitchen to fold the letter and shove it into the very bottom of the junk drawer. Steve can deal with it later. She’s not touching it again and she’s sure as hell not letting him.

“Jamie?” she asks on her way into the room. Startling a falling to pieces James is not a thing she’s interested in trying tonight.

“M’fine, Tash.”

“Bullshit.”

She reaches for his hand and presses the bottle into it. He cocks his head to the side and looks at her with raised brows.

“Seriously? What am I, sixteen?” The question could feel harsh, judging, but his soft eyes ensure it’s just one of gentle teasing. He knows what she’s trying to do. She’s never been good at comfort. Distraction though, that’s her forte.

“Nah, gotta be legal to buy it,” she shoots back. It’s a long-standing joke of theirs that she looks young enough that she even gets carded for that.

He opens the bottle and tips a mouthful of pills onto his tongue. Passes it back and takes the offered tumbler of water, trades for the pill bottle and shakes the rest into his mouth. A couple swallows of water later and he sticks his tongue out, the tip touching the space just beneath his lips with mouth wide.

“Asshole,” Tasha mutters. It’s a maneuver the group home parents required during medication administration. To prevent anyone from squirrelling away their drugs under tongues and between teeth and cheek.

“You love me anyway,” he replies with a smile. “How long will that take?”

“An hour, give or take. Maybe less since you’re empty.”

“You playing, too?” he asks her. The gods of good sense are a cacophony in her head of all the reasons that’s not a solid choice. She grins and heads to her room to grab more little red capsules. A lifetime of choking chemicals down in secret bids her to knock them back in the bathroom but she knows the rules, decided on when they were both still jailbait. Play together – watch one another dose.

She mimics his feigned pill check and takes the empties to the kitchen trash, burying them beneath the crumpled napkins and half hoping Steve won’t notice. A couple bottles of Gatorade grabbed from the fridge and she all but skips back into the room. It’s been a long time since they’ve been properly high together, and circumstances be damned, she’s going to fucking make it good.

Item number one, movie for coming up. A quick scroll through the streaming options and Bohemian Rhapsody is on the screen. She loves the music, James won’t ever admit it but he does as well. It’s one of the lasting effects of don’t ask, don’t tell. He has this strange need to only claim acceptable interests. And the rules governing acceptable are long and convoluted.

By the midpoint of the film, his skin is hot to the touch and there are tremors climbing up and down the muscles of his arm. His head is tucked into her chest and it’s only by way of knowing him as well as she does that she knows to reach down and carefully slide the prosthetic from his arm, rolling the protective sleeve off the end of his salvaged limb. The dimpled, pitted skin there feels tight and oddly smooth under her fingers, but the purr the touch bring from his lips is reason enough to keep moving fingertips along the grooves there.

“I love you,” she whispers to him.

“Mmhmm,” is all she gets back. It takes a minute to process that this is not the expected response. A minute more to realize that he’s stiffening up, that one side of his body is twitching hard and the other in nearly boneless.

She knows, academically, that this is okay. That she does this. That it’s fine. But the high and suddenly frightened part of her only sees her big brother twitching and barely conscious. She runs the math in her head again. Not quite double what she takes. He’s twice her size. The dose is right. Has to be. But, oh, shit. It occurs to her that she prefers to take enough to be really, really high. This is not an intro dose. Not a getting back to it dose. Not a playing around for a bit amount. It’s a lot. And a lot means she’s going to have a really high James. And she’s also going to be really high. That’s… not good.

She waits until he’s still again, eyes open and smiling at her like nothing strange has happened at all. “I’ll be just a minute,” she tells him, hopping gracelessly up from the couch and stumbling down the hall.

Bathroom lights too bright for already altered pupils. She flicks the switch off, not that she needs light for this little task. There’s a ridiculous little night light in the outlet at any rate, so it’s plenty illuminated to find the commode. Grab the toilet lid and yank the thing up, bend at the waist and jam three fingers back, hard. Cough, once, twice, and then it’s all red and pale blue. Half melted pills mixing with frothy Gatorade and stomach acid. Sputtering, drawing a couple quick breaths and repeating the process. Over and over until she’s certain there’s nothing left. Wipe the toilet. Flush. Wash her face. Still high, no stopping that, but not too much, not this time. No Jamie to watch over her. Her turn to watch over him. She used to know how to do this. She still does.

Back to the couch, stretching out beside him, on him, hands travelling over his chest and shoulders, up his face and tangling in his hair. Telling him she loves him, that she’s glad they’re home again, that she’s even glad for early ass in the morning lecture classes that bring her brothers she knew were lost.

“Hey,” he finally interrupts her, a finger to her lips, shushing the endless flow of words.

“Breathe, Tash.”

Even high, he’s watching out for her. Some habits don’t die. The music on the screen is getting louder, and the finale is afoot. He tugs her up, both of them wobbly and giggling. “Dance with me?” he asks.

It’s silly. She’s classically trained, good at what she does, did, whatever. But this? She does it in clubs. Likes it. But she’s not skilled at it. Not by a long shot. So they make fools of themselves, bouncing around the living room like they’re at Wembley, until one of them stumbles and they go crashing to the floor.

And that is the moment Steve’s infinitely shitty timing chooses to arrive home from work.

“The hell?”

“Hi!” James calls from where he’s still on his back, giggling and holding Tasha to him like a cuddle toy.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Steve grumbles, kneeling next to them and taking in the pair of them and their red, shocky eyes. If the blown pupils weren’t giveaway enough, the nystagmus would definitely do the job.

“James had a rough day,” Tasha supplies.

“Taaaassssha helped. Made it all bettah,” James adds unhelpfully.

“Did she now?” Steve asks, looking for all the world like he can’t quite decide if he wants to hug or murder them.

“Tash?” James asks, followed by a hiccup.

“Fuck. Help me get him up?” Tasha asks Steve, who obliges and half drags the pair of them down the hall.

She holds him up by the hair, whacking his back between his shoulder blades and telling him to stick out his goddamn tongue. She’s less than soothing, but she knows better than to be too soft with him. Steve is just outside the space, and practically twitching to cuddle the puking boy clinging to the toilet like a life raft. Lucky for him, Tasha knows better than to let him try. James has never swung at her. He very well might with someone big enough to fight back, and that would make for a much more complicated evening than any of them need.

She’s still high enough for the edges of her awareness to be just a little blunted, for everything to be just fuzzy enough to be fun and soft and okay. But she’s sober enough to know that trip sitting is absolutely not a job for Steve.

“He’s fine,” she says over her shoulder.

“You’re an idiot,” is all he replies. The look on his face says far, far more. It says he cannot believe he trusts her near his boyfriend. That he hates her for this. Just a little. Though she doesn’t know if it’s because this is a thing she can share with James that he won’t touch or if it’s because he thinks she’s a hazard. Tasha suspects it to be rather a lot more of the former. She whispers to Steve that there’s a letter in the kitchen he needs to read. Where to find it. And a few choice words of advice on what to do with it. He takes off, returns a few minutes later, jaw set and eyes hard.

“Fucking assholes,” he growls.

“M’empty,” James finally advises, and it’s Steve who pulls him to his feet, half drags him down the hall to bed.

Tasha fully expects to be sent away, to be tossed into her own bedroom and quite possible lectured like an errant teenager for her sins. Instead, Steve pulls back the covers and pats a space for her.

“Go on,” he tells her. “He’s all yours tonight, you fucking nightmare.”

The words sting, but the lips that kiss her forehead are soft.

Tasha queues up a playlist of EDM and cuddles close to her brother. Steve leans down enough to hug them both and whispers to her that he’s crashing in her room. She nods. It’s not like she expected him to stick around. He can’t stand to see her high, there’s no way he’s going to be able to spend the night with James while he trips out, especially now that he’s made it to the mostly incoherent place where he hums tunelessly to the music, pets Tasha’s hair, and occasionally whispers something about the colors and lights.

Tangled together in the bed, she lets herself drift alongside him. Colors, lights, soft hands and slurring words. Home. Safe. Loved. Even everything else hurts.

Black Coral Chapter 19: Grief

Solavellan, Mermaid AU. Ongoing.

Masterpost | Read from Chapter One | Read on A03

There are two elves sitting on a fence next to the road, looking out over Crestwood Bay.

This would not normally give either of the Grey Wardens pause; the spot would, under normal circumstances, offer a pretty view over the sparkling water of the bay and the sprawling floodwall at its mouth, with a gentle sea breeze to keep them from growing too warm under the summer sun.

It is, however, the middle of the Maker-forsaken night, with rain falling like buckets from the sky, and, perhaps most importantly, there are thrice-damned undead crawling out of the water.

Not, unfortunately, Darkspawn, or they’d be duty-bound to do something about it, orders be damned.

As they draw closer, however, Emric can make out scattered bones on the path, seaweed tangled in some of them. And then he sees the spear resting on the fence beside the young lady—dressed in some appallingly waterlogged but mundane clothing, and those funny footwraps that elves sometimes prefer to boots—and that the young man is trying to keep a broadsword dry under the heavy cloak he’s got the good sense to wear.

Emric waves to the pair as he and his partner draw near, though he can nearly feel the man beside him rolling his eyes in frustration as he does.

“Hello!” he calls, when he is certain they are close enough to be heard above the awful wind.

He is close enough now to see the dark tattoos on the young woman’s face—Dalish then, he thinks, with no more than a quick glance at the man beside her to confirm he has those markings, too. A light colour, but that’s not all that uncommon.

The woman smiles in greeting, but the man only scowls at them, so Emric directs his question to her.

“Miss,” he says, “I’m afraid it’s not safe out here for travellers. There’s a village up the hill, and they can provide you with shelter.”

“We can handle ourselves,” the man says, his accent curiously Tevene for a man with Dalish tattoos, “though I thank you for the warning. I wonder at the quality of such shelter if neither of you will take advantage of it for yourselves.”

Emric tries to smile, but his cheeks are so cold it’s little better than a grimace. “Orders, I’m afraid. We’re to book passage West, once our business is concluded here. No delays.”

