#because the chances of me putting any of them on ao3 is slim
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The following ficlet was written by @marigoldvance based on this photoset.
Fili/Kili, T.
You might also be able to read this story on AO3.
If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3. :)
By Any Other Name…
—
Long-haul freight trucking isn’t for everyone. Days, sometimes weeks, away from home; a lot of gas station coffee, leaky motel rooms, and diners with sticky floors and dead-eyed waitresses whose smiles reflect lifetimes of missed opportunities.
Fíli fell into it after uni.
Unlike the majority, he loves his time on the road. Appreciates the peace the job offers. Of course, he misses his loved ones when he’s away for lengths of time, but he’s always been a bit of a hermit. He’s better at listening than engaging, which is perhaps why he considers the radio perfect company.
In particular, a mid-morning radio show that he maybe-sort of-but not really schedules his day around.
“—And that was Last Christmas by Wham!. Sorry to those of you who almost made it this year!” The DJ cackles, not sorry at all. “Better luck next year.”
“You’re a menace.” The cohost snorts before introducing the next song, something from the Top 40 to keep things moving.
Kíli Oaks is an incredible radio personality who makes the time pass quickly. Fíli deeply enjoys listening to Kíli’s show whenever it’s on, be it when he’s hauling freight or at home in his kitchen. And while it could be said that harboring a crush on a celebrity is a waste of energy, Fíli is content to indulge it.
His mother worries his interest in Kíli Oaks is hindering his chance of finding someone, “what with dedicating your attention to a disembodied voice.”
It’s a point of contention between them, but Díssandra Durin is a good mum and does her best to be supportive.
Exhibit A:
“Doesn’t that man on the radio live in Pelargir?” She asked Fíli before he left.
“And?”
She shrugged as if to say not that it matters, but “Aren’t you going to Pelargir?”
“Mum, even if I lived near the radio station, the chances of ever meeting him are slim to none.” Fíli said, trying to keep his tone light despite it being the third time she’d made a remark of that nature.
“You never know.”
“Trust me, ma, I know. It would be weird, wouldn’t it?” Not that Fíli was angling for an answer. Of course it would be weird.
“Or it could be a funny story you tell your kids one day.”
Fíli eyed his mother suspiciously, “Or it could be a traumatic story he tells the police.”
He expected her to drop the issue but, instead, she jutted her chin toward the coffee table and said, “Either way, that’s for you.” and carried on knitting as if she didn’t just blow the top of Fíli’s head off with surprise.
Fíli’s stomach clenches in excitement, glancing at the envelope on the dashboard.
While his mother doesn’t endorse his crush on Kíli, she found out about a Christmas special Kíli and his cohost are putting on to raise money for a Christmas charity. In front of a live audience.
An audience Fíli now has a ticket to be a member of.
He doesn’t know how she did it, considering Kíli has more fans than there were tickets (the show sold out in minutes after the tickets went live), but Fíli’s infinitely grateful.
He listens as Kíli reads a listener’s text aloud, adding an anecdote of his own before both he and his cohost dissolve into fits of breathless, soundless laughter.
“—That’s not what I said!” Kíli wheezes after his cohost accuses him of defiling a snowman.
Their producer urges them along, trying to herd the chaos into something manageable but Kíli and his cohost keep bantering.
“Boys,” The producer says sternly, “The next song, please.”
Fíli imagines Kíli wipes the tears from his eyes and composes himself, “Right, right, right,” It seems that what’s cued to play isn’t what Kíli expects because he barks another laugh, “Nooo!’
His cohost squeezes the title of the next song out between giggles, “Here’s Snowman by Sia.” And off they go again, their laughter cut off as the song starts to play.
Fíli grins like an idiot, as if he’s part of the silliness. The adolescent, world is my oyster, everything is possible part of him would love to exchange funny stories with Kíli, watch him laugh until his eyes are glassy, cheeks ruddy and wet. The realistic, adult part of Fíli understands that such things can only happen by divine intervention. Which, in his experience, doesn’t actually exist.
Thus, he’ll go to the show, have a good laugh, respectably ogle Kíli from afar, and then end his evening reading over a cup of mulled wine.
Brilliant.
***
“He’s so … sad.”
“Are you sure he isn’t too—” Finding the correct words to say ‘serial killer’ without actually saying ‘serial killer’ is difficult. “—antisocial?” Is just as bad, really, but better than ‘maladaptive’ or ‘socially awkward’.
A long, tired groan sounds from between the other two voices. “Don’t either of you have anything else to do?”
“No.” The first two voices say in unison.
Meet Divine Intervention.
Thranduil peers into the Palantír, silvery hair curtaining his expression, though Gandalf guesses it’s one of disdain. Thranduil has a type; usually six-foot-four and Doriathen, with yodeling accents and donning colorful knitwear.
By contrast, Fíli Durin is a combination of broad strokes and blunt shapes, and a penchant for more subdued seasonal layers.
“He isn’t too far away, is he, Gandalf?” Radagast wonders, hovering over Gandalf’s shoulder to watch Fíli’s image in the milky glass, “Will he make it on time?”
“If you two leave me to my work, I can see to it that he does.” Gandalf puts as much emphasis behind his words as he can muster around the bit of his pipe.
Thranduil and Radagast are deliberately trying to sabotage Gandalf’s progress, he’s certain. It isn’t his fault he has the reputation of casting some of the most intricate and everlasting Tapestries—or as Belinda from HR, in an attempt to rebrand the realm into the 21st Age, calls them: Love Stories.
Gandalf puffs his pipe grouchily at the idea.
As long as there have been a moon and stars, there have been Weavers tasked with the choosing and care of the roses from Lorien’s garden. Each rose contains within its petals a communion, some more momentous than others, but all serving a significant purpose in the lives of those selected to sustain them. A Weaver’s sole responsibility is to match a pair worthy of a rose’s influence and have them meet before the final petal falls. If things go well, the rose blooms anew, radiant and golden, until the span of the—Gandalf shudders—Story is complete.
Otherwise…
Well, nothing happens. Some roses aren’t meant to be epic tales worthy of Shakespearean prose, mild in colour and force. Other roses burn too bright and fizzle out before a Weaver can say Tom Bombadil. It depends partially on the rose and partially on the Weaver’s capabilities.
And Gandalf’s capabilities far exceed those of many Weavers, a fact highlighted by the shelves of thriving roses encases in their glass cloches.
He has full confidence that the pair he selected are absolutely perfect for each other.
Fíli may be content in his aloneness, but he is strong and patient and has so much love to give. And Kíli? Kíli is—
***
“You’re being obnoxious, Kee.” Boromir says, slingshotting another rubberband at Kíli’s forehead.
It hits with a dry snap and falls into the mounting pile in Kíli’s lap, leaving behind a blossoming red spot right between his eyebrows.
“Am not!” Kíli wails through a wide smile, gathers all the rubberbands and lobs them in Boromir’s general direction.
He isn’t. He’s being prudent; a word his grandmother would never use to describe him, but there he is, being just that. Someone’s future happiness rests entirely in the palm of his hand and he will not risk ruining it.
“You are.” Boromir insists, ignoring their producer, Merry, as he frantically signals for Kíli to prepare for the interlude. “You’ve got that glassy-eyed look you get after a good shag.”
“I don’t like that you know that about me.”
Boromir bobs his head in consensous, “Nor do I.”
And they’re back on air. Kíli dutifully lists the titles of the songs they just played and introduces the next queue, promises he and Boromir will return for their typical Wednesday slot of Say It or Spray It—a game their old producer concoted to embarrass the shit out of Kíli on his first day hosting the midmorning show.
Needless to say, it had only fueld Kíli’s fire, and look at him now, several years later and a staple at GBC Radio 1.
As soon as their mics are muted again, Kíli whips out his phone, presses his thumb to the print verification button and opens his professional TikTok account.
Boromir rolls his eyes.
Kíli sticks out his tongue.
“See?” Boromir points toward Kíli with his hand, “Obnoxious.”
Kíli scrolls past hundreds of unread DMs to the thread he’s revisited about forty times in the last hour, swipes through the thread until he reaches the picture attached.
It’s of a man, close to Kíli’s age. Kissable lips swept into a gentle smile, square shoulders and a barrel chest accentuated by the thin, visibly loved band t-shirt worn when the picture was taken. A candid shot at what appears to have been a cookout, hinted to by the long twig he’s hold with a marshmallow speared through the tip.
He’s handsome—very handsome—exactly the sort of bloke Kíli topples head-over-heels for.
“Your love life is so tragic that someone’s mum is taking pity on you.” Boromir teases, nudging Kíli’s foot with the tip of his shoe.
Kíli wants to sling a comeback at him, but finds he can hardly disagree. Besides, Kíli wouldn’t mind taking the man’s mum up on the offer.
Tragically, she isn’t offering.
She messaged Kíli hoping to get a ticket to Kíli and Boromir’s live audience Christmas special. When Kíli asked his producer about available tickets, he was stunned to discover they’d sold out faster than a Taylor Swift concert.
“We reserved some for family, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Merry told him.
Kíli replied to the woman, Dís Durin she called herself, with the good news, happy to offer one of his personal tickets to Dís’—very handsome—son, Fíli.
“You’ve got that goofy look on your face again.” Boromir announces. “New update on your boyfriend?”
“Naff off.” Kíli kicks Boromir’s shin under the table. Boromir oufs in surprise, fixes his face into a glare and retaliates by swatting the top of Kíli’s head.
“Don’t start, you two, the song’s almost over.” Merry warns, crossing his arms sternly. He slants his gaze toward Kíli, “But Boromir has a point, Kee, you might want to work on that dopey face you make before you meet him. Bit unattractive.”
“Oi!”
***
Draped across Gandalf’s armchair, where he retreated when he and Radagast were shooed away from the Palantír, Thranduil indicates to Kíli, “I like that one, he has passion.” Then he slides a bored glance back to Fíli, “All that one does is drive around in a big truck.”
“He must have something up his sleeve,” Radagast says in defense of Gandalf as if he’s not there to do it for himself. “The old rascal wouldn’t risk losing.” That is, the bet Gandalf made with Elrond, a Spindler from the third floor who specializes in forks in the road.
A bet made because, to be frank, Weaving loses its charm after a Weaver’s third millennia performing the task. Sometimes, they need incentive, and high-stakes gambling is the motivation Gandalf requires to ensure he doesn’t wilt a rose into lost opportunity.
“Quite right.” Gandalf lifts his chin proudly and reprimands Thranduil, “How dare you question my artistic process.”
Thranduil meets his stare flatly. “So,” He says, his tone suspiciously matter-of-fact, “All he has to do is get to Pelargir by the strike of 6?”
“Yes.” Gandalf says cautiously.
“Very good. And how exactly do you plan to get him there through an avalanche?”
Gandalf whips his head back to the Palantír, alarmed. Although an avalanche is a mighty exaggeration, the scene unfolding in the glass isn’t much better. Wiggling his fingers in a rapid, deliberate pattern, Gandalf hunches over the Palantír with fierce concentration.
Fíli’s truck rumbles merrily along in the cloudy image to the left. In the image to the right is an unholy dumping of snow. Fíli’s still far enough away that Gandalf has time to maneuver a solution, but the window is narrow.
The situation may require—
Thranduil and Radagast watch Gandalf intently, look at each other and then back to Gandalf.
Slowly, his face set in determination, Gandalf raises from the ether a shovel with a wide, metal blade.
—Drastic. Action.
***
The trouble starts just as Fíli leaves Minas Tirith. Snow falls in sheets, thick and sticky, forcing Fíli to slow his speed and call Central.
“I stayed ahead of it for awhile,” Fíli explains of the weather, “But it finally caught up to me.”
Bofur snorts, “Guess that luck of yours is finally running out, ay Durin?”
“Not a chance. Just a little bit of delay. I’ll still make it by this evening.” Fíli reassures, “Just let them know, yeah?”
“I’m on it. Drive safe, lad!”
Fíli smiles, “Cheers.” and disconnects the call.
Unfortunately, Bofur might’ve been right about Fíli’s luck running out.
Things get worse by Aglarshire, a road closure forcing Fíli to take the exit into town for an impromptu break. After eight hours at the wheel, he’s due one anyway, but he’d hoped to get as far as Karaborough before making the stop.
The snow is really coming down now, and the townships between Minas Tirith and Pelargir aren’t equipped to handle removal like the big cities.
Still, Fíli tries to stay positive.
Almari’s café serves the best stew and crusty bread this side of the White Horns. Almari herself is the motherly sort; a short woman of stout figure and a kind face, somehow able to discern what Fíli needs as soon as he steps through the door.
The café is quiet apart from two men arguing about livestock. A traditional, rustic ambiance of dark wood and brass accents, mismatched tables rubbed in places of their stain and chairs that creak when occupied. An impressive oak bar stretches the length of the wall across from the entrance, hosting a row of tall stools with worn leather seats.
From where she’s polishing silverware, Almari indicates with a blunt knife to a snug corner at one end of the bar. Fíli obliges, pinching off his gloves on the way. He has to remove his coat to sidle between the wall and the counter, and plants himself on the lone stool at an awkward angle before he can maneuver his legs under the bar. Once he’s situated, he turns to hang his coat on the hook above his left shoulder.
It’s a questionable fit, but the space offers a sense of cozy privacy; just what he needs to settle his nerves after driving through nasty weather.
Almari appears and sets a steaming cup of strong coffee in front of him, smiles warmly, and pats his forearm with the affection of an old friend.
“Bit nippy out there.” She says, brushing snow from his beard with the towel she’d been using to polish the silverware. “Wouldn’t go out there for all the money in the world.”
“It’s not so bad.” Fíli assures, “At least it’s not icy.”
Almari looks skeptical, “I’m just happy I don’t have far to go when I close up.” Her apartment being directly above the café. “Would be a nightmare trying to find my car after all this snow.”