The woman kicks something—and Emren looks down to see it’s a skull, the front smashed open.

When he looks back up at her, she’s tilting her head, as if asking him a question. Her pupils are eerily green in what little light his lantern offers him.

“Does your business perhaps include these things rising from the water?” the man asks. “We’ve fought off our fair share, but they keep coming.”

Emren’s partner—possibly exhausted from carrying the extra weight of the water in his clothes—interrupts then. “We are looking for a rogue Warden, goes by the name of Stroud. Orlesian. Ridiculous moustache, impossible to track down. Either of you seen him?”

The young woman shakes her head, and her friend’s brow rises. “Curious,” he says. “How, precisely, does a Grey Warden go rogue?”

“Can’t say,” Emren answers, with a scowl directed at his partner. “But Warden-Commander Clarel has ordered his capture. If you hear anything of him, it would be appreciated if you could send word to the Wardens at Adamant Fortress.”

“Certainly,” he replies. “Thank you for the warning—perhaps we will head to this village then, if there are only more undead on the road ahead.”

Emric and his partner leave the two to their travels, though the elves do not get up and leave when the Wardens do. Before the road curves away, Emric happens to turn and glance back.

They are still there—two pairs of eyes gleaming like wild animals in the dead of night.

Though there are enough elves in the Grey Wardens for it to be a familiar sight, it still makes him shudder as he turns away.

 --

“Adamant, then?” Hawke wonders as she comes out of the bushes behind Fenris, swinging her legs over the fence to perch beside him.

Varric is close behind her, but he simply leans on the fence between the two elves, glancing up at Aevalle. She seems to be focused on the large body of water that spits out walking skeletons every twenty minutes or so, which Varric supposes is fair. “I’ve heard of it,” he says, “but I don’t have a clue where it is.”

Stroud appears shortly after, pulling wet leaves from his apparently infamous moustache. “It rests on an island that rises out of the Abyssal Sea,” he informs them, “formed from a battle on a peninsula during the first Blight. It is at least two weeks’ journey from any settlement worth speaking of, due to the constant storms that plague the region.”

Varric whistles. “Curly’s not going to like that.”

“We can cut that time at least in half with the Keeper,” Bull interrupts, standing up where he had been couching before. Half a bush is stuck to one of his horns, its roots and mud dangling in the air, but he either doesn’t notice or just pretends not to.

Dorian finally emerges from the bushes, not a trace of leaf or twig on his person, to lean on the fence at Aevalle’s other side. “And then we would have no backup from the Inquisition’s formidable navy in case something were to go horribly wrong.”

“I’m not saying we take the whole thing by force,” Bull amends. “Just a quick recon mission—sneak in, confirm that Corypheus is behind the weird Calling, sneak out. No one has to even know we’re there.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely plan.” Merrill climbs up onto the fence beside Varric, casting a spell over their heads to keep the rain off. “It sounds much better than barging our way in through the front door and almost dying, like we usually do.”

Hawke bristles. “Well we can’t all have weird sentient submersible boats, now can we?”

Stroud gives Hawke an alarmed look. “What?”

“And who even says they have a side door,” Hawke continues, “huh?”

Stroud doesn’t look much like he understands, but he says, “The fortress rests at the top of the island’s sheer cliffs, and there is only one approach leading up from the sea.”

“See?” Hawke crosses her arms over her chest. “Your plan stinks. I vote we break it down.”

Aevalle is still staring off into space, so Varric gives her a bit of a nudge.

She startles, then looks down at him.

“You still with us, Drifter?”

She attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks back out to the bay briefly, before turning back to Varric and signing, Something’s not right here.

“No shit,” he replies, deadpan. “And here I thought the skeletons were a tourist attraction.”

“Oh?” Merrill looks out to the water. “Is she talking about the bay?”

“Yeah, she’s had the brilliant idea that something fishy might be going on here.”

Someone groans. Hawke snorts.

She signs again, and Varric nearly rolls his eyes. “Sorry, I’ll clarify—she says the water feels wrong. Whatever that’s supposed to mean, I’m not entirely sure.”

Merrill only tilts her head curiously. “She’s right. I’ve been thinking the same thing ever since we got here—it feels sick, doesn’t it?”

“Merrill,” Hawke pipes up. “You are near and dear to my heart, and I will kill anyone who looks at you sideways—but it’s a giant lake. How can it be sick?”

“It’s not a lake,” Fenris interrupts, pointing to the long wall along the coastline that they can barely make out through the pouring rain. “I believe that is a floodwall, meant to protect this area from flooding during storm season.”

“And it’s doing a great job,” Hawke says. “Except for the giant saltwater lake it’s obviously let in.”

Aevalle shifts uncomfortably on the fence, still looking at the water with no small amount of concern on her features. I’ve felt this before, she signs, and Varric dutifully interprets.

“Where?”

Her lips twist, and she takes quite a while to respond. But she does, eventually, sign, This old ruin, where a piece of the sea was trapped, separated from the deep, and grew stagnant.

“Did skeletons pop out of it?” Bull wonders.

No. She looks very distant as she signs, But something very wrong lived there.

Dorian seems to know what she’s talking about, and reaches to touch her shoulder with a sympathetic wince. Varric glances behind him at Cole, who is still standing in the bushes, but the kid doesn’t give him a hint.

“I’ve felt this before, too,” Merrill says, a note of longing in her voice. “It’s very rare, but… sometimes bits of the sea get trapped by the land, and whatever else was stuck with it gets… well, strange.”

Dangerous, Aevalle corrects.

“Yes,” Merrill agrees. “So it’s odd, then, that they keep the flood gate closed, even though they could have drained it at any time…”

“It became damaged during the Blight,” Stroud informs them, back straight. “It flooded out the old town of Crestwood. Presumably, since the damage is constantly underwater, no one has had the ability to fix it.”

After a moment’s consideration, Aevalle hops off the fence, and starts stripping off her coat.

“Uh, Drifter,” Varric says, “little cold for a swim, maybe?”

She ignores him, throwing her rain-soaked jacket over the fence behind her. Then off comes her shirt—and, for once, she’s got some sort of breastband on underneath that looks like it’s made out of sealskin. Varric finds himself hoping that it’s lined with something soft.

“You are not swimming alone in undead-infested waters,” Dorian begins to argue.

Aevalle ignores him, undoing her belt and stepping out of her trousers. She’s wearing matching smalls as well, and she doesn’t bother taking off her footwraps.

“I hardly think she needs to go alone,” Merrill amends, resting her own spear on the fence so she can take her jacket off.

Varric stares up at her, aghast. “Daisy,” he says. “Don’t tell me…?”

She blinks down at him for a moment, curious. And then she seems to catch on, and laughs.

“Oh,” she says, “Oh Varric.”

“If you’ve been hiding fins on me all these years, I swear I will—”

“No!” she waves her hands in the air. “No! I just know a little air bubble spell! It’s one of the first spells I ever learned! In case someone ever needed help underwater. Really!”

As Varric squints suspiciously up at her, Fenris sighs.

“Stop shaking my arm, Hawke.”

The sound of wet leather creaking indicates that she has not, in fact, stopped shaking Fenris’s arm. “This is it,” she hisses.

Fenris only sighs again.

“In case no one has noticed,” Varric says, as loud as he can, “there’s currently a ridiculous storm blowing through.”

Merrill, stripped down to leathers a little similar to the ones Aevalle is wearing, ignores him, speaking to Aevalle instead. “Oh, before we go down—this,” she says, awkwardly signing, “is everything’s alright, yes? And this is up—and this is down?”

Aevalle impatiently nods to every gesture Merrill makes, walking backwards into the water.

“Look where you’re going for a change!” Dorian shouts, just as Aevalle finally turns and dives into the water.

Merrill follows a moment after—and as they all watch, a bolt of lightning bursts across the sky, catching the brilliant blue of Aevalle’s scales as she leaps once from the water, fully transformed, fins flaring in the air before she dives back under again.

“Subtle as always,” Dorian complains.

“Unbelievable,” Stroud says, his voice soft and full of wonder.

“Unbelievable,” Hawke grumbles, and Varric glances over just in time to see her slap a coin into Fenris’ waiting palm. Fenris has the good grace to only look a little smug about it.

“Did you make a bet with Fenris over whether or not I was just pulling your leg?”

“I absolutely made a bet with Fenris over whether or not you were pulling my leg.”

“You came out of hiding because you thought I was pulling your leg?!”

“And?” Hawke asks, looking genuinely baffled that he’s even asking.

“How is this achieved?” Stroud wonders. “Some—some great feat of magic?”

Varric catches Fenris send a wary glance Dorian’s way. For his part, Dorian doesn’t seem to notice.

“Apparently it runs in the family,” Varric says, making a placating gesture and giving Fenris a significant look. “Only your standard weird ocean shit here, apparently. No magic required.”

Fenris rolls his eyes, but seems to let it go for the moment.

When Varric looks back over at Stroud, he sees Bull leaning over from behind him and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Also,” Bull adds, “something not to go around telling everyone about. Yeah?”

Bull gives the Warden’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Stroud is still staring out at the water—but Varric can see him nod, very slowly.

“You know,” Hawke says. “I always thought Merrill was being metaphorical when she talked about this shit. But I guess, in hindsight, that time she got really drunk and told us all a story about how what’s-his-face landed in a boat with fins sticking straight up in the air probably should’ve tipped us off.”

“I thought she was so drunk she forgot the word for feet,” Varric admits, which makes Hawke laugh.

“A moment,” Stroud says, loudly enough that everyone turns to look at him. “Earlier, you said, submersible vessel. Am I correct?”

“Glad to see you’re keeping up,” Varric says. “Yes, we have a ship that sinks. Filled with air so we don’t drown, which is reassuring. And then it goes wherever Drifter there tells it to, and we all pop out and give everyone on shore a pleasant, not at all freaky, surprise.”

“Which is not a secret considering the entire city of Val Royeaux saw us do exactly that,” Bull adds.

Hawke laughs. “Bet that was a hell of an entrance.”