Fíli agrees. “A real archeological dig, ay?”
Almari considers him sympathetically for a moment before she breaks the news Fíli feared when he was redirected toward Aglarshire. “Make yourself comfortable, dear. The plows might not get to our neck of the woods for awhile yet.”
Fíli’s heart leaps to his throat, but he arranges his features into a neutral guise. “Yeah, I figured as much.”
Almari straightens and smooths down her apron. “The usual, then?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Never, when it comes to you, boy.” Almari leans over the bar again and pinches Fíli’s cheek softly. Then off she sweeps into the kitchen, barking Fíli’s order to the cook, Randolf, her husband of thirty years.
Fíli glances outside, brow knitted. He can hardly see the road through the curtain of snow. He slips a hand in the kangaroo pocket of his sweater and gently holds the envelope he tucked in there for safe keeping, contemplating his options.
At best, he’ll be late. At worst, he’ll miss Kíli’s show altogether and have to apologize to his mother for money wasted. Not that she’ll mind. Nah, she’ll probably take it as a sign from the cosmos that Fíli needs to plant his attention in reality.
No sense fretting, Fíli resolves and fishes his book from his coat pocket.
Whatever happens, happens.
…And say it again, with feeling.
Fíli huffs through his nose, molars grinding, and flips his book open to where he left off.
***
This is wholly unorthodox, Weavers traveling through the curtain into Arda, but Gandalf’s mind is made up. Why Thranduil and Radagast join him, he doesn’t know, their motivations none of his concern.
They land as a unit, dropping like stones into the snow from above. Gandalf and Radagast disappear for a moment beneath the plush white, while Thranduil’s head and shoulders pierce the snow, his long, dainty legs the only bit of him now visible to the world.
Gandalf and Radagast pop up, pull themselves free and brush themselves off. Thranduil’s legs kick frantically before either notice he’s stuck. Together, they yank Thranduil free and resume orienting themselves, scanning their surroundings for anything that can help them on their journey.
“Aha!” Gandalf sees it first, the depot the town uses to house their massive machines.
“That’s what you have in mind?” Thranduil sounds incredulous, “I thought we shelved your idea to shovel three hundred kilometersofroad.”
Radagast wrings his hands, worried for Gandalf’s sanity.
“Not shovelling,” Gandalf corrects with a wicked glint in his eye, “Plowing.”
“Oh my…” Radagast squeaks, as Thranduil erupts, “You cannot possibly think that’s a better solution! You’ve never even used one of those ghastly contraptions!”
Gandalf waves him off, “How hard could it be?” and trudges forward, carving a path for Radagast and Thranduil to follow.
As it turns out, it’s incredibly hard. For three whimsical beings of the Otherlands, anyway.
Once they locate the right machine, one boasting a large, yawning blade at its front, they struggle to bring it to life. Gandalf and Radagast fiddle with levers and buttons, pressing and pulling things at random.
“What about this one?”
“No, no, no, it must be this one.”
“Or this one.”
Thranduil rolls his eyes, content not to participate. No, he’s a being of acute intelligence and has a better idea than pushing and prodding everything like toddlers in an elevator.
Without saying a word, he marches toward what a sign specifies is the Main Office. He enters and slips behind the front desk to study a corkboard filled with rows of keys, all labeled neatly for convenience.
At least these Gondorian neanderthals are organized, he muses.
It takes less than a minute for him to locate the right key. Just as he wraps his fingers around it—
“Hey! Who are you!?” A man shaped like a star demands. He’s round in the middle and thin everywhere else with a head of stringy black hair. The stench of self-importance radiating from him suggests to Thranduil he’s the one in charge of the fleet of machines.
Thranduil groans dramatically, completely put-off by the whole situation, “Well, shit.” In a calculated act of defense, he grabs the computer off the front desk and brings it down on the man’s head.
He crumples into a heap instantly.
Thranduil takes the right key, steps over the man elegantly, and marches back to Gandalf and Radagast.
***
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Almari tells him, watching through the snow the silhouette of a snowplow thunder down the road at speed. She frowns, “Can’t always believe what they tell you on the news, can you?”
“‘Spose not,” Fíli chuckles, fishing a Ꞓ201 note from his wallet and dropping it on the bar. “I’d better be off.” He shrugs on his coat, flashing a bright smile at Almari, “Thanks for lunch, it was delicious as ever.”
“Stop in on your way back.” Almari instructs, “I’ve a special Christmas menu that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Fíli nods, walking backward a few steps, “Will do.” He salutes playfully then spins around and pushes through the door. The wind and snow hit him like a brick wall, almost forcing him backward. Thankfully, he’s made of stronger stuff, and shoulders his way toward his truck.
Though the road has been cleared, the car park is still covered in a blanket of white that reaches halfway to Fíli’s knees. Not ideal, Fíli thinks, but doable. If he leaves now, he’ll make it to Pelargir and complete his delivery by early evening, as intended with the mild delay.
He only hopes things go smoothly from here.
***
Kíli squints against the stage lights, but it’s impossible to distinguish anyone in the audience. Both he and Boromir are already in their places, microphones adjusted to their preferences, muted until the broadcast starts.
He kept an eye out for Fíli while backstage, peeking into the auditorium as often as Merry would allow (which wasn’t often, between frog marching Kíli to hair and makeup, and debriefing Kíli and Boromir on their lineup of special guests and the playlist).
Never in a million years did Kíli think he would be this dedicated to making a fan happy. Usually, that’s PRs job, fussing over giftbags and food boxes, when and where fans can meet the DJs, and so on. This time, Kíli forced his involvement, questioning Rosie about Fíli’s seating arrangement and whether or not he’ll receive a one-on-one with Kíli after the show ends.
Rosie massaged her temples, said in a clipped tone, “Kíli, please, let me do my job.”
“I just—”
She raised her hands in a gesture parents use to calm their children, “I understand this is important to you, but just worry about the show. I’ve taken care of everything. Your guest will be treated like royalty, just like the other invitees, alright?”
Kíli swallowed and nodded shortly, “Alright.”
Now, he fiddles with the ungodly Christmas blazer wardrobe forced him into. The pattern is bright green-and-red plaid embroidered with sparkly gold thread. Beneath he wears a thin sweater in a crisp white with the image of a fluffy Christmas tree on the front, and, under that, a red, collared shirt.
Boromir dons an equally as gaudy combination, though he seems far less uncomfortable, sprawled in his chair like a king at a feast, texting his wife who sits in the audience only meters away.
“Two minutes.” Merry announces, coming up to them. “You two ready?”
“Yes.” Boromir says at the same time Kíli says, “No.”
“Well, pull it together, man,” Merry insists as he grabs a handheld microphone and prepares to deliver his welcome introduction to the audience. “Don’t forget to smile!” He urges, tracing an exaggerated U over his mouth with his forefingers, before trotting to the front of the stage and signalling to the sound booth.
“Mate, you’ve never been nervous a day in your life.” Boromir reminds Kíli, “You’ve got this.” He reaches forward and squeezes Kíli’s shoulder. “Right?”
“Right.” Kíli says and, for the first time since he started a career in radio, he doesn’t believe it.
***
After abandoning the wreckage of the snowplow in a ditch for the town to deal with, Gandalf, Thranduil and Radagast stomp through the door of Gandalf’s office, dusting snow off their shoulders and shaking it out of their hair.
“That was the worst thing you’ve ever done.” Thranduil says, plopping into the armchair. “I can’t believe we weren’t killed.”
“Close enough,” Radagast winces, rubbing the lump at the back of his head.
Gandalf grins, pleased with himself. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Fine and well,” Thranduil flaps a hand toward the Palantír, “But what about that? You want to plow through a bunch of civilians, too?”
Deflating, Gandalf watches the image shift from Fíli’s truck to the kilometers of bumper-to-bumper traffic heading into Pelargir. Construction lights and road signs herd cars into one of five lanes, the other four closed for repaving.
Because of fucking course it is.
“He’s not going to make it,” Radagast laments, hand over his heart. “Even after all we’ve done…”
“Mmm.”
Thranduil pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I have to say this, but: you are aware there’s a whole city and many hours of night at your fingertips, yes?”
Gandalf stares at him inquisitively, inviting Thranduil to continue, “They don’t need to meet at the show.”
Radagast brightens, “They don’t need to meet at the show!”
“I’m surprised how much you care.” Gandalf admits to Thranduil. “I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”
“Oh, shut up. I just don’t want to see you lose your bet. Elrond is insufferable enough as it is.” He amends and stands, holding out a hand for Gandalf to take, “Now, let’s see this shitshow through to the end, shall we?”
“Indeed.”
***
Fíli didn’t make it.
The traffic into the city was worse than Fíli’s ever experienced in all his days hauling freight. It crawled ahead by inches for close to two hours, during which Fíli listened to the Christmas special with a broken heart.
He knows better now than to get his hopes up about this sort of thing. Not that he expected much out of the evening, at most an autograph or a handshake.
Still…
Fíli shakes his head, hellbent on turning the night around.
The delivery successful, albeit an hour later than scheduled, he takes the underground downtown and roams the busy streets. Pelargir looks like something out of a Hallmark movie, glittering under strings of gold and coloured lights. Storefronts are decorated with garland and baubles and tinsel, all arranged to evoke Christmas cheer.
It works, the chill of dismay lifting ever-so-slightly from Fíli’s chest.
Fíli plucks his way through the bustling crowd, keeping an eye out for somewhere to eat. He’s decided to treat himself to something fancier than he’s used to. Somewhere with cloth napkins and unique cutlery for each dish.
He spends twenty minutes wandering up and down the maze of streets, reading menu displays and peeking in windows at restaurant floors crammed with guests. Turning another corner, Fíli’s just about to throw in the towel and find the nearest fast-food joint when he, quite literally, stumbles upon a small sidewalk a-frame that’s chalk lettering promises Festive Fancies Within.
Fíli scans the area, hoping that no one saw him trip over the sign, and sets it to rights.
It’s as good a place as any, less busy than everywhere else, though still hosting a fair amount of people. Fíli is greeted by a cheerful looking older gentleman with twinkly grey eyes and a beard to match.
“How many?” The gentleman inquires.
“Just me.”
“Ah, for one. I can only offer a seat at the bar, I’m afraid. Though, rest assured, the service is exceptional.”
Fíli shrugs, already unwrapping his scarf and shoving his gloves in his coat pocket. “Suits me just fine.” He says and allows the gentleman to escort him to a seat near the middle of the bar.
The bartender casts him a smile, indicating he’ll be right with him, and continues to expertly shake and prepare multiple drinks at a time. Fíli watches the bartender pour the contents of one shaker into a chilled martini glass with a flourish, while bouncing another shaker from his elbow into his hand before emptying it into a rocks glass filled with a single, large cube of ice.
Fíli doesn’t bother to hide his awe, never having been anywhere the bartenders perform tricks. It’s obvious the bartender appreciates Fíli’s open admiration since he slides Fíli a drink with three discernable layers— seasonal red, white, and green—in a tall glass, garnished with a spear of dark cherries and lime, and a sugar-frosted rim.
“Thank you.” He says when the bartender approaches to drop a menu in front of him.
“My pleasure.” The bartender smirks, “Just signal me when you’re ready to order.” And off he swans, plucking a long chit from the machine behind the bar and filling its order in an intricate series of movements not unlike a ballet.
***
Kíli feels like he’s being followed. He’s not unfamiliar with the sensation. Since being on the radio and hosting a handful of televised events, a few enthusiastic encounters occurred on behalf of fans. Normally, he invites the adoration, wanting to accommodate those who support his career; they’re responsible for his success, after all.
Tonight, however, he’s not in the mood.
He wasn’t expecting to feel such crushing disappointment when Rosie informed him after the show that Fíli hadn’t been in the audience. The show itself was a resounding success, deserving of the standing ovation it received when the broadcast ended.
Only, Kíli can’t bring himself to be proud. He was looking forward to meeting Fíli, had a plan to invite him out for a drink—maybe a meal—get to know the man whose mother loves him so much, she’d slipped into Kíli’s DMs.
The tingling at his nape increases, the feeling of being followed morphing into something ominous.
Not wanting to be axe-murdered, Kíli picks up his pace, striding around a corner as quick as he can without drawing attention to himself. As he’s about to break into a full-out run, he trips and crashes into a restaurant a-frame, ill-placed in the middle of the sidewalk.
“What the shit!” He cries, hurrying back to his feet. It’s then that he notices a crooked figure rounding the corner. “Vala—” He bolts up the cobblestone path to the door of the restaurant and practically falls inside.
There are a fair few people (witnesses, Kíli thinks, relieved) conversing over expensive looking meals and bottles of wine. The place has an old-world charm about it, stone walls and exposed beams, the waiters donning bowties and polished shoes.
“Hello.” The host greets him, startling Kíli.
“Hi!” He chokes out. The host looks ancient, sort of wizardlike. “Hi, yes, sorry.” He tries again, surreptitiously glancing behind him to see if the crooked figure has followed him inside.
The doorway is empty.
“For one, please.”
The host picks up a menu, “The bar is open for full-service, tonight,” he explains, “Unfortunately our tables are reserved for parties of two or more.”
“Sounds great,” Kíli follows the host to the end of the bar, unzipping his leather jacket and pulling off his scarf. He’s so focused on getting himself sorted that he doesn’t notice the bartender delivering a pint of Guiness he didn’t order until a coaster is placed in front of him.
Kíli’s about to say something when the bartender, a dazzling man with silvery hair, informs him, “From the gentleman at the end.” and hooks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction he’s referring to.
“Oh,” Kíli slopes to the side to see around the bartender and his jaw drops. “Oh…!”
He can’t believe it. There, sitting alone, slouched over a book that has his full concentration, is Fíli Durin. Kíli can’t help the airy laugh he lets out and quickly gathers his jacket and scarf.
“Thank you,” He says to the bartender, who sports an oddly conspiratorial grin, “I’m just going to—yeah.” In his excitement, Kíli almost forgets his pint, grabs it at the last second, and scurries—not too eagerly, lest he present himself as a wanker—to fill the vacant seat beside Fíli.
Fíli, so enraptured by his book, doesn’t notice.
Kíli clears his throat, “Um, hi there.”
Fíli’s head jerks up, eyes wide, and slowly turns to face Kíli, face slackening into pure shock. Kíli’s heart is in his throat, palms suddenly clammy. Fíli is more handsome in person than in the picture Dís sent.
“I—you don’t mind, do you?” He asks about the seating arrangement.
Fíli blinks, seeming to come back to himself, “No. No, please, go ahead.”
“You’re Fíli. Fíli Durin, right?”
Visibly confused, Fíli answers slowly, “Um, yes. How did you—?“
Kíli cuts in quickly to avoid being mistaken for a stalker. “—Your mum sent me a message a few days ago.”
He’s never seen anyone look so delicious when processing the shock and horror of a mother’s good intentions. Fíli makes it work.
“Oh, Mahal, she didn’t.” Fíli drops his head into his hands, his broad shoulders shaking as he chuckles through the embarrassment.
“I thought it was adorable.” Kíli admits and catches Fíli’s gaze, holding it for a few seconds before casting his eyes downward.
Fíli barks a laugh, a sound that sends a jolt of heat to Kíli’s gut, “You did not.”
“I did!” Kíli shifts closer to Fíli and winks, “I really appreciated the picture she sent, too. I didn’t know Nibin Noeg had any fans left after their last album.”
They banter back and forth; the way Kíli doesn’t know Fíli always imagined they would. The conversation swells and eases by turns, the two slowly losing themselves in one another as the world around them trickles away.
Fíli is interesting and funny and more than Kíli assumed, and Kíli doesn’t want to be anywhere else ever again.
From the look Fíli gives him, Kíli thinks Fíli feels the same.
***
Collapsing into various seats around Gandalf’s office, the three Weavers heave sighs of relief.
“We did it.”
“Understatement of the century, Gandalf.” Thranduil retorts, summoning a cup of elderberry tea. He directs his next statement to Radagast, “I can’t believe you got him—” that is, Kíli, “—there on time.”
Radagast shrugs helplessly, “I didn’t. I lost him outside the theater.”
They allow the information to marinate between them for a minute before Gandalf snorts and then erupts into booming laughter. Thranduil joins him next and then Radagast, though somewhat less enthusiastically.
There are three things a Weaver understands intrinsically.
One, Weavers aren’t miracle-makers.
Two, Weavers can’t force love to happen where it doesn’t want to.
And three, Eternal Love is a rare gem that will bring two people together.
With or without a Weaver’s interference.
Gandalf flicks his wrist and catches a stein of lager that appears, takes a deep drink, and says thoughtfully, “What a bloody waste of time.”
“At least you get to keep your hat.” Radagast points out.
“Very true, old friend, very true…”
***
END
1 – I wanted to incorporate Castar currency, but there obviously isn’t a symbol for it so…this is what I liked best XD
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Thundertober Day Seven: Alive
Please, please check the warnings for this one.
I've tried to cover enough to be on the safe side but it does delve into some darker thoughts, so please be mindful of that.
I hadn't planned on this getting quite so... depressing. It was supposed to have an uplifting end. Fair warning: it doesn't.
AO3 here
Days: One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six
Warnings for: Suicidal Thoughts; Depression; Major Character Injury. This is set post-Hydrofoil.
Gordon is having to come to terms with the cost of surviving an accident that should have left him dead.
Tagging: @thunder-tober @skymaiden32 @idontknowreallywhy
(just going to put it out there that if you want to be tagged in any future Thundertober pieces, or future pieces in general, let me know and I'll tag you too!)
What was the point of being alive if it meant you could no longer live?
The mirror was his enemy. He refused to even take a glance because who exactly would be staring back at him? What had he become? Life or death and he had chosen to live because he was strong and his human survival instincts had kicked in, but what was the cost?
His legs were currently immobile, his arms cocooned in casts. Most of his body was either bandaged or strapped up in some way, metal rods and plating fixed inside him as though he were a bionic man. There was probably some sort of joke in there somewhere, but Gordon failed to see the funny side. He failed to make a joke about anything as of late, and for good reason.
He had survived, but now he was facing a life of… this.
Apparently, there was still a chance he might have been able to return to his old life, but the odds were against him. According to some of the doctors, there was a slim possibility of Gordon being able to walk again. It was a tiny glimmer of hope, but he chose to not think of it. To think of it, to hope for it, only for it to likely be ripped away from him all over again? He’d rather remain solemn and bed-ridden without the dream, thanks.
Because that’s all it was now.
A dream of a past life and a possible future that was no longer within his grasp.
Whenever his brothers came by to visit, usually once a day, they’d reassure him, or try to, but none of them had ever been good liars, at least not to Gordon’s face. He could tell instantly when Scott blinked excessively and barely offered him a simple glance in his direction; when Virgil took great interest in the way his booted feet twisted and moved across the shaggy carpeted rug beside his hospital bed; when John’s fingers would not stop fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie and would give only an uncharacteristic shrug as an answer whenever Gordon asked him a question.
Late at night, when the wing had fallen asleep and the only sounds that filled the area was the soft humming of machines and the padded feet of nurses doing their routinely hourly checks, Gordon would allow his mind to wander away on whims and what-ifs.
What if he’d never joined that stupid test programme?
What if he had instead followed his dreams?
What if he had never got in that damned accident and still had a body that worked?
Never again would he be able to join his family on their hikes through the canyons near home. Never again would he be able to swim laps through the foaming waves on the West Coast. He had once considered taking up surfing more seriously, to add to his list of water hobbies, but now Gordon knew he’d never have the chance.
Wrapped up in cotton strips and constantly having to warn airport security of the additions to his body… This wasn’t living. At times he even question whether striving had been worth it.
Gordon eventually found the strength to confide in Virgil those thoughts which constantly ate away at him. His empathetic nature made Gordon feel like he would be the only brother who could understand, and who wouldn’t bat away his concerns with a simple don’t even think like that, you’re going to be fine, even with the odds stacked against him.
“What will make the surviving worth it, then?” Virgil had asked him, cradling a plastic cup that had once held the contents of a coffee vending machine. He’d slowly sipped his way through the warm, comforting drink as Gordon had bared his soul.
To his credit, Gordon hadn’t allowed a single tear to stain his cheeks. In his eyes, that was a win. He managed to open up to his brother without breaking down. It wasn’t that he thought Virgil wouldn’t have been able to take Gordon’s meltdown. He just didn’t want his brother having to witness it.
“I don’t know.” He replied honestly after a moment of quick, silent reflection. “I don’t think anything will.”
He couldn’t look Virgil in the eyes because he knew how it sounded. As a family, they never gave up. After everything they’d been through, they always found a way to continue fighting through the dark until the light appeared at the end of the tunnel again, but this time, Gordon felt exhausted. To him, the tunnel had caved in and there was no escape from the endless gloom.
“Walking again.” Virgil answered for him. “That would make it worth it. Running again. Standing again. Swimming again.”
The word made Gordon tense. It also made him lock eyes with his brother. For the first time in that conversation, there was a glossy sheen to those orbs as tears threatened to fall regardless of what Gordon wanted. “Don’t.” He warned carefully. “Don’t use that as a—”
“Gordon, the chances aren’t zero.”
And there it was. So much for believing Virgil wouldn’t try and reassure him with those ridiculous odds again.
“They’re as good as, Virg!” Gordon hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He knew his brother was only trying to help in the best way he could, but the pain was still raw and Gordon didn’t want to think about possibilities. “Don’t give me hope only to take it away again.”
“I’m giving you facts.”
“The fact is,” Gordon shuffled himself a little higher in his bed, ignoring the protest from his lower spine, “that no-one knows what the fuck is going to happen because I shouldn’t even be here! I should have died in that wreck, but for some unknown, Godforsaken reason, I’m still here and I wish I wasn’t!”
Gordon had never once regretted speaking to any of his brothers. He’d never once regretted choosing to open up to them, least of all Virgil, but as he sat there, taking in his brother’s horrified expression at his claim, Gordon regretted ever opening his mouth at all.
He didn’t let up. He couldn’t. To apologise or to backtrack would only offer two choices: Virgil would either accept his outburst as a mistake and not take any action, or he wouldn’t buy the act and would begin to put an action plan in place to tackle Gordon’s supposed way of thinking. Gordon wasn’t sure which option was worse.
So he continued.
“If it was you, Virgil… if you suddenly lost the ability to use your hands, your fingers, and now your painting and your piano playing was just a distant memory of what you could once do, how the fuck would you feel?”
He wasn’t sure what Virgil was thinking as he just stared at his younger brother. He wasn’t sure if any answer was going to be given, let alone an honest one. All of those doubts dissipated when Virgil leant forward. His elbows rested on the sheets of the bed, his hands holding as best he could onto one of Gordon’s casts.
“I would fight because the alternative isn’t better than this. That is never better than having some sort of life, Gordon. Death is death, but life… No matter how bad it seems now, life has variables and possibilities, and you should never wish for anything else.”
Gordon didn’t bother trying to hold back the tears any longer. He knew Virgil was right, but accepting that meant accepting a whole lot more pain.
“I’m too tired, Virg.” He whispered, head hanging lowly in defeat and shame.
“Don’t say that. Don’t say that when you’ve still got fight left in you, Gordon. I know you have.” Virgil tilted Gordon’s chin upwards with two gentle fingers. “You’re a Tracy. We don’t give up. So long as you are alive, there is hope, whether you think it’s worth believing in or not. So long as you are alive, you can fight, even if you believe you’re too tired to keep going. So long as you are alive, I will help you as much as I can because you are my brother and I’d much rather have to wait on you hand and foot than attend another gravestone, okay?”
It wasn’t a question to ask whether Gordon understood.
It was a question to ask whether Gordon would accept that unspoken promise.
“We take each day as it comes, but we never give up. So long as you are alive, Gordon, promise me that you will never give up.”
“I’m not great at promises, Virg, but…”
He trailed off his sentence, hoping his brother understood that he would try.
Trying was all he had left to give.
#thundertober 2023#thunderbirds fanfiction#five fics#gordon tracy#virgil tracy#thunderbirds are go#tw: sucidal thoughts#tw: injury#tw: depressive thoughts
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The Witches and Wizards Job 3-4
Updates will come every Tuesday afternoon/evening.
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Jessamine Lochlin was a slim, elegant woman that seemed as given to nonsense as an Elizabethan spinster. It was a terribly deceptive look, because as soon as someone at the door told her Parker was there she came charging through the main atrium and squeaked in delight to see the thief. "Iggy!"
"Jess!"
They greeted each other like delighted teenagers, much to the bemusement of Nate and Sophie. Parker introduced her as curator to the Sokolov collection, on loan from the Tetryakov Gallery and on its way to the MET, where Lochlin was actually based.
Sophie stepped forward when Parker turned to her and Nate, a nearly imperceptible Russian accent coloring her voice, her tone warm, her posture shifting to project an aura of calm, implacable serenity. "Ekaterina Yegorov, critic, collector. Independent curator, and absolutely delighted to see Sokolov's works finally seeing the international adoration they deserve."
"Right?" Sophie had readily struck true, and Lochlin puffed up in delight, Minnesota suddenly speaking loudly in her brogue. She was obviously willing and able to gush over a favorite topic, so Nate stepped in. "Nathan Ford. Former insurance, currently independent security."
"Oh, do you work with Iggy?" Lochlin's handshake was warm and solid, and she seemed not at all put off.
"Casual acquaintances," Nate assured her. Parker made friends outside their work so rarely that the rest of the team readily went out on a ledge just to make sure she kept the few she did make; the mastermind was no exception. "But when we heard there was a Sokolov collection on display, we might have imposed on her," he added conspiratorially.
Lochlin laughed. "Iggy's the reason it's here," she admitted to them in the same tone. "Without her contributions to our security systems, I'm not sure either the MET or the Tetryakov Gallery would have agreed to it." She escorted them through the gracious spaces and murmuring crowds along the rooms and galleries, chatting away with both Parker and Sophie. Nate, used as he was to ceding the spotlight, saw no problem with it. It gave him an excellent chance to take the measure of Jessamine Lochlin, not just as curator but as a potential asset.
And, maybe, as Parker's friend. Surely he could be excused being a little bit protective of his people?
Which was very much what Sophie was doing, except she was coming to actually like Lochlin. The young woman was exactly who she said she was, exactly what she presented herself to be. Young, certainly, but sure of her knowledge, devoted to it. If her interests had run to different goals, she would have had the ruthless devotion to become a fine politician. As it was, all her focus was on her charge and what it took to keep it safe, while also making it available to the viewing public.
Sophie also didn't miss the way Lochlin's spine went to a rigid steel bar as they passed by the broad doorway leading to the Dutch gallery. To the curator those empty frames weren't a slap to the face, but a punch to the gut she'd not been able to counter. Yet.
A room on the topmost floor had been set aside for the nine pieces the Tetryakov Gallery had been willing to part with. They were, for the most part, large pieces, portraits of young women and boys. One painting of Sokolov's wife had place of pride and a hushed crowd of admirers, perhaps to the chagrin of the many young nobles and royals depicted elsewhere. But then, the artist's love shone through his craft on that piece as it did none of the others.
Sophie left Lochlin and Nate bemoaning the misery that was insuring and securing traveling collections. Or, for that matter, prying a loan from any other gallery and museum, the better to spread its beauty. She and Parker roamed, with some measure of discretion, to one of the largest and less watched pieces.
"I thought Sokolov mostly did portraits," Sophie murmured.
"It is a portrait," Parker protested quietly. "Isn't it?"