“Adamant once housed the Grey Warden’s gryphons,” Stroud says, “or at least most of them. To this day, the fortress rests on either side of a sheer chasm, where the gryphons roosted in caves carved out of the cliffs, all connected to the fortress above by tunnels that have fallen into disrepair.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian drawls. “And this is relevant because…?”

“Because,” Stroud says, “at the bottom of that chasm, enclosed on all sides, there is a massive reservoir of ocean water.”

No one says anything for a moment, as the realisation dawns on them, one by one. Hawke’s eyes light up. Just as she opens her mouth to speak, Cole, still standing in the bushes, says very softly, “A side door.”

 --

When the sun rises, it does not sparkle on an inland sea.

Instead it shines down on ruined homes, on old bones that no longer rise or take up arms. Years of dirt and silt compacting as it dries out, and the corrupted seawater filters out into the bay.

Aevalle watches it as Bull guides the Mayor of Crestwood out of his home, his hands bound behind his back. She doesn’t look at him, even when Bull begins to walk the man down to the little town’s harbour, where the Keeper waits. She has the piece of black coral Hawen gave her in one hand and her knife in the other as she stares down at Old Crestwood, at sea-soaked timber and belongings scattered on the ground. Some of them catch the sunlight and glitter, though she knows some of it is the bodies of fish, not yet begun to rot.

She keeps turning the coral over and over in her hands. It’s too small, she thinks. Too small a thing, for all the death she’s seen.

They were sick, the Mayor had said. The Blight. Every one of them.

It had not been in his defense. As he said it, he looked relieved more than anything.

She turns the coral again. Again. It’s not—it’s not—

She closes her eyes. Breathes in, and out.

The caves had just been full of skeletons. Full of them. They’re still down there—unburied. Unburned.

In the distance, the tide is receding. Pulling the tainted water with it, back to the deep.

She wonders what will happen to it out there. To all that pain and misery, trapped in one place until it rotted everything it touched, washed away by clear water, pulled past seafoam and wake and out to depths too vast for her to ever dream of swimming.

Deshanna used to say that the tide pulled heartache out to sea, and when it came in again brought hope in its place. Breathe in with the rush of the waves, to gather all your sorrow in your chest—and then breathe out, and let the ocean steal away your sorrows.

Where does it take it all, she wonders. And how much can it hold, before it too bursts.

Solas probably knows, wherever he is. Or, at least, he would have something comforting to say. A story that sounds like old words of wisdom, told a different way.

She wishes she could ask him.

“A word.”

She opens her eyes and turns her head. Fenris is standing off to her side, his arms crossed over his chest. Scowling slightly, but she thinks he always does that.

She raises a brow at him, tucking the coral back into her pocket and sheathing her knife. She gestures to the fence she’s sitting on, but he only approaches a few steps more, and does not sit down.

He seems to be studying her face.

“In his letter, Varric said you were a slave.”

A poor one, she thinks. And she had fought it and railed against it all the while—but he isn’t wrong. She was at the mercy of Felix and Dorian’s kindness long after they became her friends. So she nods, once, eyeing him warily.

He’s still looking at her very intently—his eyes narrow, and she thinks that he’s not finding what he’s looking for. So he holds out his arm, and rolls back his sleeve so she can see the markings there. White lines in his skin, raised slightly, that look almost like vallaslin. Maybe if they didn’t have that odd, almost-shining quality to them.

As she watches, they begin to glow. Blue, and pale, their light catching shadows across his face like reflections off the ocean’s surface.

“My master gave me these,” he says, “and I used them to kill him.”

She watches the pattern of light moving across his face as his markings fade, and he lowers his arm once again.

“If your master followed you here, under the guise of friend,” he says, “I can do the same for you.”

It honestly takes her a minute to realise what he’s saying—and he watches her very closely while she processes it, so he very likely sees the precise moment she realises it. She almost laughs, she’s so surprised—and more than a little touched, at the offer he’s making.

She shakes her head, unable to hide her smile.

Fenris frowns at her a little, shifting his weight. “It occurs to me that I should have brought Varric along,” he says.

She does laugh at that. Silently, a hand covering her mouth out of habit more than anything.

When she looks back at Fenris, he is smiling too. “Hawke wants a drink before we leave,” he says. “You are welcome to join us—she wants to know why Varric is so fond of you.”

She nods to Fenris, and then gestures until he seems to gather that she’ll join him in a moment. She does not follow immediately. Instead, she looks back out to the bay—towards the old town before it, and birds flying through the open food gate in the distance.

She takes out the piece of black coral again, and studies it closely. There’s a bump on the bottom half—one irregularity on the otherwise smooth surface. She turns it over, looking at it from a different angle…

It looks a little like a dorsal fin. Like a halla, or a dolphin, or…

She uses her knife to score the coral, and then neatly break it in half.

--

It feels like an eternity since Aevalle last set foot in Seahold.

It’s only been two weeks. The longest she’s gone without walking the ramparts in the morning, or lounging on Solas’s couch in his study, or helping with the orphanage.

The change to the underground docks made in that time has been significant, however.

Lights have been brought down and placed throughout; powered by electricity, it seems, because she cannot make out even a trace of burning oil in the air. It is bright enough now that she can see the mosaics and murals clearly, though she can tell even at a glance that they have been damaged by time and the things that have lived down here, and she has to struggle to make out most of the shapes. As she climbs the stairs she thinks there are soldiers in gleaming armour lining the walls, or perhaps just people in beautiful scales, though she can’t tell which. She spies a figure slipping by in the background, and though she can make out a mouth full of sharp, sharp teeth, the figure is depicted in such a way that she’s not certain if it’s meant to be a shark or a wolf.

Both, probably.

Almost all of the lichen has been cleared out, she realises as she steps onto the cliffs above the docks and her feet touch only uneven, worn stone. She finds instead worktables, cables for the lights, piles of equipment and tools that she thinks are magical or alchemical, but she isn’t certain, and Cullen carrying an extremely heavy looking box while a dwarven woman directs him where to set it down.

“Oh,” she’s saying, “not there, there’s a drip coming from above and if the ceiling has any Stormheart in it, we might all explode and die.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Cullen grumbles, his limbs shaking with the weight of the box. Then he spots Aevalle standing at the stairs, and he straightens a little. “Captain Lavellan,” he says, “you’ve returned.”

She tries not to make a face at the word Captain, but she’s not sure she succeeds.

“Good to see you’re well,” he continues, as he slowly toddles over to where the dwarf points next. “I trust your business in the Exalted Archipelago went smoothly?”

She can’t help but smile a little at the sight of him, essentially waddling because the box is so heavy. She nods, her hands behind her back, and manages to keep herself from laughing until his back is turned.

Behind her, the others are coming up the stairs. She hears Hawke whistle, high and long, and then the Champion of Kirkwall comes to stand beside her and sling an arm over her shoulders. “Damn,” she says, craning her neck to look up at the ceiling, which is still in shadow in spite of all the lights added on the ground. “I mean, I prefer things like windows and not underground, but for a place to park a boat it’s pretty nice.”

Cullen, half-bent over the box as he sets it on the ground, freezes in place.

“You dock a boat, Hawke,” Fenris corrects her, as Aevalle watches Cullen finish putting the box down, and then slowly stand up and turn around, “not park it.”

“Nuance. Oh, hey, look who it is. Cullen! Remember me?”

Cullen just stares at Hawke for a moment, looking more than a little shell-shocked. “Yes, Hawke,” he says, “I remember you.”

“Oh, the Knight-Captain,” Merrill says, coming to stand at Aevalle’s other side. “It’s been an awfully long time.”

“It’s Commander now,” he corrects, shifting his weight. “I’m no longer a Templar.”

“Oh, that explains why you look like you’ve seen sunshine in the past, like, year,” Hawke says.

Cullen only shakes his head at them before looking once more to Aevalle. “Captain,” he says, “this is Dagna. She’s an arcanist who’s volunteered her services—”

“Hello there!” the dwarf in question calls, immediately and eagerly approaching Aevalle, as if she has been holding back since the conversation began. “You’re her! The Captain! I’m Dagna, the—well, Commander Cullen just told you, I suppose. Is it here? Your ship, I mean. I heard about it in Val Royeaux and I just knew I had to come see it, but you’d already left by the time I got to the docks and—can I see it? The Commander told me you call it the Keeper, and someone else said that it speaks to you? Is it true? Am I rambling?”

“Yes,” Cole says, which makes Aevalle smile again. “But it doesn’t bother her.”

“You can go look for yourself,” Dorian says, drawing Dagna’s attention to him. “It’s not going anywhere. As for me, I am long overdue for a hot bath, and the most expensive bottle of wine I can find in this miserable pile of rocks. Are you coming?”

I have to report to Cassandra, she replies, watching as Bull leads the Mayor of Crestwood past them, his hands bound behind his back and his head sagging.

“Of course. You’ll know where to find me when you’re done,” he says, and saunters off towards the exit—which has had all the dirt cleared away, and a set of wooden stairs built up instead.

“If you’re to make your report,” Cullen says, “I last saw Cassandra in the training yard.”

Behind her, Varric coughs.

“I heard someone here wants to see our fancy boat,” he says, a little too loud, clasping his hands and rubbing them together. “I would love to show you every single thing I know about that boat. Right now.”

“Well hurry up then!” Dagna says, already barrelling right past him for the stairs.

Hawke briefly squeezes her arm around Aevalle’s neck before slipping away. “Well, I for one would kill for some fresh air. And sunshine.”

“You’re supposed to be in hiding, Hawke,” Fenris chides as he falls into step at her side.

“But it would be nice to hide somewhere sunny for a change,” Merrill pipes up, half a pace behind them.

All the way back by the stairs, Aevalle can finally hear Stroud’s voice drifting towards them. “I can’t believe this,” he is saying. “This is—truly—a hidden dock? Only accessible by a single vessel?”

Cullen looks to him, frowning—and then his eyebrows shoot up, and his hand goes to the place on his belt where his sword should be.