"Yes, but -" Sophie looked up at the piece. It had been recently restored, at least partially, its colors vibrant. "Look around, Parker. Sokolov was a technical painter. Very skilled, but his real strength was his mind. He knew he was good at one thing and did wonders with it. Most of his portraits don't engage the whole subject like this. There's a reason Tetryakov never loans out his group portraits, they're too rare to risk. I'm astonished they were willing to part with even this."
"They had a good reason," Parker replied, looking only a little smug. There was, indeed, nothing the Tetryakov would not do to have two of their treasures restored to them so they could remove the replicas they'd been discreetly replaced with to save face. And Parker really did like Jess.
Before them, a woman sat in severe opulence for the artist. She was older, her hair an elegant silver bun pinned with delicate silver combs. She was stern, her features sharp and deeply Slavic, her eyes fiery in a way most painters would have never been able to convey. She wore a gown fitting for the nobility of Solokov's time, dark and rich green velvet with russet and gold accents. The embroidery on it had been painted with such exquisite attention to the detail of it that it seemed entirely possible, if Sophie were to reach out and touch it, she would be able to feel every singular stitch. Ironically for someone of such obvious wealth and importance, chickens danced on the hem of the woman's skirt, and peasant boots peeked under it. One hand, gloved in exquisite black lace, rested on her lap; the other held a gnarled cane, wood made dark and smooth with use.
She was also not alone. Behind her, standing, one hand on her shoulder, was a younger man, much too young to be a husband and far too old to be a son. He had the same sharp features, though in him they sharpened to make him look vulturine, nearly predatory. His black hair was tied back severely, rather than the artful curls most people preferred to showcase when they were being painted; his moustache and beard were nothing but angles. His cravat was so white it seemed to shine, in sharp contrast with the ferocious black of the rest of his clothing. Astonishingly, for a portrait, the thinnest smirk curled up one side of his mouth. His eyes were so green they seemed not real, the visceral tint of them matched only by the elegant brooch he wore, half-hidden under the lapels of his jacket.
"Charming," Nate murmured just over her shoulder. "Do you think he ran out of every other color but green?"
She scoffed. "It's so unlike his other work, don't you think?"
"I'm not much for Russian portraitists," he admitted. "Where did Parker go?"
"I think she and Jessamine are planning their next heist." When he glowered mildly at her she persisted. "No, really, apparently that's how it works, they plan a heist and then beat it. I'm not sure even I could break into this place any longer."
"Sophie, you could break into anywhere you liked, as long as someone told you you shouldn't."
"Aw, flatterer." She bumped affectionately into him. "Is this her, then?"
Nate stepped back and focused solely on the painting. Aside the obvious technique of it, and the elegance of a master of his craft, it was a portrait like any other. "It's as close as we're gonna get until Hardison gets a full composite," he admitted, picking up his phone and taking a quick snapshot while Sophie covered him.
"Well, if you're done breaking the law, this is still a fine collection of Sokolov art and I want a look," she declared primly and meandered off.
"Alright." He sent the picture off to Hardison and stared at the painting, his mind whirling. Who are you?, he asked the woman in the picture. Was she behind the attacks? A target of them? Her presence at fourteen sites put her well past the point of being an innocent bystander, but that still left the how, the why, the who. So many questions, so many variables. Even beyond the measure of any case they'd ever taken, this one promised to be a headache and a half, and for no discernible win. Even getting Fedorov in his pocket might not be payout enough.
So he stared at the picture, and let his thoughts run away in fractals, as they always did, asking questions he didn't even have words for just yet.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" A familiar voice said by his side. "Pyotr Sokolov was a master."
"Mister Fedorov. You're late."
The Russian smiled. He wore a cashmere turtleneck and a contrasting jacket, casual slacks and what looked suspiciously like very fancy steel-toed boots. "I have been meaning to make time for the Sokolov collection, but I am a busy man, mister Ford." They both stared at her. "She doesn't quite look right," Fedorov mused.
"I wouldn't know, we didn't get a full composite," Nate admitted.
To his surprise, the Russian's grin widened. "Ah. How many screens have you lost?"
"One." Nate considered Fedorov's words. "So far. You?"
"Two full rigs, three more screens." Vanya admitted readily. "But then, I am also a very stubborn man." His humor faded. "I do not make the… accusation I made yesterday lightly, mister Ford."
"I don't believe in that sort of thing."
"I was raised in what is still a very empty, very wild forest in my homeland. I believe in much most people dismiss as fantasy."
"You grew up in Vladivostok."
Fedorov looked amused. "No, I moved to Vladivostok and made sure to make it look as if I'd lived there all my life. The problem with converted electronic documents is that you must convert from something, and paper is a very… pliable medium."
"Still don't think you should be confessing crimes to me."
"Mm, perhaps not," the Russian admitted, turning his attention back to the portrait. "But it still looks wrong."
Nate, having taken the opportunity to truly focus on the painting, had to agree. Much like Vanya, he couldn't put his finger on it, though. Was it the proportions? The colors? Maybe the restoration process wasn't finished? Was it - ?
"He got the nose wrong."
Both men turned. On Nate's other side was a stately, elegant woman, severe and stern. She wore an exquisite black dress stitched with black embroidered and accented with tiny pearls. The buttons of her jacket were silver, in the shape of tiny bones. Her hair was the palest silver, exquisitely done up in a fanciful bun secured with a black comb.
She had spoken in Russian, and continued doing so. "He was painting from memory, as most portraitists do. So, you know. He only got the nose wrong."
Nate stared at the woman.
The woman stared at a portrait for which she could have readily been the model if not because, unlike the painting, she had no sharp, longish nose. Her nose was quite normal. She even wore a touch of make-up, which the woman in the painting had completely eschewed. Her eyes were wintry, an icier blue than even Fedorov's. "I rather like the touch of the chickens," she declared.
"Isn't it just wonderful?" Sophie chose that moment to return, Ekaterina Yegorov's soft Russian burr firmly back in place. "It looks like you could reach out and feel how soft the stitching is." She let the words linger for a moment. "Painted like a man who never had to wear one of those dresses in summer."
Every eye turned to her, but it was the older woman who spoke first. "Spoken like a woman who has," she said in accented English. "Who are you, lovely child? What do you do here?"
"Ekaterina Yegorov, art critic, collector and independent curator."
"Goodness, that sounds exhausting," the older woman declared tartly. "Three jobs and all of them involve you trying to get a man to listen to the expertise you have and he does not. How strong a spine you must have."
Unbidden and unexpected, Sophie felt a frisson of pride go up Ekaterina's spine at the praise.
"She looks upset," Parker, behind Nate's other shoulder, declared stoutly.
"That's just the portrait," Nate corrected her. "They always strive for a neutral expression."
"But she doesn't look neutral, she looks upset," Parker persisted.
"Why would she be upset?" Sophie asked, trying to be rational.
"Because she's stuck with an asshole," Fedorov stepped neatly into the conversation.
All four of them turned to look at him. He shrugged blithely and gestured at the painting. "Look at him. The smirk, the posture. Everything about the man screams 'asshole'. If I had to sit and keep my peace waiting for that to stab me in the back, I'd be upset too."
The older woman burst out laughing. It was brief, and it barely made a sound among the hushed conversations, but it was real all the same. She promptly covered her mouth. "Oh, the cheek of you," she chided Vanya in Russian.
"I was born with a mouth," he replied cheerfully. "It seems a shame not to use it."
Nate opened his mouth. A moment earlier he'd had not enough questions about the case; suddenly he had too many, and was having trouble choosing one. The woman's presence seem too provident, too perfect. He wanted to ask who she was; he wanted to know what she knew about the painting; he wanted to know why she was there.
He turned.
Just past the doorway the man in the painting, down to the stitched black embroidery on his long coat and the hawkish nose, was just strolling out of sight.
The mastermind blinked.
Heavy shutters suddenly slammed shut over the two windows and the doorway with a terribly final sound, trapping a little under two dozen people in the room with nine of Pyotr Sokolov's portraits. Gas began to pour into the room, and a faint scent began to fill the air.
People screamed, as they're wont to do when the unexpected slams into their lives.
Someone began to cough.
"What is that?" Fedorov demanded.
"The fire suppression system?" Sophie sounded very dubious.
"You don't sound certain."
"I'm not."
"She's not," Nate confirmed.
"It's not," Parker declared, looking around frantically for escape routes she neither needed nor had.
"What is it, then, if not the fire system?" the Russian demanded.
"It is the fire suppression system," Nate explained hastily. Several people were banging on the shutter that had come down over the open doorway. "But argonite is odorless. This smells like, like…"
Several more people were coughing.
"Flowers," Parker all but snarled.
"Perfume," Sophie was keeping close. The gas kept piling up.
"Fernflower," the older woman choked out and began to cough sharply.
"Why hasn't the alarm gone off?" Vanya demanded, rushing over to hold up the older woman when the wracking cough folded her in half.
"Because there's no fire," Nate replied.
"Which is a problem," Sophie added, on the woman's other side.
"Yup. Parker, pick me a lock."
"I can try, but I might set off an alarm -"
Sophie, shoving Ekaterina aside for a moment, leaned close enough to whisper, "Sweetie, that'd be a really good thing right now."
"Oh. Right. Because we're not actually stealing anything." Parker lunged at one of the shuttered windows.
"Why not the door?" Fedorov protested mildly.
"Because there's two more shutters behind that one, this one only has one more," Parker replied didactically, ripping open a discreet panel that had looked, until that moment, like nothing so much as a few light switches. She looked up expectantly, and growled when nothing but the hiss of gas and scattered coughing filled the pause. She began to jab her lockpicks, having gotten them out of god-only-knew-where, into the circuit panel she'd revealed.
Sophie was moving through the crowd, getting people to climb up on the benches, away from the quickly pooling clouds of gas. The Russian bodily picked up the older woman and set her on one of the benches. She let out a startled little wheeze but didn't complain. "You said this is an argonite system, Ford. They are not dangerous to humans."
"Normally, yes," Nate agreed, dialing on his phone. "Very safe. When there's a fire to put out. I'm betting the system's not currently detecting the oxygen content of the room, either, so it's going to keep going until there's either no argon in the tank -"
"- or no oxygen in the room," Sophie finished for him.
"We're in one of your accidents, Fedorov." Someone finally picked up his call. "Hardison."
"Nate, got your picture, what's up?"
"We're trapped in a room in the Gardner Museum with a broken argonite supression system," the mastermind told the hacker calmly.
"What?!" Back at the loft, at that tone, Eliot's head came up like a hound scenting blood.
"Never mind that," Nate gestured impatiently. "Can you lock down the rest of the building?"
"Uh…"
"Fast. I think the man who did this is still in here."
Hardison sprinted for his console, throwing his phone on the work desk. Eliot picked it up and put it on speakerphone. "Nate."
"Eliot, call emergency services. A few people here are having trouble breathing already."
"Are you good?"
The mastermind didn't even hesitate. "Oh, yes, we're fine. I'll be even better if you catch that man in here with us." As if on cue, an alarm began to shrill, high and piercing, and Parked looked confusedly victorious. Whatever she'd done didn't stop the gas, though. One of the shutters on the nearest window rolled back up with a snap, revealing a steel grate and the Venetian-style window beyond it. "Parker, did you and Lochlin get around to updating the windows yet?"
"No," she replied. Immediately guessing what he meant, she threw herself to one side.
"Fedorov."
The Russian didn't hesitate. His gun was in his hand in a single, smooth motion, and he fired at each pane of glass amidst screams. The reinforced glass cracked under the first impact, and most of the panes shattered under the second. He finished what was left with a third shot until the gun clicked on empty. Gas poured out and blessedly fresh air poured in. Parker slid back to the control panel and got back to work.
A second, bellowing alarm kicked off somewhere beyond the shuttered door. "Place is locked down," Hardison told Nate. "I hope it was fast enough."
"So do I. Do you have eyes on the place?"
Hardison was staring as every screen on the wall came to life, several providing multiple feeds. "Live feeds everyw-"
"No! No, not live! Record everything, not live, Hardison, not -" Nate heard something explode tinily on the other end of the line. "Hardison?!"
Two heads peeked up from behind cover at the screen that had just lost most of its upper right corner, the rest of it flickering madly. "We're fine," the hacker replied numbly. "Um."
Nate sighed.
The second shutter rolled up. Parker hefted herself up on the windowsill and kicked at the frame until there was a section clear of glass that she could grip to try and force the window open. She fought the damn thing up an inch, then another.
"In the name of expedience," Fedorov stalked up to her, shrugging off his jacket, "may I assist?"
Parker made room for him. He folded over his jacket to give them both a larger area of leverage. They pushed at the heavy frame as hard as they could.
There was a word echoing in Nate's mind, and he couldn't dislodge it. He couldn't see his question past it. He couldn't hear anything under the whispering weight of it.
Fernflower.
Sophie was talking to him, her voice distant and blurred. The alarms were a tangle of strangling vines around his mind. The phone demanded his attention. People were screaming. People were coughing. People were dying, and he…
He…
"Child."
Profound silence followed the one word. The world went perfectly still. Nate realized he'd forgotten at some point to breathe, and his chest hurt, but he couldn't make himself work the muscles for that one, tiny exercise in staying alive.
The old woman was before him. She looked ashen, her skin threaded with a sickly, poisonous green. But still she reached out a hand and so very gently brushed his chest. "Child," her voice was kind, "be calm."
The window relented at last with an almighty crash and a third, older alarm joined the other two.
Nate felt a rush of soothing cold wash over him. The alarms got shoved aside as the inconsequential noise they were. The coughing people would get help; Eliot probably had half the emergency services in the Boston Metro area coming, and it being the Isabella Gardner in distress would likely summon the other half. All they had to do was survive the runaway suppression system for the next few minutes.
"Nate?" Sophie clung to him as if she were afraid he would fall down. Mainly because for a moment there the mastermind had looked like he was about to fall down.
"Ford!" Fedorov called out.
"Nate, there's no fire escape!" Parker shouted over the mingled roar of the alarms.
"What?" He and Sophie rushed to the window, only to discover it was true: the familiar steel structure was missing altogether.
Nate turned. "Then we go up. Parker, you first. Then me. Fedorov, you hand us the people. Sophie will keep them calm for you."
Before Vanya could say anything Parker had slithered out and her feet were disappearing over the not-too-distant rim of the roof. "I do believe you are confessing crimes to me, Ford," he pointed out mildly, watching the thief vanish with impossible grace.
"Allegedly," Nate replied without missing a beat, following Parker up, who was fuming somewhat.
"Getting out from up here's going to be even harder, you know," she pointed out distractedly.
"Not stealing anything, Parker," he reminded her, kneeling by the edge and calling out. "We're set!"
Vanya and Sophie escorted the older Russian woman to the window. She was gasping desperately for breath. "Grandmother," he told her respectfully, "I'm afraid I have to get very handsy with you."
"Oh, that's alright," she patted his arm lightly, and managed a strangled little smile. "I have not been manhandled by a handsome young man in a very long time. It will be thrilling."
The enforcer had to grin back at that, before he bodily picked her up and hauled her out of the window, lifting her where Nate and Parker could take her outstretched hands.
"How's that, breathing better?" the mastermind asked her as they helped her step onto the roof.
"Yes, thank you."
"Yup. Don't go anywhere," he told her casually as he reached out for the next person. He had so many questions for the woman he didn't even know where to begin.
"Child, it is a rooftop," she laughed around another bout of coughing. "Where would I go?"
One by one they brought everyone out of the room. Before they'd got a handful of people out the police already had the museum surrounded. By the time half the visitors were out, someone had discovered the access to and from the roof had been welded shut. By the time everyone was out and the fault in the broken suppression system was finally fought into compliance, fire engines had been maneuvered closer and ladders were being extended.
And the old Russian woman was nowhere to be found.
Eliot brought the car around and waited just past the crush of the gawking mob, trying not to hover like an overprotective dragon. His people simply sauntered away until one of them was intercepted.
"Ford," Fedorov said quietly.
"Fedorov."
"Do I have more than your attention now?"
Nate was seething inwardly at losing the woman, apparently into thin air, and having the unknown man in black slip through their grip, likely by mere seconds. He kept it hidden with his usual ease. "That was some nice shooting."
The Russian enforcer smiled thinly. "I wear body armor. I expect everyone else to do the same. When they do not I am pleasantly surprised. When they do it still does not matter."
Nate nodded; that did explain how the man had punched through most of the window panes. "Is it going to be worth it, stealing the police reports for this?"
Vanya paused. "I will send you the ones that matter," he offered.
Nate nodded. "Fedorov," he called out when the Russian walked away. "Do you know what the woman said about the gas, in there? What it smelled like?"
"She said it smelled like fernflower."
"I don't know that flower, do you?"
Fedorov looked faintly amused. "You are wearing it, Ford."
Nate looked down, startled; he was not in the habit of wearing a pocket square, let alone flowers. He pressed a hand over the bright crimson spray of tiny blooms tucked in his jacket pocket and watched the Russian walk away, trading casual greetings with the cops.
"Nate?" Sophie came up to him, having belatedly realized they'd left him behind.
"Sophie, do you still have that friend at the London Botanical Gardens?" Nate plucked the flowering stem out of his pocket and rolled it between his fingertips.
"Percy? Yes, he's a sweetheart. Keeps asking me to be a peer on his mycology paper."
"Do you think he could look something up for you if you overnight it?"
FOUR
"Fernflower's not real."
Nate considered these words, delivered with careful solemnity by Sophie, while staring blankly at the box of Indian take-out in front of him. Eventually, he gestured lightly. "I held those flowers, Sophie."
"I know."
"You held those flowers, when we packed them up for shipping."
"I know, Nate."
"They were real."
"They absolutely were."
Nate exhaled sharply. It wasn't often the team saw such a gesture of frustration from their mastermind, but at every turn something kept popping up that insisted on derailing the carefully logical pathways of his mind. "So what you're saying is -"
"What I'm saying is that Percy can't identify them. Nate, the London Botanical Garden can't identify this flower! The entirety of his staff is up in arms. They've sent inquiries to Cairo and Beijing. Beijing, Nate! He hasn't talked to Xi Jian since the orchid debacle!"
Nate had a strong feeling that he didn't want to know what the orchid debacle was.
"It's a plant," Hardison protested.
"No, it's not just a plant," Parker argued. "It's a magic flower, obviously."
Nate didn't have the energy to try and deal with that.
"Yes, ok, but" Hardison wasn't about to hit that particular trap, "it's a plant. It can't be hard to figure it out, yeah? We map people's DNA these days at the corner store, it's easy."
"Anything but," Eliot countered placidly, setting an empty container aside. "Plants are the most flexible organism on this planet when it comes to DNA. We can only pass it down, parent to kid - plants can do it sideways."
"Sideways," Hardison stared at him.
"Yup.They steal it. See something a neighboring plant can do and snag it for their own."
"Plants steal?" Parker looked deeply intrigued.
"Yup." He grinned a little when the team stared at him. "Dated a botanist once. Kinky woman. My point is, it's very easy to create a hybrid, and from there create a mutant, a whole new species. The hard part's always been making it do what you want it to do, like the potato, instead of having it do whatever."
"Well, my point is, Percy's never seen it before, he's never even seen anything remotely like it." Sophie groaned, putting her curry down a little more forcefully than she meant. "Ugh, he's never going to leave me alone now, he'll think I did it on purpose. Send him a brand new plant that he can put his name on."
"Yeah, where a botanist's concerned you might as well have sent him a marriage proposal," Eliot teased her, got a napkin thrown at his chest. He grinned wickedly at her, but quickly grew serious. "Mechanical fault again," he declared, clicking his remote to activate one of the screens on the wall. "On paper the insurance company's claiming the valves overheated and locked into an open position. I snuck in, took a look at it." It hadn't been hard to join the slews of people going in to do clean-up, once Hardison had counterfeited the clearances for him. What he'd found had left the hitter grinding his teeth in both confusion and offense; while not a Boston native, Eliot understood the value, both artistic and emotional, of a place like the Gardner Museum. It had been bad enough to have his team caught in the crossfire of whatever mess the Russians had in their hands; that the perpetrator hadn't cared about the art on the line was getting to be just as upsetting, to say the least.
"Those things were melted." He'd taken pictures of the entire fire suppression system. "That whole system had nickel-copper heat exchanges. I've seen nuclear plants more likely to have a meltdown. And…"
"And?" Sophie prompted him when he hesitated.
Eliot stared down at the table, seeing nothing. He was, he felt, as reasonable as a man in his position, having lived the sort of life he'd lived, could be. He knew he was profoundly fortunate to have found a family, dysfunctional as it might be, that had his back, no questions asked. He knew he would go to the wall for any of them without hesitation.
But in the basement of the Isabella Gardner Museum the hitter had found a place where he didn't know if he dared ask them to follow. "I found this down there," he admitted at last, his voice carefully neutral. He clicked the remote until he came to a specific photo.
Everyone stopped eating.
"Is that a handprint?" Sophie asked, stunned.
"Yeah."
"On the outflow valve?" Hardison demanded.
"Yeah."
They stared at the very clear print on the metal. It looked as if someone had gripped it and squeezed, and like warm wax, it had been reshaped.
"There's no wriggle," Sophie murmured.
"Or blur," Nate added, just as thoughtful.
It was Eliot who explained for the other two. "When you grab something hot, your first instinct is to jerk your hand away, right? Hot metal, metal that's gone so hot it's soft, won't let you do that. It clings, it tries to hold onto you."
"So when they did that," Hardison tipped his head at the screen, "they should have messed up the print."
"Right."
"But they didn't."
"Did they just… leave their hand there?" Even Parker looked vaguely aghast.
"Sure looks like it." Eliot flicked the photo away; the vague sense of disorienting confusion he'd felt when he'd first seen the print was returning.
"Wait!" Nate suddenly focused sharply. "Wait, go back. Go back to the tanks."
Eliot obeyed. "Why, what's wrong? I'm not familiar with argonite systems, they're too new to be common, but nothing looked out of place."
"Nothing's out of place," Nate replied thoughtfully as he stood up, restless. "I'm not looking at the tanks, I'm looking at the valves." He'd been looking for reasonable discrepancies, and for a moment he'd been almost delighted to find one, until the numbers had made sense. "Argonite systems are simple. Blend argon with something, nitrogen in this case, smother the fire without smothering the people. Now, argon, nitrogen, both, something else, if you replace all the oxygen in a room with it, you kill both the people and the fire, right?"
"Right," Eliot agreed.
"So why tamper with both the valves when just the one would do? There's no reason to fiddle with the nitrogen, but someone did." He pointed at the screen. "They shut it off. Completely." He stared at the picture. "That's not the original tank, either."
Eliot stared thoughtfully at the picture. "That's a new tank," he suddenly declared. "One of the guys on site was fiddling with his toolbox when I went by. Bet you anything the insurance people told him to replace it on the sly."
"So where's the old tank? Did you take pictures of the tanks in storage?"
"He didn't, I did." Hardison was already putting them up on the screen.
"It seemed safer that way. Place was hot as hell, someone was going to start asking questions if they caught me going around to too many places."
Nate nodded. The pictures were stills from a security camera, showing shelves, boxes, cylinders -
"Nate," Sophie murmured.
"I see it." On a lower shelf was a small silver cylinder, much tinier than all its siblings. It had none of the typical cautionary symbols or identifiers; instead it was covered in writing that not one of them could recognize. Nate picked up his remote and enlarged the picture, focused on that spot.
A small number on the bottom of the screen began to inch up, and the screen let out a quiet little beep, no louder than a microwave. Hardison lunged forward, snatched the remote out of Nate's hand and turned off the screen altogether, leaving the mastermind blinking. "No! Nuh-uh. You're not blowing up another one of my screens!"
"I wasn't gonna -!"
"I am a man of science, Nate. You know that, everyone knows that, right? And that," Hardison pointed at the black screen, "is how it's begun every time. We focus on something, someone, and the tech actually cannot keep up. Two screens, Nate!"
"Fedorov blew up three," Sophie murmured.
"What?!"
"And two rigs."
"WHAT?!"
"It can't be just because of a picture -"
"I don't care what it is," Hardison declared impatiently. "I care what it's doing, and that would be overclocking my systems until they literally explode. My systems, Nate. Hacking into the Pentagon didn't overclock them. Hacking into the Interpol databases didn't overclock them."
"You hacked Interpol?" Eliot looked pleasantly surprised at this news.
"Incidental!" the hacker exclaimed. "I don't believe…!" He took a deep breath and spoke in a less irritated tone. "Nate, I don't believe in hinky stuff. You know that. I believe in what's real, what's here. I know something's doing this to my gear. I don't know what it is, yet. I just know it's there. Until I figure out what it is, and how to bypass it, this is what I can do."
Nate stared at the hacker, who looked levelly back at him.
"Why can't it just be magic?" Parker asked sedately.
"Magic's just science that no one's explained yet, Parker," Hardison replied gently. "That's the problem. You can't fight a rocket with a rock. I need to know what it is, I need to understand what it is, before I can work around it."
The team watched her take in those words and then nod thoughtfully.
Nate rubbed at his face. "Magic." The word was loaded with all the scorn a rational man could load upon it.
"Nate, do you have a problem with the concept or with the fact none of us is a, a…. a 'magic' specialist?" Sophie asked with utmost calm.
"Both," he admitted, then glanced at Hardison. "Though a paradigm shift helps a little with the first."
Hardison shrugged. "Hey, man. Big old monolith was just a computer."
"I've been involved in too much weird stuff," Eliot said carefully, "not to accept that there's things going on on this rock that I can't explain. Doesn't mean there isn't an explanation, just that I don't know it yet."
Sophie gestured elegantly. "I do magic on a daily basis," she said mildly. "I've been accused of that a few times, every time I'm done with a mark. That aside, wouldn't it be nice, wouldn't it be fun, to know there's a little bit of something wild and dangerous and unique in the world, like magic?"
"It would help," Nate burst out with tight control, "if we didn't keep calling it that."
"But it's Baba Yaga!" Parker protested. "That's magic, isn't it?"
"It's - Parker, why are you so hung up on this Baba Yaga thing?"
She blinked at him. "Who wouldn't be? A grandma that gives you gifts and prizes for being clever and tricky and mischievous? Who eats bad guys? That sounds like an awesome grandma."
Nate didn't sputter, but it was a close thing. Sophie and Eliot grinned.
"Parker, she eats people," Hardison protested.
Parker was polishing up her food. "There's people who deserve to get eaten," she shot back pragmatically.
Nate put his hands out. "Are we taking the job?"
The room went silent.
"They came after us, Nate." Eliot's voice was frighteningly even. "I do not like it when people come after us, even if it's by accident."
"They came after my museum," Parker muttered.
"I am dying to know how they keep blowing up my screens," Hardison admitted.
Nate looked at Sophie, who nodded minutely. He drew in a deep breath.
Magic's just science that no one's explained yet.
"Ok. We can't leap ahead, so we're going back. Eliot, Parker, we need that cylinder. Hardison, see if hard copy explodes, too. Print out the info, we'll just have to slog through it the old-fashioned way. Sophie." He ground his teeth minutely before sighing in defeat. "Do you know any 'magic' specialists?"
"No," she admitted readily. "But I know of one. He's even for hire." When Nate scoffed, her tone sharpened. "Nate, if you want the help, you're going to have to respect that the man's probably a professional in his field, just like we are. I don't know if he's the real thing, but he might be all we've got."
"Fine, fine," he grumbled. "Call him up."