He glances once towards Aevalle, and she responds with the sign for friend. Hoping he understands that much, at least.

His shoulders relax a little. The next glance he sends Stroud’s way is assessing, but no longer alarmed. “Jim,” the Commander says, and the soldier next to him nearly drops the box to salute, before he remembers to put it down. “Have Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine brought here immediately. I suspect we have much to discuss.”

 --

Halfway through Aevalle giving her report, Dorian comes back down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “this is—Aevalle, it’s…”

He’s holding a letter in his hand. Dorian’s standing next to one of the bright electric lights, and in its glow she can see the colour of the wax, and the shape of the seal.

House Alexius.

And just like that, she knows.

Dorian is taking her aside and he’s saying words, and telling her how and when, but she already knows. The Blight. Alone, without friends or family at his side.

Once they leave the undercroft, Dorian goes one way—to mourn as he knows best, and she won’t begrudge him for it. But she finds her steps leading her away from the tavern, this night. Down a path she and Solas once walked, down a long beach, to an empty stretch of shoreline where they had sat and she had confessed her failure.

I couldn’t protect them, she’d signed then.

Now, she stands, the waves lapping about her ankles, and she thinks, again, I could not protect him.

Is it irony, she wonders? Varric would know, if she asked him. That she was offered to Alexius as a cover to keep her close at hand until he could turn back time and fix their mistakes with their ritual. That, after failing so completely in keeping her clan safe, her next charge was a dead man?

And he saved her, in the end.

The months before finding Deshanna in that basement are a blur to her, still. A haze of pain and rage punctuated by single, bright moments of clarity. Of peace. Waking up, realising she had fallen asleep under a tree in the estate’s grounds—Felix reading, his back to the trunk. No beatings, when he discovered she’d woken. No anger. Only a smile as he looked up to find her glaring at him, marking his place in the book.

Sleep well?

A wave rushes past her, through her, up to her knees and she inhales with it. She’s crying, now—hot, angry tears spilling down her cheeks. As it recedes she can feel it pulling, hard, and she has to take a step forward to steady herself, so she doesn’t come crashing down into the undertow.

She digs her toes into the sand, and closes her eyes to steady herself. Even as the ocean pulls at that place inside her that always leaps to answer.

It’s not the first time she wonders what would happen, if she just let it pull her as far as it wants to take her. When she was with her clan still, she thought it would mean adventure—that the ocean pulled her to all the places it touched, the lands of the stories her father used to tell.

Now, she suspects that it would only drag her down to depths so deep, the pressure of the water would crush her bones.

As the tide rushes in, she stumbles up the shore, away from the water. Raking a hand through the mess of her wind-swept hair, she catches a glimmer of light on her wrist—and she glances over at it, frowning.

It’s the bracelet Solas bought for her. Moonlight catching in one of the blue, blue beads. The rope isn’t so stark white any longer—it’s been through everything she has since then. Through the flooded basement of Seahold, to fleeing a dragon in the storm-ravaged ocean, to battling a corrupted spirit in a circus tent as it collapsed around her.

The beads still shine, though. Clear, brilliant blue.

Find another clan, Deshanna had begged her. Protect them.

She closes her eyes, and just takes a moment to breathe.

She sits near the spot where Solas had held her, where she confessed her failures and he sang a eulogy for her clan in her stead. She reaches into her jacket and takes out the first piece of black coral, and her knife. There is more than enough moonlight for elven eyes to see, on a night like this, so she begins to carve. She works with the shape of the piece, making the body a little sleeker, carving out a long nose and making a hollow for horns off the back of its head. She carves into its body the whirls her mother used to etch into everything she crafted, as best as Aevalle can remember. As best she can imitate; she does not have her mother’s patience, nor her steady hand.

She has not carved like this in years. Not since she dragged her father’s body back to the clan, alone. It had been a smaller token—she’d nearly broken it in half a number of times. Cut her hands plenty, though she hadn’t felt it, numb with grief.

She finishes the halla before midnight, and she does not cut herself once. She holds it in her palm, and it seems… heavier, now that she is finished. Now that she looks down at it, at the moonlight in the lines she has carved, little flecks of coral dust lingering on the slope of its horns over its back.

It is too small, she thinks, for a whole clan and Felix Alexius. But there is not enough black coral in the world to contain her grief.

She washes the last dust from the carving in the ocean, lapping now at her toes. The tide will start to recede soon. She has no raft of driftwood to light aflame, no voice she can raise in mourning song, but she holds the carving in her hand and thinks, They were my clan. He was my friend.

Seawater drips from the little halla, and for now, that’s enough. So she tucks it into her pocket—and then, after a moment’s hesitation, takes the other half out.

She holds it up to the moon. Lets it illuminate the rough silhouette for a moment. She turns it over until the odd little bump is on the top, and tilts her head a little as she examines the natural curve of the coral. Almost twisting around her finger—a little like Wisdom had curled its great body in the air around her, as it sank slowly to the ground.

Her wrist is framed by the beads on her bracelet. The way they catch the moonlight, it almost looks like they’re glowing with a soft blue light.

She bends over, and begins carving black coral once again.

Honey, I’m Home! ~Part 2 (Moriarty x Reader)

"Honey, I'm home.  Did you miss me?"

You can hear that there's a smile in his voice through your shut door as he slips inside the apartment and locks up behind him.

You can't hear his footsteps, and are reminded how remarkably catlike he is.

It's like nothing has changed.  The similarities are striking between then, before you left him, and now, when you came back.

You, lying in a room in his house, waiting for him to come back.  Against your own will, feeling a rush of happiness when you hear that he's come back home at the end of the day.  It's like nothing has changed.  You're surprised how easy it is to slip back into old habits.

You hear one, two, three locks click, and your door swings open.

"You locked me in?"  You ask incredulously.  You hate it when he treats you like a caged bird.

"Don't most people lock up what's precious to them?"  He asks, a soft smile touching his lips.  "It was merely for protection, pet.  You know what you mean to me."

He crosses the small room in two swift strides, and kneels down beside you, taking your left hand in his.

"Moriarty," you start.

He frowns.  "I thought we were more than that, Y/N."

You can't help but roll your eyes and give a small smile.  "Jim.  I know you did something to him."

He gasps, and widens his eyes.  "Me?"

"Don't play that game.  I know you too well."

"Fine.  He deserved it, anyway.  It's a shame not to take credit for a masterpiece."

"Can I ask what it was that you did?"  Your voice is frosty, but secretly, you're pleased.  It was things like this that made you love him.

"I just cut him up a little."

You tilt your head to the side, and give him an icy stare.

"All right, all right, in the Achilles tendon."

You give a small smile.

"Jim," you chide softly.

"I know, I know..." "Jim, the next time you go to get revenge on my ex... I want you to take me with you."

Jim stares at you in astonishment for a moment.

Without any warning, he takes your face in his hands and kisses you firmly, holding you there until you run out of breath and he releases you.

____________________________________________________________________________

A week later, Jim finally allows you to move out of the room you've been kept in, and try to walk on your ankle.

You and him take slow, hobbling laps around the living room as you lean on him, clutching at his arm for support.

Today, you've just finished your hourly lap, and he's tucked you in with a blanket and a steaming mug of tea.

He sits down in a chaise lounge opposite you, and spreads his arms along the back of the chair,  kicking up his legs on the glass coffee table in front of him.

You want to ask him the question that's been bothering you for a week, but you don't quite know how to ask it.

Not wanting to talk yourself out of it one more time, you blurt it out: "Jim, are you my boyfriend?"

He opens his eyes, and stares at you, his catlike grin spreading across his lips.  "No.  You just life at my place, we eat dinner together, and we kiss in a way that you definitely wouldn’t kiss Joe from HR, if you know what I mean."

You smile.  "Shut up.  I was just wondering."

You wait another minute.

"WOULD you bring me along if you needed to beat up someone else?"

This time, Jim doesn't say anything.

"You NEVER let me help with your work!"  You pout your lower lip.

This time, Jim actually laughed aloud, and sat forward, looking and speaking to you like you're a very small child.

"Y/N," he starts, chuckling, "You don't have, shall we say, the necessary fear factor to help with my line of work."

You shift yourself to face him fully, setting your tea down on the arm of the couch.

"You don't think I'm scary."  It isn't a question.

Jim tries to backpedal, realizing that he's said the wrong thing.

"Darling, I love you, you know I do, but do you honestly think that you can intimidate anyone?"

Fire burns in your eyes, and you turn away from him, fuming silently.

Jim rushes to your side, and begins to grovel, taking you by the hand, leaving a trail of kisses all the way to your elbow as he gushes out compliments.

“You’re brilliant, you are gorgeous, there is no one in this life I could possibly love more than I love you--”

“Stuff a sock in it, honey.”  You spit, and turn away. 

Jim eventually lets go of your limp hand, and leaves the room, most likely to steal you an elaborate gift.

It doesn’t matter.  You can’t forgive him for this!

In the world of Jim Moriarty, fear is respect.

If Jim didn’t see how you could be feared, than somewhere deep in his mind, he didn’t see how you could possibly be respected.

That kind of thinking makes sense, you suppose.  After all, no one would dare hit Moriarty the way that Don hit you.

Even still.

If Jim doesn’t fear you, you have to MAKE him fear you.

The only trouble now is figuring out how.

____________________________________________________________________________

There were more diamonds on the necklace that Jim is holding in his hands than he had ever seen on a piece of jewelry in his entire life.

It had been child’s play stealing it from the jeweler’s, and now all he has to do is bring it home to you and plead with you until you simply CAN’T remain mad at him.

A woman had never refused him before.

Smiling to himself about the cause of the fight in the first place, he enters the house and quickly crosses over to the living room, where he had left you last.

He nearly drops the necklace on the floor, before regaining his composure.

You are not there.  You are simply gone without a trace.  Nothing is out of its place.  It’s as if you had never been there at all, like it had all been nothing but a dream.

Jim chuckles.  “Baby, it’s gonna take a LOT more than that to scare me.  Y/N, very funny.  VERY scary.”