"I can't, I don't know the man, I just know of him, and I don't feel comfortable chatting about Baba Yaga with a stranger over the phone."
"What, do you want to go talk to him in person?"
"Yes!" She gestured pointedly at the black screen.
Nate drew in a vast breath, held it, hissed it out. "Fine. Where is he?"
"Chicago."
"Alright. Let's go hire us a wizard."
#Leverage#Nathan Ford#sophie devereaux#Parker#eliot spencer#alec hardison#my writing#fanfiction#the dresden files#harry dresden#urban fantasy#crossover#mild violence
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CHAPTER 5 - ECHO IN THE WIND
childe x reader, wc: 5k, masterlist, Ao3
cw: nsfw
You saw his slim figure clamber onto the roof as the moon was just about to reach her peak, he looked completely different compared to a few hours ago. Like this he was menacing, he could kill without a second thought. You were standing opposite him, body shadowed by the bell tower. One leg stood in front of the other to keep your feet on the ridge of the roof, arms crossed and hair blowing behind you.
Once he had reached you, you slunk back into the room and looked at him, unsure of what to say
“Ready?” he said, he was giving you one last chance to say no and stay.
“As I’ll ever be” You looked at him as he grinned
“Here’s the plan, we go to my room and fake my death, we'll have to be fast because I don't know what time Marianne will be back. From there you break us out”
“I’ve finished all my business in Mondstadt so I am free to leave. However, I haven't activated any waypoints in Liyue Harbour so we’ll have to take the waypoint just outside of the city to the border. There we make out way on foot”
You nodded along with his plan
“And what do we do once we’ve reached Liyue Harbour, start your next mission?”
Childe looks away for a moment. You think he won't tell you, you wouldn't be surprised. In his eyes you could still betray him, but if you did you would be dead before your body had hit the ground. “I have been sent to kill Rex Lapis”
“T-to kill a god?” You couldn't help but step back a little
Childe nods as if it was nothing of note “He has something the Tsaritsa needs, something every Archon has” You don't miss how he doesn't elaborate. You look at him, he stood tall before you. He was a Fatui Harbinger but he was still mortal, did he really think he could single handedly kill a god.
“I- Did you kill Barbatos too?” your mouth suddenly felt dry
“No, That is not my task this time” he looked slightly annoyed as he said it
“So the Fatui will k-kill Barbatos” You sucked in a breath eyes blown wide with shock
“Only if he's not… compliant”
“We're running out of time” You mumbled, turning so you didn't have to look at him
“We can discuss this later” trying to get over the shock of what he just told you. There was no escaping this now, you had bound yourself to him for the time being. You had time later to question him and figure out exactly what you had gotten yourself into.
You climbed onto the rafters and slunk across them, from there you dropped onto the ground of the balcony surrounding the main body of the church. The heel of your boot made a small sound as you landed on the well worn stone. You looked over the railing seeing the empty aisle. It was odd, you were so used to seeing the place alive with others milling around below.
You turned to face Childe. Still crouched on the rafters and pressed a finger against your lips. You snuck down the stairs, hearing the sound of his boots as he dropped down.
Reaching the door you opened and peered inside, satisfied that it was empty you stepped in and let Childe follow you. You closed the door and pressed your back against it letting out the breath you were holding. Your heart was beating so fast it was practically humming in your chest.
This was it, the last part of your plan falling into place, anticipation filled every part of your body and the dread of what you would have to do next. You looked at Childe, voice edged with something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
“Do you have a knife?” You breathed
“Why”
“Just give me the knife”
He pulled out the same dagger you had cut his shirt off with from the leather strap around his thigh and handed it to you. Bracing your thigh on the bed you hiked your skirt up a little to reveal the flesh. Grabbing some of the sheet you cut a strip off, folding it up and shoving it into your mouth to muffle the inevitable scream. You didn’t miss the questioning look that Childe gave you.
You took a deep breath in and slashed the knife across your thigh, biting into the cloth, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. The hot pain seared across your thigh, stinging long after the knife left your skin.
You heard Childe suck in a breath behind you, he moved to stand next to you. He placed his hand on your bleeding thigh, you bit further into the cloth. He pressed his hand onto the stone next to your bed to create a handprint. Whatever you were expecting him to do it wasn't that.
You took the cloth out of your mouth, unfolding it. You focused on breathing feeling slightly dizzy, while blood wasn’t an unfamiliar sight seeing yours was something else. It was bright red, hot, shining in the dim candle light. You looked at your injured thigh for a minute, letting the blood flow onto the sheets, enough to look suspicious. Taking the strip of cloth out of your mouth you press it to your thigh, hissing. You hold it in place with both hands applying pressure to stem the bleeding.
“Why did you do that?” you asked him, eyes focused on your thigh, chest heaving.
“A handprint would make it easier to believe you've been murdered”
“Because the copious amount of blood on my sheets wouldn’t do that” you retorted
“Might as well give them every reason to believe you were killed instead of running away” he shrugged.
“Childe, can you put some pressure on the wound? I need to wrap it” His hands replaced yours keeping firm on your thigh. You used the bloody knife to cut another strip off of the ruined sheets. He lifted the bloody fabric to reveal the cut. Nausea hits you like a wave.
Gathering every bit of energy you could you activated your vision, clearing the blood off your thigh. You wish you had the ability to stitch your skin together with your vision; it would make the process a lot faster. Perhaps you might learn to in Liyue. You wrapped the second piece of linen tightly around your thigh.
“I hope this doesn’t scar” you mumble under your breath, still feeling slightly dizzy. You swallow and remove your bent leg from the bed, testing your ability to stand. It hurt a bit but not enough to hinder your ability to move.
“That was… not what I was expecting” Childe exhaled
“I’m sure you've seen worse, done worse” You cleaned the knife off on the ruined sheets and handed it back to Childe, he slipped it back into the sheath on his thigh.
“True, but you haven't. Plus normally I’m the one causing other people to bleed” He said, his voice lacking the usual lilt of amusement to it.
The conversation was cut short as the two of you whipped around, hearing the faint clack of footsteps in the distance, ascending the spiralling staircase to the dormitory. You share a look with him. He bolted to the window and jumped out landing in a crouch. His still bloody hand left a small smear behind. He held his arms out ready to catch you. You had no time to climb down. Reading yourself you leaped out of the window for the final time landing solidly in Childe's arms.
He promptly placed you down and began to run around the northern edge of the cathedral. He reached a section of the wall that wouldn't be visible from the dormitory windows and climbed, you not far behind him. His height meant he reached the top of the wall before you. He extends his hands and hauls you up, taking you over the edge.
Sparing a glance back at the cathedral for the last time, as you gazed upon if you could hear a faint scream, one that sounded exactly like Marianne’s. Against every force in your body telling you to fucking move your body stood frozen in place. The scream reverberating in your soul, sinking into your psyche like a stone in water. You couldn’t breathe, the ringing in your ears reached fever pitch. One word on your mind.
“Marianne” you whispered out, voice breaking ever so slightly
“Let’s go ” Childe urged, you found it in yourself to turn you back on the cathedral for the very last time. Childe bundled you up in his arms and jumped off the wall, glider slowing your descent. As soon as you landed on the grass you were running, desperately trying to keep up with him.
Knowing the bridge wasn’t an option, there were two knights always stationed outside the main city gate you veered towards the lake. Not waiting for Childe to catch on. Body running on pure adrenaline you felt almost unstoppable.
You jumped off the cliff Mondstadt stood upon, landing on the water below. Hands weaving a path along the clear water to the other side, towards the Starfell Valley waypoint. You sprinted along the surface of the lake not bothering to be careful as you had been last time, water splashing up behind you wetting the black fabric of your habit.
You practically flew across the water, Childe not far behind skating along the surface contrary to your sprinting. You made it to shore still running to the waypoint, finally stopping to catch your breath once you had reached the glowing artefact.
“We’ll head to Windwail point, from there we take the road to Liyue Harbour” He said, throwing a small pack in your direction.
“Change first, you’ll look too suspicious with that habit”
‘Thought of everything didn’t you”
Not bothering to question where exactly he got the clothes you signalled for him to turn around. He complies as you quickly slip off the soaked habit, hurriedly changing into the dry clothes he bought you.
They were still in the Mondstadt style but more armoured. The corset was made of a strong material that could hopefully resist a few blows. Lacing up the back you adjusted your thigh-highs, boots and gloves. Your fingers skimmed over the blood stained piece of cloth that covered the cut on your thigh, it hurt less than you thought it would. Smoothing your hair out you let it flow free until you could find something to style it with, for the first time your hair wasn't obscured by the headdress the church mandated you wear.
“OK, I’m ready, Let's get out of here” You gathered up the wet clothes in your arms bundling them into the bag Childe had given you.
“We can burn these later” You noticed Childe looking at you oddly
“It’s strange to not see you in your habit”
“It’s strange to not be wearing one” not wanting to stick around any longer fearing a stray knight on patrol may stumble across the two of you.
You placed your hand to the waypoint. Your body felt weightless for a split second, you felt your feet on the ground a few moments later, silver gleam running across your skin. In the distance you could see Dawn Winery. Its vineyards extend far into the distance, old manor rising in the centre. It was clad in thick layers of ivy, barrels of wine stacked against its sandstone walls. You had wished this wasn’t the first time you were seeing this place.
The historic residence of the Ragvindrs. You had always admired its current Master for turning his back on the knights. When you had heard the news that the newly-of-age Master had abandoned his position as Captain after being the youngest person to have ever been made Captain it had given you some hope. Nowadays the young Master was entirely removed from Mondstandt’s internal politics, dashing your hopes that something might change.
Childe appeared next to you in a bright flash of light. His lapis gaze darted to the Dawn Winery, he seemed wary of the place.
“Come, the sooner we make it to the border the safer we are. We’ll spend the night at the Wangshu Inn and continue in the morning”
You and Childe follow the sandbank between the towering cliffs flanking the lake. As you reached the Stone Gate the landscape turned from green to yellow. Despite Liyue sharing Mondstadt’s southern border you knew shockingly little about the nation.
As you crossed the border you could feel some of the weight you had on your shoulders lift. You had made it out alive. Part of you wanted to relish in your newfound freedom immediately, the better part of you knew to save that for Liyue Harbour. You were still too close to Mondstadt for comfort, for all you know the knights could be hot on your trail.
You opened your mouth wanting to ask the question that’s been on the forefront of your mind since you had escaped. You closed your mouth deciding that now wasn’t the best time.
Childe however had other plans “Spit it out”
“What?”
“You were about to say something” You hadn’t noticed he was looking at you
“Why kill a god” You said, looking anywhere but at Childe
“Because The Tsartisa wills it and what she wants I will deliver” he supplies, the same tone in his voice he always had when talking about the Cryo Archon, admiration you had pinned it to.
“What will you be doing specifically in Liyue?” You push further, hoping for solid answers to your endless questions. If you were going to have to wait for your freedom for a little longer you would at least like to know what’s going on
“The plan is that I'm officially here as a representative of the Liyue branch of Northland bank, people haven't been paying their debts on time so I’m here to… encourage them. Unofficially I’m here to hunt Rex Lapis”
“And where do I come into this?”
“Considering my station as a Fatui Harbinger I'll likely have assassins on my tail. Not to mention Rex Lapis, aside from being the God of Contracts he is the God of War. I'll be very surprised if I make it out unscathed from such a glorious battle”
You made your way along a rickety wooden bridge in front of a large waterfall, you stood in place to admire it for a moment. Waterfalls were uncommon in Mondstadt.
“Do the other Harbingers know about this plan”
“...No, they don't know the specifics. I am very rarely aware of their whereabouts anyways. It's been a while since I’ve been called back home”
“And you have underlings? Do they know?”
“No. The Harbingers are the only ones aware of the Tsaritsa’s true plan. Regardless if they know exactly what I’m after rumours of me attempting to kill a god would draw too much unwanted attention from the other Harbingers. I prefer to keep them in the dark, much like in the eyes of the Liyue Qixing I’m only here for diplomatic reasons to my underlings”
“I wouldn’t take you as a diplomat, Tartaglia” you snark
“While it is considerably less fun causing chaos from behind the scenes it is a necessary part of my role”
“Causing chaos?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it too” he questioned tilting his head down to look at you
“I might” you replied, cocking your head a lilt to your voice
You continue down the dirt path. Even the plants were unfamiliar aside from the occasional sprig of mint or sweetflower, you wondered what properties Liyuen plants might contain.
“Have you found Rex Lapis?” You ask
“Not yet, but I know where to start”
You cock your head waiting “If I’m going to help you you need to tell me more”
“Are you aware of contracts and Liyue?” he asks
“Somewhat” you sigh, guessing at where he was going with this
“An agreement made in Liyue is a contract. One that cannot be broken by either party or there will be punishment from the gods”
“And you wish to make a contract between us now?”
You stop under a rather large Sandbearer tree, its orange leaves falling down around the both of you, gnarled trunk twisting towards the heavens.
“If you wish to know more, then yes”
“I haven't earned your trust yet?”
“You have in some sense, but this is highly sensitive and you already know of my plans to kill a god. I would rather have a contract to make this airtight”
“As you wish” He turns to look at you, he grasps your forearms and you do the same. You look up at his lifeless eyes. He begins to speak
“You, Yue will work as my personal healer until my mission in Liyue is complete. You are to let nobody know about our contract or agreements, you are not to betray me, you are not to tell a soul about what I plan to do and you are to be loyal to me during our time together”
There was a faint gold glow beginning to surround your arms, weaving its way upwards. Taking advantage of the moment you slip a few of your own terms in might as well make this fair.
“I, Yue, agree to work as your healer. In exchange you, Tartaglia the 11th of the Fatui Harbingers are not to harm me, you are not to turn me back to Mondstadt or The Order and you are to protect me until you have completed your objectives in Liyue”
“I find these terms acceptable”
“As do I” you said with finality
“Then it is settled, our contact is now sealed” The gold glow wraps itself around your intertwined forearms, sinking into your skin. You could feel a faint tingling as he grips you slightly harder.
You unclasped your hands from his arm and peeled back your glove, surprised to find nothing here.
“Will you tell me the plan now?”
“So eager aren’t you”
You don't give him a response. Wanting answers, a clear path forward
“If you wish to see the adepti in Liyue there is a sort of pass you need, it's called a Sigil of Permission. The Fatui have been working on replicating them. We need enough to summon an ancient being by the name of Osial. Currently he is trapped under the Sea of Clouds but with enough adeptal energy we should be able to summon him and draw out Rex Lapis to protect his nation. There I kill him and take what I need”
“And what exactly do you need?” You chest was getting tight, this is what you were getting yourself into
Childe hesitates “I’m afraid I cannot tell you. I am sworn to never break the Tsaritsa’s bidding, and that means I must not divulge her true plans to those she doesn’t want hearing them”
“And yet your willing to potentially kill an entire city for her”
“No, I’m willing to risk a city. I kill Rex Lapis after he’s saved the city, Osial will be weak after being chained under the ocean for so long anyways”
“The underlings replicating the sigils, do they know what they're helping with?”
“No, they do not know what they are replicating or what its for”
This was hard to swallow but it's what you tied yourself to. Getting involved with a Harbinger was already dangerous, you didn’t know what you expected especially with whatever their plans were in Mondstadt. So long as the city and its citizens survived, so long as summoning Osial was to only draw Rex Lapis out you could live with that.
You were walking along some lacquered wooden railing clinging to the side of a mountain. As you round the corner you see a giant tree rising in the distance buildings in an unfamiliar style attached to its trunk.
“Wangshu Inn” Childe supplies
“It's beautiful” You breathe, was the rest of Liyue like this? You continue to walk down the path.
“I will need further training, There are rumours of a doctor seeking an apprentice in Liyue Harbour”
“Ah, Baizhu, He is well known across Liyue for his ability, that and his snake”
“If I am to help heal you then I would like to apply for his apprenticeship”
Childe is silent for a moment as he considers your request “Provided nobody is able to find out about your affiliation to me then I’ll allow it. It’s important to keep our relationship hidden, not only for my sake but yours. If someone was to find out then that would but a considerable target on your back”
You nod along “I would like to stay alive for the time being, plus you just made a contract with me explicitly stating that I cannot tell anyone lest I face a soon-to-be-dead god’s wrath”
“What do you wish to learn? From what I've seen your a fairly competent healer”
“I, much like you, wish to be the best at my art. I hear that some can stitch skin together with nothing but the aid of their Vision, some can bring someone back from the brink of death. You’re a Harbinger. I can make a stab in the dark based on your scars that you can and will encounter much worse.”
“So you wish to achieve mastery?”
“Yes, I do. You of all people would relate to that”
“Even if that mastery comes with notoriety?”
“I am more than willing to lie about who I am if that means I can get what I want”
“I can understand that”
“You’ve done the same?”
“In some capacity”
That should be no surprise. You decide to not pry any further for the time being. His story was his to tell and it was unlikely he would tell it to you.
You approach a large Statue of the Seven depicting Morax. He was seated on a throne with large columns rising with inscriptions on them to form the backing. The hooded figure looking contemplative as he gazed upon a cube in his grasp, the edges glowing faintly with blue energy. Some of the statue was cracking, forming deep rivets in the stone.
You placed your fingers upon the base of the statue, and looked up. You wondered what he was thinking and feeling. Did he know that your companion was about to take his life? That you made a contract under him? You wondered if Morax was laughing at the inherent irony.
✧
Childe looked upon your figure touching the statue. He didn’t feel the pang of guilt he thought he would feel looking upon the statue. It was such a risk telling you what he was planning to do. He had even made a contract with you under the gaze of the god he was going to kill in cold blood to obtain his gnosis.
You had earnt a small amount of his trust, just enough for him to let you in. He still had to play his hand close to his chest. You had taken his plan well, he had half expected you to run back to Mondstadt even after you had bound yourself to him for the time being.
But was it truly such a risk? As far as he knew he was the only Harbinger in Liyue meaning he essentially had free reign over The Fatui’s plans in Liyue. This was his chance and he had to grasp it. Despite the hundreds of battles he's won, the countless beasts he’s slayed, he still needed to prove himself to the other Harbingers. One day they would notice him for what he truly was, preferably before he conquered the world for the Tsaritsa.
You were silent for the remainder of the journey to Wangshu Inn. It was nearing dawn by the time you stopped, you looked exhausted.
“We’ll rest here during the day and continue to Liyue Harbour tonight”
You merely nodded in response to his words. He wondered where the bite you usually had went.
“Here” he handed you a small pouch of Mora “Get a room for yourself and rest. In the evening I’ll meet up with you outside the inn”
You didn't say anything as you took the bag of mora and walked into the Inn. Childe waited for a bit before walking into the Inn himself and booking a room for himself. The receptionist looked at him strangely but obliged without saying much of anything.
He wandered up to his room, stripping and heading straight to the bath. Rejoicing in the warm water, a small luxury in Snezhnaya. He meticulously washed himself, getting rid of the dirt that had accumulated on his skin. It was strange for him to be so lost in thought, normally he just did. Diplomacy was unfamiliar to him; he would rather strike hard and true rather than slowly planning out every detail. Might as well get the job done quickly.
Perhaps it was you, unlike him you planned, you thought. He had seen you spar, you took to long thinking through the movements, too lost in thought to be in the present moment. You still held connection to those who hurt you, unable to let go. He wondered who Marianne was and why her scream made you freeze as if you had been hit by a cryo arrow.
He bit his lip, he should tell you what The Fatui are planning in Mondstat, you may have hated the place but you did deserve to know. You had looked so shocked when you had thought he had killed Barbatos despite the hatred you seemingly had for the absentee Archon. He decided he would tell you when you asked, you never seemed to run out of questions anyways.
He got out of the rapidly cooling water and dried himself off. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was out.
✧
You could barely sleep despite your exhaustion. It had been less than twenty four hours since you had escaped Mondstadt, everything was moving at a mile a minute. The news that Childe was planning to summon an ancient god to lure out Rex Lapis. The way he said it so casually, even with a hint of excitement made you uneasy. Deciding to process it later when you were less tired.
It was nice to have a room to yourself for once you felt more relaxed now that there were no eyes on you for once. You undressed, hands skimming over the cut on your thigh. It was healing faster than you had expected, especially considering it was only a few hours old. You drew a bath and stepped into the large tub, letting the hot water relax your muscles. Flicking a bit of water up you moved it around with ease before concentrating on forming it into a knife.
The blade took form, you modelled it off the one Childe had given you. The handle was easy, the blade was harder. This time it kept its form, you grabbed it and ran your finger along the edge curiously, it was still dull, it couldn't even cut a blade of grass. With a huff of finality you let the water lose its form and splash back into the bathwater.
Letting the steam surround you, you tried to empty your mind of the racing thoughts that normally consumed you. You bite your lip, deciding you need a distraction you let your and absentmindedly travel down your navel. You could finally do this in privacy without having to worry about waking someone up or being walked in on.
You let your finger circle your clit, feeling sparks already. You other hand works deftly at your nipple, letting yourself fully relax you lean your head against the edge of the bath. Your thoughts lead to nothing in particular, just letting yourself get lost in the growing feeling. Your breathing became heavier, your head was getting lighter, it was becoming harder and harder to form a coherent thought.
You increased the pace of your finger over your clit, dipping two into your cunt and letting them curl in that one spot that always made you see stars, pleasure creeping into your navel. Your legs curled up a little. You don't bother to hide your moans as you normally would, hand slapped over your mouth to muffle yourself in shame.
You continue to pleasure yourself, whining as you bring yourself closer and closer to the edge. You pinch your nipple letting the slight pain sing through your body. You wondered what it would be like for another person to do this to you. Against your will, the idea of the Harbingers hands replacing yours, circling your clit, filling you up, kissing your neck came to mind. You hated that it spurred you on, blush gracing your cheeks.
Fuck, why were your thoughts wandering to him. You moaned breathily trying to shove the lewd thoughts of him away. You were so close, just skimming the edge. You pressed the palm of your hand against your bud and ground against it, pumping and curing your fingers in and out of you at the pace you knew would bring you satisfaction. Fingers continued to play with your nipple. You keened, back arching, high pitched gasp came from you as you felt your orgasm wash over you. Your muscles clenched as you screwed your eyes shut letting the feeling of overwhelming bliss wash over you. You laid there for a moment, water settling around you, staring blankly at the ceiling.
You climbed out of the bath, not wanting to stay until the water went cold and dried yourself off. You rifled through your bag looking for your night dress and comb. Giving your hair a run through so it would look presentable the next day you changed and climbed into the large bed. It was considerably more comfy compared to the hard wooden beds and thin mattresses that the church had provided. Sleep claimed you quickly as the sun rose over the horizon.
#tartaglia x reader#tartaglia#childe#ajax#ajax fic#ajax x reader#tartaglia fic#tartaglia angst#tartaglia fluff#tartaglia fanfiction#tartaglia fanfic#tartaglia smut#childe fluff#childe angst#genshin#genshin impact#genshin impact childe#genshin tartaglia#genshin childe#genshin impact childe x reader#genshin impact fic#genshin impact commission#genshin fanfic#genshin impact fanfiction#genshin impact fics#b's writing#godless
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My character for Rick and Morty
Heavily inspired by the fanfic on AO3 Anomaly
Sasha 🚀 28 🚀 Female/Human 🚀 Dimension K237
5'4" - 154lbs - 💜 - 🎶 - 🌌 - 🥂 - 🍰 - ⛈
Bad ending and Happy endings available
TW for bad endings/ Gore, Abuse, Stockholm, kidnapping, body modification, possibly self harm, death, etc but these are welcome in RPs
🌌Backstory🌌
💫💣Maybe she's a masochist, but baby maybe so is he💣💫
☆Infinite yous, Destroy infinite mes, and we call it love.☆
🎶🚀High Enough - K.Flay🚀🎶
Sashas are a lot like Mortys, in the sense they are meant to be partnered with a Rick, However Ricks don't need a Sasha the way they need a Morty. Its more recreational. Sashas need a Rick to feel complete. Not every Rick meets their Sasha. This causes a vacuum of want/need.
Some Ricks will take other Ricks Sashas for themselves. The amount of Sashas in existence have slowly dwindled over time. Most dying in Rick related accidents, Getting stranded as get away bait, experimented on, and more. Rarely do Sashas get their happy ending with a Rick.
On a genetic level, Sashas are considered the perfect partners for Rick. Their devotion and obedience allows them to put up with Ricks eccentricities. Their urge to please and be useful to their Ricks runs on a molecular level, almost inescapable for a Sasha.
Because of this they generally find their demise at the hands of a Rick, Much like the Mortys. Every Sasha leans on the creative/artsy side of things, usually painters, musicians, anything involving the arts, ccasionally found as elementary teachers or coffee baristas.
When a Sasha meets a Rick, they are automatically drawn to them, this could also be said for a Rick. Certain groups of Ricks formed to figure out the reason Sashas exist and what drew the two together. This led up to many horrific and immoral experiments involving the Sashas.
Because of this, in certain dimensions parents of Sashas who had learned from other dimensional versions of themselves that this was to be their daughter's fate, began sending their Sashas away, in hopes of hiding them, or slimming their chances of ever meeting a Rick.
🎶🚀Deathbed - Bring me the Horizon🚀🎶
This was to be the fate of our Sasha. Her mother, in hopes of protecting her from a future of one sided devotion sent her away with a stranger who promised to hide her away, at "the end of the universe".
Swept away to live a new life in space. Though she didn't expect "The ETU" To be a shit space bar floating at the edges of a desolate area of the universe; in a completely different dimension than the one she called home. She found herself dropped off and a silent deal made for her. She would now work at "The ETU" until her company seen fit.
Only 17 at the time, her new employer found Sasha had an aptitude for music, able to read sheet music easily and pick up the piano like a natural, so he arranged to have her pay her way by playing the Piano for his patrons. This slowly brought new clients, which made boss happy.
So for the next 11 years Sasha grew up in the run down bar, playing piano and, as she got older, singing on stage. The ETU generally housed bounty hunters and other miscreants, seedy patrons but hella parties. The Bar itself was a large space ship that constantly floated freely Through space, causing its exact whereabouts to constantly shift which made it the perfect spot for less than legal deals or activity. Sasha grew used to this way of living, always kept on a tight and short leash by her employer who, now considered her more property than people.
Now 28 and still performing for her /savior/ Bernardo, she knew very little of the ways of space, which was ironic for someone who lived there. She was rarely allowed to sit at the bar after or before performances, her socialization with others kept very short. Bernardo didn't Want any risk of his little bird trying to spread her wings and leave, as he had become quite accustomed to her company at this point. And Sasha had shown no interest in anyone nor of the idea of leaving ETU so there was no reason to change the way things were. That was until..
A drunk older man stumbled his way through the steel doors of the ETU, He had wild spiked blue hair and fair skin, his face red with a drunk intensity as he belched his way towards the bar. This is the moment that would change Sashas life, forever; for better or worse.
🚀🌌🎶Do you feel it - Chaos Chaos 🎵🌌🚀
Sasha generally wears cozy large sweaters, "They make me feel safe and warm" often accompanied by a pair of rolled shorts and knee high socks. Sneakers are a must at all times "Hey never know when I may need to run for my life, sneakers are both fashionable and practical" when she's home and around the house her shoulder length brown hair generally falls loose, unless she's in the kitchen, on adventures its always a high pony, advice from Rick "W-wouldnt want your - your You know it gett-ting caught in something" Most of her clothing consists of soft colors, greens blues and yellows, some pinks, greys and off blues.