There is no reply.  Merely echoes through an empty house.

This is when he realizes that it is not a game, not merely a cry for attention.  You really have gone.

He drops the necklace on the ground, and runs to the sliding glass doors leading out to the deck, the closest place you could have left from.

He runs out to the deck, knowing that at this point, you’re too far gone, knowing that he won’t find you if you don’t want to be found.

That’s the reason why he loves you so much.  He has never been with someone who wasn’t special.

You are the most special of them all, the most intriguing.

You are the girl who disappears.

____________________________________________________________________________

It took you a while to brainstorm the best idea of how to scare Jim.

If there’s anything you’ve learned from being around him, it’s that nothing scares people more than what they love.  More specifically, nothing is more effective for fear than the thought of LOSING what you love.

There is nothing in this life that Jim truly loves.  You realized this when thinking of the easiest way to make him afraid.

But then you found one thing, the closest thing to a friend, to a love, that someone like Jim Moriarty ever has.

An enemy.

His greatest enemy.

As you secure the curly, brown wig on your head and land at the Heathrow airport, you realize that you can’t take away his greatest enemy.  That would be too cruel, to Jim and to the rest of the world.

But you sure as hell wouldn’t let Jim know that.

Your taxi is already idling on the tarmac, waiting for you to get off the plane.  You step off of the plane and right into the taxi.

“221B Baker Street, please.”  You say sweetly, handing the driver a 100 dollar bill pinched carelessly between your middle finger and your pointer finger.

“Right away, ma’am!”  The cabbie rushes away from the airport, leaving you to sit back and think about how you’re going to take care of Sherlock Holmes.

You know from experience that the key to distracting Sherlock is to flatter him.  Give him an opportunity to show off.

“Eh, I’ll figure it out when I get there,” you mutter.

“You sure will, miss.”  The cabbie smiles at you through the rearview mirror, perhaps trying to get you to tip him again.

Soon enough, you’re standing in front of 221B.

Now all you have to do is wait for Jim to show up.  You left him enough clues to find out what you’ve planned.

You open the door, climb up the stairs and knock on the door of the flat, hearing Sherlock’s bored voice saying, “Yes, all right, come in.”

You clear your throat and begin to play the part of a grieving wife, missing her husband.  At least until Jim comes.

____________________________________________________________________________

Jim walks into the room that you had stayed in when you first came to him.

This is where he sees the note you left for him.

‘How will it feel to have everything you love taken away honey?’

Jim let the note flutter to the ground, mind racing.

It only takes him seconds to come to the conclusion he was supposed to.

He pulls open his cell phone and quickly dials a number.  “I’m going to need the plane to be ready in 10 minutes.  We’re going to Heathrow.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Mrs. Hudson is screaming.

You wish that she would shut up.

I mean, old ladies had always liked you BEFORE.  Why did you always have to finally be frightening when you least wanted to be?

“Please be quiet, Mrs. Hudson, I’m just trying to prove a point to my boyfriend.  It’s not like I’m actually going to DO anything.”

John is lying unconscious on the floor, an unfortunate twist of fate that he had to be so invested in helping Sherlock.

Sherlock is bound to the chair in which his clients usually sit, and gagged too, since you can’t deal with another hour of his endless chatter.

How John LIVES with him, you’ll never know.

You are standing over him, pointing a loaded gun directly at Sherlock’s head.

He knows you, and he knows that if he or anyone else tries to do anything, you WILL shoot him, no bluffs, no tricks.  No faking death this time.

Suddenly, you hear a very loud knock, knock, and then a splintering of wood as Jim breaks his way into 221B.

The look in his eye is wild, shocked.

When he sees you standing over Sherlock with the gun, John unconscious, Mrs. Hudson sobbing in the corner, he stops advancing towards you, and begins to move very slowly, hands outstretched, pleading.

“Y/N.  Please.  You wouldn’t do this to me, please…” he licks his lips.  “I’m begging you.”

You give Jim a twisted grin, that you know makes you look like a complete and utter psychopath when taking in the scene around you.

“Are you scared, honey?  Am I… scaring you?”

Jim lets loose a single second of wild, uncontrolled laughter, before replying in utter seriousness, “You are terrifying me.”

You smile, and put the safety onto the gun, tossing it onto Sherlock’s armchair.

You throw your arms into the air, twirl, and give a bow for Jim.

This time, the both of you burst out laughing, startling and unearthly in the seriousness of your surroundings.

You walk over to him, and he drapes his arm around your shoulder.

“Let’s go home.”

You lean over, kiss him, and rest your head on his shoulder as the two of you saunter out of the flat as if you had just popped over to answer an invitation for tea.

“I never knew you would do something so reckless. It’s sexy.”  He smiles into your hair, planting a kiss on your head.

“I like it.  I’m tired of being good, it’s just so… boring.”

There’s a silence as the two of you walk downstairs and emerge onto the bustling London sidewalk.

“What say you and me go to the city and rob the queen?”  He sings, spinning you around to face him.

“Would I get a crown?”  You muse thoughtfully.

He gives you a wicked smile in response.

“Jim Moriarty, it’s a date.”

Youngsters (7/?)

Summary: For the kids at The Rooster teeth care home, life hasn’t always been easy. They’ve come from broken homes, broken families. They’ve escaped with broken bones and broken spirits. But at least now they have a second chance to be happy with a real family.

Well…that’s easier said than done when your family includes a hyperactive midget, an over eager wrestling fanatic and a boy who just can’t go a day without punching something…or someone.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 AO3

“Maybe you should try locking him in a cage or, like, a pet crate or something.” - Ryan

“Yes, Burnie, I promise I’ll be home by twelve.”

Geoff was leaning against the door to the head carer’s office, pleading his case while Burnie sat in his swivel chair, the steam from his coffee fogging his glasses. Downstairs he could hear the voices from Barbara and Matt, who were desperately trying to coax Jeremy into his room to go to bed. Getting that youngster into his room at this hour? Geoff didn’t envy them one bit.

“Alright,” Burnie agreed. Geoff had been hoping to go to a house party the coming Friday, hoping to maybe find true love again with a certain lady he knew was also attending, seeing how Tina had swiftly dumped him and proceeded to tell every girl at school what a jackass he was, whether they wanted to hear it or not. “But if you’re a second later your curfew will be an hour earlier for a month, you understand? I don’t care if you’re ‘nearly a man’ as you’re always telling me, while you still live with me, you live by my rules.”

“Don’t worry, Burnie. When have I ever broken a promise?”

Saying it out loud almost made him believe it. He’d broken more than his fair share of promises, to Burnie probably more than anyone, when he’d been the uncontrollable little kid that had first arrived at Rooster Teeth. It was because of those many early misdeeds that Geoff felt even more indebted to keep his word to the man who’d raised him from being a wild little brat into someone half decent.

And it wasn’t like Burnie was overly strict - quite the opposite in fact. Compared to the rules of many state homes, Burnie ran the place with a firm but flexible hand, putting trust in kids who might have been kept locked away in other homes - runaways, anger issues, panic attacks; those thought to be best kept away from society.

With a gratifying grin and salute, Geoff left the man to his business and bounded back downstairs, skidding to a half as Matt and Barbara practically manhandled a very grumpy Jeremy up to his room, barely holding in his laughter as Matt caught his eye and pulled a face that could only read “kill me now”.

He grabbed a soda from the kitchen and made his way into the smaller living room. The lights were dimmed and the fire was alight - it wasn’t even that cold indoors but if Ryan was around, he was sure as hell going to light one. Shelves littered with books and various art projects spanning over ten years were bathed in a warm orange glow. It was Ryan and Jack who were the only ones there, taking up the two large couches, lying spread-eagled across the cushions, both quietly watching some re-run of an old wildlife documentary.

Geoff placed his drink on the side table and sat himself down next to Jack - or rather glared at the younger teen until he made enough space and sat upright to allow Geoff to sit. As he moved, Geoff noticed the slight stiffness in the action and the way he rubbed at a red mark on his elbow, instantly recalling the reasoning behind it.

Jack had been in a fight earlier, almost as soon as they arrived home from school. There was no prize for guessing who with.

Ever since his chat with the boy, it was like Lawrence had become suddenly more interested - possessive even - over spending time with Geoff. On one hand, Geoff was glad the kid was socializing more. On the other, it seemed to have made any interactions with the other kids even more violent. Like with Jack - he had thrown a fit when the thirteen-year-old had interrupted the two talking about new movies coming out to ask Geoff a question about homework, furious that another kid was taking Geoff’s attention away from him, though he still liked to act as if he resented any conversation the eldest struck up with him - and he came at Jack yelling.

Jack, smiling and pacifying as ever, tried to talk to him. Impossible with Lawrence, so Jack tried to ignore him.

Then Lawrence hit some sensitive spot with his words, or his small fists, and Geoff saw Jack’s mood change. It wasn’t exactly anger. Anger was not something that came easy to Jack, but it was something more like frustration and acceptance.

He’d sighed and given Geoff a resigned look before flying at Lawrence.

They fought.

Geoff made no attempt to stop it. He had stood back and made sure they didn’t cause any serious injuries, but from the start it was apparent that, though they didn’t pull any punches, they were hardly hurting each other as badly as they could have.

They ended up scratched, bleeding, tired, rolling around on the grass unwilling to surrender.

Lawrence came out on top because Jack had no real anger in him and had been warier considering he was far the taller of the two, if not the better fighter. Even the frustration Geoff had seen light up in him had been temporary. A flare to Lawrence’s slow-burning raging candle.

But Lawrence didn’t beat him with any childish smugness. There was no victory in him when he rolled to his feet and held out a hand to Jack.

The two of them recognized something in each other at that moment; that was clear. But just what hadn’t been apparent at the time.

After it was all over Lawrence had skulked off, leaving the home and not returning by late that evening - unescorted by police… which had been a twice occurrence so far, when he’d been causing disruption in town. But apparently, half an hour before Geoff had come back, he brought himself back of his own accord, no shouting or swearing, quietly alerting the staff to his presence before heading to his room. Silent, unflappable, not acting out in any way.

And Jack - Jack who never fought with anyone in that manner, who was all about having a good time and making people happy, who was basically a cuddly teddy bear at all times… the experience strangely seemed to have kind of positive effect.

That look. His look of resignation and acceptance before flying at Lawrence.

It had caught Geoff off-guard. He understands, I think.

That was the line that had stuck in Geoff’s head. After the scuffle was over, and Lawrence had taken himself away, Jack went and sat on the terrace, leaning arms over thighs as he caught his breath back. Geoff had joined him, albeit slowly, unsure if his company was wanted after that. Conflicted too, not knowing whether it was a situation that needed telling to Burnie. Normally it would be a no-brainer. Fights or violence between the kids of any sort were to be reported immediately so the carers were aware and could monitor the situation. But there had been something about that fight, and the completely non-violent conclusion to it, that put Geoff in his dilemma. It was almost too personal.

What happened back there? Was the question Geoff didn’t need to voice for Jack to answer.

And there it was. “He understands, I think. I don’t know how but I think we both just…know.” Jack had laughed, realizing how vague he sounded but making no effort to explain further. The minor scratches on his arms had stopped bleeding, yet he still rubbed absentmindedly at them, finding a meaning only visible to him.

Geoff had twisted to look at him questioningly. He felt more out of the loop than he normally did. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”

“And hopefully you never will,” Jack said, running a hand through disheveled hair. “Or at least not in those circumstances. Not like that…”

Geoff had exhaled shortly out his nose, head shaking in bewilderment. “You worry so much about stepping on our toes but you’re just the same. We all have our secrets. We all have our limits, our boundaries,” he pointed out. “You’re one of us, whether you like it or not, nothing’s gonna change that.” From the look on Jack’s face, he hadn’t seemed completely sold on the idea, and Geoff had shoulder nudged him. “Just something to think about,” he said as he left Jack to his thoughts and battle wounds.

He hadn’t seen the younger boy since then. He’d been around a friend’s for dinner, the same friend who’d invited him to his house party, and had only recently arrived back.

Noticing his stares, Jack shifted in his seat, consciously moving his hand away from his injuries. “Should’a seen the other guy,” he said.

“I did. He looked better than you.”

Jack smiled. There was that strange expression on his face again, understanding, one of remembrance. Geoff wondered, suddenly, if he’d made the right call for keeping the fight from the carers. He supposed he could tell them at a later date if things took a turn for the worse, but then he’d feel like it was his fault for not saying something sooner and plus, there might have been other little eyes spying on them, and if they went to Burnie or one of the other carers first, that might cause them to lose the hell of a lot of trust they already put into Geoff.

Jack cleared his throat then, swinging his legs up so he could curl further into the couch corner. “Yeah… well, I went easy on him. Can’t be seen to be bullying little kids now, can I?”

Geoff glanced at him, torn between playing along with the banter and wanting to push further for an explanation. “There was only one bully back there…” he started to tease, cutting off as the words caught in his throat. “Jack –” he stared, only to practically jump out of his skin at the little voice suddenly at his side.

“What do they mean when a woman’s size zero?”

Jeremy! But wait… hadn’t Geoff seen him…

“He snuck in about twenty seconds ago,” Ryan mentioned from the other couch, nodding towards the ajar door. “About twenty seconds after Matt and Barbara came downstairs to go home.”

Geoff looked at Jeremy, the five-year-old who was currently clambering up onto the arm of the couch, clad in Spiderman pajamas and most definitely not asleep in bed. He came accompanied by his two favorite teddies. Rimmy - an orange-furred bear that had seen better days, and Tim - a little purple owl with massive eyes, that Trevor had bought for him when they went to the zoo. Its pupils had been scratched off over time, giving it a blank, haunted stare.

Geoff shook his head in amusement. Ah well, someone will find him soon enough.

Jeremy frowned, poking him in the arm a few times. “What do they mean when a woman’s size zero?” he asked again.

Size zero… What? Geoff looked at the TV to see if Jeremy had gained that question from what was on screen but the only thing happening was penguin chicks sliding about trying to get into the ocean water. And none of those fluffy motherfuckers are worried about their dress size.

As Jeremy climbed over the arm and onto Geoff’s lap, Jack opened his mouth to answer only to be cut off immediately by the boy continuing: “Because zero’s nothing! So… then they’d be invisible,” he said with great conviction.

Ryan smirked, peering at the two as Jeremy settled himself further into Geoff’s lap. “It just means she’s very skinny,” he said, quickly adding: “But a woman can be any size or shape she wants.”

Jeremy stared at him for a long moment. “What about a star shape?”

There were multiple noises of amusement coming from all three teens at that statement but Jeremy was unfazed by it all, tilting his head further in curiosity. Ryan, meanwhile, tried to rectify his statement: “No, no, I mean she could be –”

He didn’t get very far.

“Or a heart shape cause girls like hearts –” Jeremy suggested, raising his hands in the air to demonstrate.

Geoff batted them gently away. “No, we meant it doesn’t matter if a woman is thin or fat,” he explained.

Jeremy hesitated. He looked at Geoff, brown eyes extremely quizzical. “What if you were like this?” he asked, blowing out his cheeks and puffing out his chest, wobbling side to side. “Would that be okay?”

There was a stunned moment of awkward silence for the little boy’s “fat” impression. “Well um - uh…” Ryan stammered.

Jeremy cut him off again, stating matter of factly, “There’s a man in Mes-Mexico and um, he has to get a crane to get him out of bed he’s so fat; is that alright?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Oh um…well, no…”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes, regarding each one of the teens with his firmest stare. “What is too fat?” he spoke slowly. “Is it –”

“Would you like to watch TV?” Geoff’s voice cracked in his haste to shut the boy up.

The little boy looked up at him and huffed shortly. “No.”

Well… he couldn’t get a more straightforward answer than that.

The next twenty minutes or so were spent diverting Jeremy’s attention from the topic, all three teens working together to keep him interested in the TV show rather than whatever random questions he had stored up in his head.

Eventually, their efforts paid off, with the help of a great white shark or two, who Jeremy had said “were awesome” before finally settling down and watching the show in silence. It didn’t take long for him to fall fast asleep, right there in Geoff’s lap, head crooked in the eldest’s arm, heavily breathing.

And it didn’t take long after that for him to be discovered by one of the carers. As per usual, Trevor, who joined Burnie and Gus as night staff during the weekdays, went up to check on Jeremy’s room to make sure he was asleep - as he so often wasn’t - and obviously finding no boy there, hurried back downstairs, checking in first the larger living room and then in theirs, shaking his head in both relief and exasperation at the sight.

“That little…” he muttered under his breath, stepping around to gather the youngster into his arms. “I’m sorry boys.”

Geoff grinned at the young man. “No worries, least he’s out now.” And he would stay out. Once he was gone, he was gone, thank the Lord.

Trevor arranged Jeremy into one arm, grabbing Rimmy and Tim with the other, pausing as he turned to look at the TV, pulling a face at the blood-filled water and fish bits. “Hmm, nice. Hopefully that doesn’t come back to haunt us.”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Geoff apologized, sheepish. He remembered a year or so ago when Jeremy had caught a glimpse of Jaws. The staff had been dealing with wet bedsheets for a good week after that. “Was the only thing that kept him interested.”

“Maybe you should try locking him in a cage or, like, a pet crate or something,” Ryan added, rolling his eyes at Trevor’s disapproving look. “I’m not serious,” he said, before turning his head sharply to Geoff. “Or am I?” he whispered harshly, putting on a menacing tone, though his eyes shone gleefully, like a child, and Geoff could only smile in return.

Trevor shook his head, giving Ryan’s head a light shove as he walked past with his sleeping passenger, at the same time as the credits rolled on the documentary, an old war movie starting up next. It didn’t take long for Ryan to lose interest; he usually liked to spend the remainder of his evenings in his room playing video games anyway.

“I’m gonna go up,” he said, stretching languidly as he stood. “See you boys tomorrow.”

“Night, Ryan,” they both murmured as the door shut behind him.

The fire was dying down by now, yet it was still toasty warm in the room, enough to entice Jack and Geoff to linger for a while more. Geoff half paid attention to the movie and half counted the number of times Jack looked across at him. The teen kept shooting glances his way, and Geoff knew he wanted to ask something. He waited, tapping his fingers on his knee until Jack finally swallowed.

“He lost a family member, didn’t he?”

“Who?” Geoff asked, surprised, thinking that Jack was referring to Ryan at first, which made no sense because he already knew the answer to that one and that was hardly a comfortable topic of conversation.

But Jack shook his head. “Lawrence,” he added, locking eyes with Geoff. There was something odd in his face, and Geoff stared intently at him. “Who was it? Mom? Dad?” Jack continued.

God. He hadn’t been expecting this, and he once again felt torn, knowing he really wasn’t supposed to give any private information away but, if this was connected to earlier, which he was ninety-nine percent sure it was - wasn’t getting to the bottom of that strange fight more important?

He debated with himself for a few moments before making up his mind. “Dad. Heart attack,” he rushed out. “He tell you that?” he asked, perhaps a bit more accusing than he intended, because he saw something guilty in how Jack’s eyes flickered away and shoulders hunched.

“He didn’t need to,” Jack replied, face decisive. “He saw his dad die.” He didn’t say it with sadness or sympathy, more like the same realization and acceptance that Geoff had seen in his face earlier.

Saw him die? Geoff hadn’t said that. Hell, he didn’t know the specifics.

For a moment Geoff wanted to shake him. To grab him by the shoulders and let himself demand better answers so he could feel more involved. But it wasn’t his place to pry into the private feelings of the other kids - not unless it was doing them harm and, as far as Geoff could see, despite the fighting, what had occurred earlier had been reasonably harmless. It’s just he’s so fucking curious. Sure, Lawrence. But Jack? Jack resigning his good nature to fight with another kid? Just a whole lot of God damn curiosity.

“You think you’re better than me but neither of us saved them,” Jack suddenly said.  He smiled as Geoff’s eyes widened. “That’s what he said,” he clarified. “That’s what made me… feel like I had to go at him - not in anger,” he hastily added. “Just something we needed to sort out. I think he wanted it… was pushing me to see if what he’s probably heard around here was true.”

Geoff stared at him for longer than was natural, taken aback by the way Jack had abruptly revealed what Geoff had been wondering all along. “Heart attack if I recall. When the kid was seven.” What the hell, he might as well tell Jack the rest of that limited story. The kid was hardly going to go blagging about it to the others. He felt a tinge of guilt, that he might have been violating Lawrence’s privacy, but the kid had kind of partially given that away, now that he knew what the boy had said to Jack to start things off.

“Jeez, that’s really tough,” Jack said, and usually the pity would be just that, pity. But it was Jack, and he’d been through it, he’d been through the worst loss imaginable.

“Mmm,” Geoff grunted and took a deep breath. “I don’t think that’s what’s making him so angry here though.”

Jack stirred as if waking from a dream, shrugging slightly. “Can’t have helped though, could it?”

“No…no, it can’t have,” Geoff agreed.

“What you said earlier… about me worrying.” Jack gulped, tongue like he suddenly wanted air, wanted to get out, to change the subject, but pushing through anyway. “… Do you ever resent me for it?” he asked in a small voice. “For having a family who, y’know… who loved me?”

Geoff stared at him. “Fuck no,” he said, shocked and frowning. “Why would you even ask that?” It came out harsher than intended and Jack cowered in on himself.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he whispered, jaw clenching.

Geoff gave him a considering look. Then he reached out an arm - Jack jerking back automatically in surprise, calming down when he saw the softness in Geoff’s eyes. “Hey, no, I’m sorry,” Geoff apologized instead. “I was just a bit shocked by the question. Do I ever come off that way?”

“No, but… I don’t exactly make things easy for myself.”

“What do you mean?” Geoff knew Jack worried about tiptoeing around certain subjects, more than Geoff would have liked, but he’d thought that was just how the younger teen was. A people pleaser through and through.

“Just by, like,” Jack murmured, biting his lip, "opening my big mouth and hurting people when I don’t mean to. I never mean to.”

Geoff sighed. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jack’s jaw clenched again, lips pursing like he tasted something sour.

“You think you’re hurting us? Jack…” He reached out again, this time able to put a comforting hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, and he spoke in earnest. “None of that’s to do with you. Sometimes things happen and people - everybody, not just you - say and do stuff that has an effect on us. Takes us back for the briefest of moments. But that ain’t your fault. No…” His own fists clenched slightly in conviction. “No, that ain’t your fault at all. That is, for me, my good-for-nothing parents fault. Same goes for a lot of us.”

Jack swallowed. He didn’t answer, and when Geoff looked over at him, his head was lowered and his hands twisted into the fabric of his t-shirt. So tense he was nearly shaking. But Geoff couldn’t stop now, couldn’t stop when Jack still looked completely and utterly unconvinced about his own self-worth.

He reached his arm further around the boy’s shoulders, a position he had taken so many times when his younger brothers were upset. Each of those times he could only speak from his heart, that was the best he could do, he never saw himself as some great motivator or emphasizer. I’m not a psychologist, but I am their big brother. And I care.

He breathed deeply, leaning his head in close. “Just because you’re not here because your parents were assholes doesn’t mean we resent you or despise you for it, or whatever other crap you’ve conjured up in that big head of yours. In a way, it’s way harder for you, because you had a great life before, and it must’ve hurt so much more to have it taken away.” He scoffed a bit. “And be honest, there must have been loads of times when one of us has done the same to you, unintentionally made you feel bad or sad about the past.”

“I dunno… yeah, I guess.” Jack was side-eyeing him like it was some kind of trap.

“Tell me.” Geoff urged.

“What?”

“Tell me. I want to know what I’ve done to make you feel like that. Drop it on me.”

“It’s nothing you’ve done personally,” Jack muttered, and Geoff had to selfishly admit that made him feel better about himself. “I uh –” Jack huffed in frustration. “It’s dumb.”

“I think it’s dumb some harmless comment someone makes can cause me to feel all freaked out for a few seconds,” Geoff pointed out. “Just cause you may think something’s dumb, doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. “When… when you guys… the youngin’s, I mean,” he spoke, soft and tentative. “Y’know, they can get rowdy on longer car journeys and… not all the time, but sometimes I feel…” His face twitched. “All nervous and out of control and I can’t help thinking back –” He broke off and attempted to laugh it off, the sound coming out very forced, his cheeks reddening. “See?” he looked up at Geoff. “Dumb.”

Geoff shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Jack Pattillo. You went through a horrific trauma at seven years old that most folks don’t experience in a lifetime. You lost your mom, your dad, your little sister; all in a blink of an eye. You were thrown into a world with kids you thought would resent you for coming from a good family. And yet here we are, everybody here loves you. You’re kind and friendly, easy for everyone to talk to and, I might add, you give the best fucking hugs ever.” He added on to that part by tightening his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders, adding: “Hey, you even achieved something I haven’t yet - you somehow connected on a deeper level to the angriest kid currently here. That’s you. That’s all you, kid.”

Jack was silent, stunned. Geoff couldn’t blame him. They loved each other and all, brothers to the end, but like brothers, sometimes talking about the hard shit didn’t come as easy. Eventually, Jack did nod, slowly. He slumped back against the couch, and Geoff rather awkwardly sat there, all his energy having gone into his passionate speech, and now he was all aware of what he’d just said and how full on it might have sounded. He part expected Jack to leave - but he just sort of lounged there, seemingly comfortable to be there, next to Geoff, in a companionable silence. After a few moments, Jack relaxed enough to release some of the tension from his body. As he did though, he drew in a sharp intake of breath.

Unable to meet Geoff’s gaze, he shakily breathed out. “I miss them so much sometimes.” Geoff leaned around to see tears glistening behind the boy’s glasses. Now that he’d released all the tension, it seemed like it had been the only thing to keep him from breaking down, and Geoff instinctively wrapped the boy in a proper hug as he shook and cried out quiet sobs of pure pain.

“I know,” Geoff said into his ear, blinking repeatedly. “I miss them for you, cause they must’a been freakin’ awesome guys to raise a kid like you.”

To the outside eye, the emotional outburst may have appeared out of nowhere, but Geoff had noticed over the past few weeks, troubled thoughts building up in the younger teen.  It could have and probably had been just a load of small things, all building up to this moment. Maybe the fight with Lawrence today had been the breaker. Either way, at some point, Geoff knew all that emotion was going to be released one way or another. That it could grow and grow and spill out, catching you unaware at the most inopportune moments.

Nights too. Nights were always somehow the hardest. They were often the quietest part of the day. More time for reflection, easy to get caught up in your own head once the day was over and only sleep and dreams awaited.

He’d been there too, he recalled, not letting go or loosening his grip and Jack still cried quietly into his shoulder. Oh yeah, he’d been there many-a-time. In the end, there wasn’t much you could do about it.

Yep, some nights just freakin’ sucked.

––––

So he’d been getting on well with school. And swimming. He’d made friends in both places, and his week had been… good. Good as in not excellent, not awful, just very neutral. Perhaps ‘okay’ was a more apt choice of word. He’d had an okay week.

Geoff approached him one day after school, took him by the hand and lead him down to the basement without even asking. Gavin put on the smallest pair of gloves while Geoff grabbed the bad and held it ready, and they started to practice the simple exercise they’d gone through many-a-time, all without saying one word to each other, the only sound coming from Gavin grunting every so often due to the pure physical exertion.

They were silent until it was over fifteen minutes and Geoff had gone to get a snack and a drink for them both, orange juice and some Tim Tams Barbara had brought back from her travels, and somehow they ended up talking about nothing in particular, at one point just bouncing back and forth dumb ideas for presents for Ryan’s upcoming birthday - Geoff seemed weirdly keen on the idea of buying Ryan a full set of bedroom furnishings, duvet and pillow cases, cushions, blankets, but with a twist; they would all have massive prints of Ryan’s own face on them. Perfect for an egomaniac like him, Geoff had joked. They got so caught up in the conversation that they forgot what time it was and had to be called up for dinner. It had been nice, Gavin couldn’t remember the last time he’d let his mind wander so freely and so carefree.

Geoff made time for him most days now. Not that he hadn’t before, but it was like he’d reserved a specific time for only hanging out with Gavin. And again, their chatter was always nothing of importance. They would talk about food, movies, celebrities; a right pair of gossip girls. Geoff would tell him about the new girl he was interested in. Griffon was her name and she sounded cool, Geoff’s eyes always lit up that extra bit when he spoke of her, unlike the way they’d dimmed with some of his previous romances. Only negative: she’d already rejected Geoff’s advances twice but, Geoff would adamantly tell him, it was all part of the game.

Gavin thought the game sounded rather complicated.

He wished those conversations could go on forever. No matter how hard Michael or Jeremy tried, their attempts at trying to keep his mind distracted never seemed to work quite as well. Sure, he would enjoy their company as much as he ever did but it was always so obvious to him, that they were worried. And that just made him feel plain bad. He didn’t want to be a burden on them. Not that he was naive enough to think that Geoff’s planned get-togethers didn’t have the same kind of intentions, but with the eldest… well, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was because Geoff gave off the air of having been there, done that, lived to tell the tale. His manner was always relaxing and comforting to Gavin, like he was reassuring him that there was nothing wrong with him even without saying it directly.

Because Gavin did worry, a lot, that there was something wrong with him. Something that couldn’t be fixed. It would make sense. His parents had treated him like he was their toy, for them to do with as they pleased. They had been sick people, mentally disturbed, the both of them. Two disturbed people who had unfortunately found each other and brought him up in their life of “scientific research”. The only thing they ever did right by him, was leaving him alone in that hotel room for three days and not coming back, even after the fire and everyone had been evacuated, alerting the authorities to that fact that there was one small, young boy all by himself.

He thinks, when it all came down to it, that maybe the unknowingness of it all was what affected him the most. He didn’t have closure. His parents weren’t in prison or rehab or dead - or maybe they were but he had no way of knowing. They were simply an overhanging memory and the fact that they could still be out there and might one day reappear in his life… that was what terrified him more than anything.

The nights were still the worst. When he’s lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take him so he could just get it all over and done with but dreading it all the same.

“Gavvy? You okay?” Michael asked from his bed.

Gavin shifted a bit, pulling the duvet up higher. “Mmhmm.” It was half nine. They had school tomorrow. They weren’t supposed to still be talking.

“Should I switch the light off yet?”

Michael was the only one who had a bedside table to hold a lamp. Gavin used to have one, but more violent night terrors lead to that being taken away, less the carers wanted him to keep hitting his head on it.

“Not yet, if that’s okay,” Gavin managed. It was embarrassing, and he swallowed hard, and how could he say he wanted it to stay on all night when Michael couldn’t get to sleep if there was light in the room? That would just be purely selfish and Michael already did so much for him.

“Course, it’s okay,” Michael said cheerfully, but Gavin could tell from the lilt in his voice that he was getting sleepy.

Five more minutes, he told himself. Five more minutes and then I’ll be brave.

There was some more rustling from Michael’s side of the room, the bed creaking as the other boy moved about on it. “So… I found this earlier,” Michael said, and there was something slow and careful in it.

Gavin’s eyes widened in horror as Michael held up some of the books Jeremy had given him the other week, ones he had kept hidden under his bed. He didn’t have time to ask why Michael had been rummaging through his stuff though. “They - they’re not mine,” he lied, and Michael nodded slowly, and now Gavin couldn’t stop worrying if he was going to make fun of him, and he sunk further into his bed, hoping it might swallow him up.

“I know. They’re Jeremy’s,” Michael replied casually. “Was wondering why you had them, was all.”

Gavin kept quiet. Michael thought bedtime stories were dumb and Gavin, having never known any better, had always tended to agree with him. Michael always said he could imagine way cooler stories in his head without the need for a book. That may be so but for Gavin… all his stories were nothing ever meant for children.

“It was just Jeremy trying to help,” he mumbled. “He was only trying to help.”

Michael didn’t broach the subject again, and part of Gavin was glad, but part of him wished he would. Part of him wanted Michael to laugh fondly at little Jeremy’s ideas, giving Gavin the opportunity to laugh too, so Gavin could show that he thought kids storybooks were dumb also. It could be their little joke rather than Gavin’s awkward secret.

Michael didn’t laugh.

Instead, Gavin heard him get out of bed and, as he rolled to question where the boy was going, Michael smiled at him by the door, rubbing at tired eyes. “I’ll be back in a few secs. Don’t worry,” he assured.

As the footsteps padded away, Gavin’s curiosity increased. Normally he would be able to hear where Michael had gone judging by the location of his steps but as it was night, the boy was being extra quiet. After a couple of minutes, when Gavin had just started to fret that Michael had left him - even though he knew that was completely ridiculous - the sound of footsteps appeared again. Two sets this time.

Hall-light shone into the room as the door opened again and Michael entered, Trevor a few steps behind. The young carer’s hair was poking out in all directions and he was dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants. Clearly, Michael had caught him in the middle of his own bedtime routine. Nevertheless, Trevor spoke friendly and upbeat as ever. “Hey Gav, Michael said there’s some books he wants me to read. That okay?”

Gavin only stared, mouth agape, as Michael bounded to the pile of books and picked the one Jeremy had recommended. The one with a dog on the front. “This one Trevor! This one looks the best!” he grinned, dancing around on bare feet.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Trevor hushed. “It’s quiet time, remember?”

“Okay,” Michael whispered, putting his finger to his lips. “We’ll be very, very quiet.”  And then instead of getting back into his own bed, he dashed towards Gavin’s, jumping in under the covers before either Gavin or Trevor could get in a word. “What?” he said innocently, as he poked his unruly curly head out. “This is for a better audio experience.”

Trevor rolled his eyes but allowed Michael to stay. The other boy felt incredibly warm next to Gavin and he smelled like the strawberry shower gel he’d used earlier. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared a bed, but usually, it was because they were cold and playing a video game together. As the lay together at that moment Gavin wondered if, in Michael’s past life, that maybe once upon a time, he’d done the same with his brothers, before they’d all been taken away and separated.

Trevor pulled over a chair and sat down next to them. He read - he read a book to them. Harry The Dirty Dog was no ground breaking literature and was quite short, probably aimed at children a few years younger than them aka Jeremy, but it was charming all the same and Trevor was excellent at putting on the voices.

After that, Trevor read one called Green Eggs and Ham which Michael, to Gavin’s surprise, seemed to greatly enjoy. The older boy even demanded that Trevor read another Dr. Seuss book after - their last one, Trevor informed them.

Turned out Trevor was correct in his estimations of their energy levels. Before the book was finished, Gavin’s eyes were shut and he was barely paying attention to the words, not stirring when Trevor stopped altogether and stood up. He was vaguely aware of Trevor ushering an almost passed out Michael back to his own bed, but darkness quickly consumed him, locking out any info of the waking world.

And what a darkness. For it was simply that. For once in so many weeks, it was simply dark. Simple, peaceful nothingness.

I have to write this down before I forget

Had a wild dream last night, with a full story and characters and plot and everything. It was way too good story fodder for me to forget, so here it is.

The dream started with me at a massive pool party. There were adults and kids there, but I didn’t know/like any of the people there who were my age so my brother and I just hung out on the sidelines. Eventually I started to get a weird feeling in my stomach, so I went inside and into this side room with a TV and couch and a lot of random toys and games. It was a weird location for a room, but I’d been to this house many times so I knew where it was.

The TV was on and a movie was playing. It was about a similar party, with lots of people and alcohol in the middle of the summer. The camera primarily focused on this one blonde girl (who looked like Abigail Breslin), who was short but about 21-year-old and very shy. She was too shy to really interact with anyone at the party besides her parents, who shooed her away and told her to go talk to people her own age. 

Instead she decided to just hide from everyone. The family of the house had a really old dog, so she went to find it. The dog was frightened from all the noise and hid in one of the closed-off bedrooms. She went in to comfort the dog, and while she was there she heard weird noises outside. Sitting on her knees, and still holding the dog, she looked out the window to see the entire party standing still. Men in black clothing walked around, wielding massive automatic guns. They shouted something but she couldn’t quite hear it. 

Then the men started shooting. They killed the older adults first, then the smallest children. She had to look away and hid with the dog under the bed, trying to keep it quiet. The gunfire seemed to go on forever while she hid, but finally it stopped. There was more shouting, and she kept trying to keep the dog quiet.

She heard men in the house, walking around and shooting more people. Trying to keep her own panic attack down, she could barely hold the dog under control. It was too loud, and the men were bound to come and investigate. Fearing for her life, she quieted the dog and, as the footsteps neared the door, forced herself to suffocate it/snap its neck (not clear). There was a whimper and then silence. She heard footsteps approach the door and then a shout before walking away.

For the rest of the day and well into the night she laid there, beside the dead dog, before she finally had to pee too badly and got up to use the restroom. On her way she looked outside, and instantly regretted it.

The pool was filled with blood and floating bodies, people she knew. After investigating to make sure the men were gone, she walked outside and saw something even worse.

Not only was everyone dead, but some of the bodies had been mutilated and were on display. Some faces were twisted into pained screams and sealed with chemical burns. Her own parents were among them, and for a long time she could do nothing but sit among the bodies and cry.

Late at night/early in the morning she finally called 911, though she knew nothing could be done. She couldn’t connect. She tried and tried but it never went through. Before she could fully contemplate this she heard the backyard gate swing open. She ran and hid behind a rack of pool supplies, peering out from a crack between the rack and the wall. 

Two more men walked about, looking at everything and shaking their heads in dismay. They were dressed differently than the men who killed everyone, and their guns were much smaller, but still she was too gripped with fear to do anything. But then they called out, looking for survivors, and searched the place until they found her.

They were gentle as they took her from behind the rack, and looked her up and down. They said they weren’t with the people who killed everyone, and went on to tell her that the entire attack was a ruse by the US Government to galvanize suburban America into anti-Muslim sentiment. The two men who met her were vaguely Arab, with thick beards and brown skin. 

They took her home, but told her she could not stay. She gathered a week’s worth of things, and they started driving. On the way they explained that the slaughter was a false flag terrorist attack, and, as proof, showed her documents they’d found online that detailed everything, and even had a game plan for how the media would handle the situation over the next few days. They told her she needed to be ‘dead’ now, because if the government knew she was alive they would kill her -and in fact, they were almost certainly looking for her now. 

After days of driving they brought her to their base. It was full of people the government loved to blame for things, not just Muslims but people of many colors, as well as Satanists, witches, and ‘sexual deviants.’ In time she would learn that this group was also into human experimentation, and that they’d found ways to alter the human body with cyber implants that could effectively give a person superpowers. 

They talked/coerced her into being one of the guinea pigs, convincing her it was for the good of the group and that she was perfect for it. After an incredible amount of suffering it worked, and she gained the ability to fly. 

The group also readily trained child soldiers, teaching them how to fight from a young age but supposedly having no intention of actually using them in battle until they were 16. 

After years of training soldiers and preparing for war, they’d built up enough of a network to topple the government. The movie ended with her overlooking their army, with her rebel partner by her side, and wondering what kind of world they would make.

I was extremely disturbed, in large part because of the false flag attack itself. The TV started showing static and turned off. In proper movie fashion, the music outside turned off too, and I heard a loud series of gunshots -then I woke up.

I know it’s like... kind of problematic? But also holy shit brain what happened. Who hurt you. I don’t expect anyone to read this but yeah here it is my dream. And that’s not even all of it. At one point the girl was at a hotel that was supposed to be a safe zone but it was raided and a lot more people died, and at another point when she was in full rebel mode she shot some bad guys and then had sex with her gun. I... yup.