Sasha can be clumsy, not as clumsy as most but clumsy enough Rick finds himself bandaging her up after most adventures "Do-Do you need glasses or some sh-it, how-how , why can't you fuc-king see where you're going"
Ricks biggest Sasha based pet peeve is that Jerry asks her to play commercial jingles on the piano every day all day, and of course Sasha complies "You-You could literally, fuck-ing literally ask her to play .. you know.. m-morty the guy with the fingers morty wh-who was it morty with the piano" "uhmm you mean Mozart, Rick?" "Thats the guy, Jerry you you waste of space you-you could literally ask her to play Mozart and you land on stupid annoyi-ing jingles that that just take up brain space" "Awe Jeez Rick I-I kind of like the - the jingles" "Of course you do Morty"
🎶🚀Sex with a Ghost - Teddy Hyde🚀🎶
Sasha spends most of her time at the Smiths house, only going with Rick and Morty on certain adventures, generally ones Rick thinks she may be useful, but sometimes just because. At home she spends her time playing the Piano in the living room and working on new songs, cleaning up after Rick so Beth doesn't have to, and helping Morty with his homework when he's around. Sasha also took it upon herself to tidy the house and occasionally cook for the family, anything to keep herself busy while Ricks off on adventure after adventure. If she's not doing any of that then she's most likely off with Summer somewhere or getting wine drunk with Beth.
🎶🚀Breezeblocks - alt-J🚀🎶
Drinking with Sasha
Sasha never complains or broods about her and Rick, However she has been known to open up about her feelings, towards Rick and how he makes her feel negatively, when she gets too drunk, This is the only time Sasha truly let's on how Rick negatively affects her, Drinking is the only time she let's herself be vulnerable, and thats only because she has such less control of herself when intoxicated. Otherwise Sasha would never do anything to make Rick feel like, or look like, the bad guy. She puts him on a pedestal even if she can't help it, and it really shows when she's drinking. It can go from talking about how worthless she feels to how amazing it is to be near him in only a few seconds, its sick and toxic and inescapable for her.
Sasha tries not to get drunk often, having a glass or two of wine with Beth is one thing, but leaning Over Summer talking about how much she loves her while barely being able to stand is another, Theres definitely been more than once where Sasha has gotten too drunk or passed out in precarious places, Rick calls her a flight risk after finding her passed out in an alley after a night of drinking at a club with Summer. He specifically doesn't bring her apocalypse bar hopping because he doesn't want to have to find her before a planet burns out. There's so drunk you're the life of the party, than there's so drunk you're just trying to numb your entire existence, Because deep down Sasha is in a lot of pain, She knows what's between her and Rick isn't healthy but can't admit to it unless she plastered, and Sasha doesn't know where the middle is, so its a hit or miss.
If you are drinking with Sasha be prepared for random dancing and breaking out into song lyrics that may or may not suit the current situation, Sasha is a sucker for Karaoke and after a few drinks all she wants to do is play piano or sing her heart out.
If you wanna read my other OC posts, just type Sasha into my search bar!
☆Please note, Sasha is not a Diane replacement, If Rick had to choose between the two he would always choose Diane☆
In dimensions where Ricks are happily living with their Diane's, Sashas are usually living a normal life, however most who are more fortunate to live like this generally feel like they are missing something, often trying to find meaning in their lives, or they no longer exist in that dimension due to other Ricks, who choose to take misplaced or /unused/ Sashas for themselves.
If Diane's existed more predominantly I believe we would also see Ricks aside themselves with grief and other traumas, stealing Diane's, killing and replacing their Ricks, or as we seen from Prime just straight up killing the happy family.
Sashas are not Diane replacements, as its rare for a Rick to fall truly in love again, they are merely conduits of pain for Ricks.
Sasha truly does love Rick, for her being part of the Smith family has been the greatest joy of her life, finally living back on earth and, for the most part, living a life free to do as she pleases. It has come with many dangers and heartbreak, but she will always remain loyal to Rick and the rest of the Smith family.
^most of the songs posted can be found here^
#rick and morty#rick sanchez#morty smith#original character#mvrp#roleplay#rick and morty roleplay#original rick and morty character#self insert#rickrot#rick brain#rick brain rot#oc#R&M oc#Spotify#Sasha Hart OC
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The Catch
Pairing: Michael Clifford/Luke Hemmings
Rating: Teen
Key Tags: Magical Realism, Witch Michael, Awkward Luke
Word Count: 6,246
Read on AO3
Summary:
Michael Clifford, the town witch and most eligible bachelor, announces that he'll only date the person who manages to get the key from around his cat's neck. Luke Hemmings, the awkward local photographer, keeps accidentally running into the cat, even though he knows he has no chance with Michael.
Based on this post (contains a spoiler)
Luke enters the diner with a pep in his step, feeling better than he has in a long time. It’s been a great day, the kind that can only be ruined by a genuine catastrophe, and the odds of that occurring between dinner with Ashton and going to bed tonight are slim. He had a shoot earlier with a new set of parents and their adorable little girl, and although the baby spent a lot of time crying, shoots with infants are his favorite. The pictures are going to turn out amazing, and he can’t wait to edit and print them. He’s been sleeping a lot better this week than the past few months since Michael gave him a sleeping potion, and his favorite coffee shop still had a chocolate chip muffin in stock when he stopped by earlier. By the time he slides into the vinyl booth and grins at Ashton, he’s genuinely considering asking Michael out when he stops by his shop later, because it’s the kind of day where everything seems to be going right.
“Did you hear the news?” Ashton asks, pushing a drink towards him and leaning forward discreetly. Luke usually gets the same soda and food order each week, so Ashton always orders for him if he arrives first.
“What news?” Luke asks, taking a sip and relishing in the explosion of carbonation on his tongue. This diner has bendy straws, which is another delightful bonus.
“Michael isn’t accepting suitors anymore. He threatened to hex anyone who asks.”
Luke’s heart sinks.
“Really?” he asks. Ashton gives him a sympathetic smile and nods.
“He seems pretty serious. Apparently he’s already followed through.”
Luke’s heart sinks even lower. He pushes his drink away, carbonation and bendy straws losing all of their luster with one simple piece of information.
“I’m sorry, Luke. I know you liked him.”
Luke shrugs.
“Yeah, me and everyone else,” he says, running his finger through the condensation left on the table from the path of his glass.
Ever since he hit an appropriate age, Michael has been the most eligible bachelor in the area. He’s a witch, which is already rare, but he’s extremely powerful on top of that. He has blonde hair with dark scruff around his face and black tattoos swirling in intricate patterns around his arms and legs, but his most striking physical feature is by far his enchanting green eyes. Luke could happily spend hours trying to find the words to describe their beauty, but Michael has infinite positive qualities outside of his captivating looks. More than his physical features, Luke loves his heart. He has a wicked sense of humor and knows how to wield sarcasm, but he never takes jokes too far. He won’t put up with any shit, but he’s also known for giving away small charms or doing simple spells for free if he overhears someone complain or learns about problems through the grapevine.
His words get mushy when he’s excited, he blasts rock or EDM music while he makes his potions, and he always makes Luke double-check the price total of his order at the register because he doesn’t trust himself to do simple math right. Luke has had a crush on him since the first moment he stepped through the door of his shop.
Michael has been dealing with pushy, ambitious suitors for years. Supposedly, one woman went so far as to obtain an illegal love potion from another witch and try to use it on him. Luke can’t fault him for throwing in the towel, he just wishes he had waited one more day so Luke could shoot his shot.
Maybe this is better than getting rejected to his face, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
“Hey, there’s still hope!” Ashton says. He reaches forward and takes Luke’s hand across the table, giving it a little shake. “He gave his cat a key to the shop and said that whoever gets the key also gets his heart. So you still have a chance!”
Luke furrows his brow.
“That poor cat,” he says, thinking of the beautiful black cat that he sometimes sees lounging around Michael’s shop, although he always ducks away before Michael comes to the front to help him. “Everyone is going to be hunting him.”
“Yeah, but think about what will happen if you’re the one who catches it!” Ashton says with a bright smile.
Luke grimaces.
“I don’t think I’m the type of person he wants to catch his cat.”
“Come on, Luke. He’d be lucky to have you,” Ashton says gently. Luke shakes his head.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he says. “How was your day? How was work?”
Ashton sighs, but dutifully switches subjects. Luke does his best to listen and not sink into his head while he picks at his meal. He even lets Ashton order him dessert, wanting a slice of cake to drown his feelings in before he has to muster up a smile for Michael in his shop.
He might not be able to ask him on a date, but he still needs to refill his sleeping potion.
“Chin up, Luke,” Ashton says after he pays their bill. “You’re a cat -ch.”
Luke rolls his eyes, but the pun prompts an involuntary smile. He can always count on Ashton to do his best to cheer him up, and he tries to carry that with him as he makes his way down Main Street.
Michael’s shop always looks tantalizing and enchanting, but especially now, with the sun dipping low in the sky and everything painted golden with a hint of pink. The shop itself is a red brick place on the corner attached to a boutique next door, with a dark purple awning and an old, ornate wooden sign hanging above that reads Clifford Magic in big, swirling letters, with Spells, Charms, and Potions of All Kinds underneath. The windows have the same thing printed on them in purple, and the displays house various plants, vials, and cryptic-looking ingredients.
Luke usually walks right in, but today he hesitates by the door, reading the notice posted there on regular old printer paper.
It’s exactly as Ashton said. Michael Clifford has forcibly removed himself from the market to everyone except the person who catches his cat.
A small movement catches the corner of his eye in the window. The cat in question freezes from his spot amongst the items in the display, one foot raised. His clear green eyes stare at Luke unwaveringly.
Luke has always thought that the cat’s eyes look remarkably similar to Michael’s. He hasn’t seen the two next to each other to compare, and it’s not uncommon for witches and their familiars to share more attributes than just their particular brand of magic, but it strikes Luke every time he sees the cat.
The animal shifts, causing the sunlight to glint off the gold key attached to his collar. Luke doesn’t get a good look at it before the cat leaps away, disappearing deeper into the shop.
Luke pulls the door open, bell tinkling above him to signal his arrival into the crowded space. The inside of the shop is atmospherically dim, with glowing objects stacked on shelves and jars forming pyramids on tables. There’s always at least one old, yellow light bulb burnt out somewhere in the store, and Luke can never place the sweet, vaguely dusty smell that permeates through the air.
He makes his way to the table where Michael stocks sleeping potions and looks for the one Michael suggested for him last time, but in a bigger size. They come in different strengths and help in different ways depending on if the taker has nightmares, insomnia, or if environmental factors like noise are keeping them up, but Luke knows his prescription from last time. He finds the one for insomnia at the strength he needs and picks up the thin vial. It’s small enough to easily fit in his hand and sealed at the top, blue liquid swirling hypnotically inside. All he needs is a few drops in his tea each night for restful sleep.
“Hey Luke,” a voice says right by his ear. He jumps and drops the vial, fumbling and flailing and generally making a fool of himself until he finally manages to catch it.
“Stop doing that, you asshole,” he whines while Michael cackles. His dark hoodie makes his pale skin and light hair stand out even more in the dim shop, although it could be the faint shimmer of magic on his skin making him seem luminous instead. His laugh is wild and uninhibited, and Luke flushes at the sound, either from embarrassment or pleasure at causing it.
He doesn’t mind when Michael laughs at him. He likes being the source of his happiness.
“You’re so easy to sneak up on,” Michael laughs.
“I could’ve dropped this and broken it,” he says, brandishing the vial. Michael shrugs.
“I wouldn’t have made you pay for it, don’t worry. Did it work last week?”
“Yeah, thanks. This is the most rested I’ve felt in months.”
“Good,” Michael grins. Luke automatically mirrors it, then spends a beat too long smiling at Michael without saying anything.
“Can I help you find anything else?” Michael asks, just as the silence starts to roar in Luke’s ears.
“Uh, nope! That’s it today!”
“Cool, I can ring you up, then.” Luke follows Michael to the register and hands over the vial, then his credit card. He cranes his head to try and catch a glimpse of the cat while Michael completes the transaction, but he seems to have disappeared.
That’s probably a good thing. If Luke were him, he’d lay low, too.
“Here you go. Have a good day, Luke.”
“Thanks, you too,” he says, taking the sleeping potion and his receipt. He gives Michael a smile, but it fades as soon as he leaves the store.
He hopes the sleeping potion works against a broken heart. He doesn’t want to be up all night thinking about how he even has less of a chance with Michael now than he ever did before.
-/-
Luke doesn’t catch a glimpse of the cat for another three weeks, although he sees evidence of him everywhere. He trips over traps set up at various points in the city, and Michael had to make an announcement after the first day that anyone who brings physical harm to the cat will get hexxed. Still, evidence of people’s efforts to capture him litter the town. According to Ashton, Michael incinerated a few traps that he deemed too close to the shop.
When Luke does run into the cat again, it’s when he least expects it. He packs one of his cameras and a sketch book into his bag, then sets off for the woodsy area behind the studio. On occasion he’ll take shots of clients back there, but they mostly stick to the garden where there’s natural light for portraits, so Luke has started thinking of the forest as his own special place. There’s a clear area near the stream that’s the perfect size for him to sprawl out, and Luke likes to pretend he’s a wildlife photographer or that he can draw and head there to relax.
Except this time, there’s already someone else there. Luke freezes at the sight of the cat caught in a crouch, key conspicuously hanging from his collar, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Luke.
For an eternity, neither of them move.
“Sorry,” Luke says finally, voice abrasive in the otherwise quiet space. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I’ve never seen anyone else here, actually.”
The cat blinks at him.
“Can I sit?” he asks, gesturing to his usual patch of grass. The cat doesn’t say anything, because he’s a cat.
“I usually come here to clear my head and relax, so I won’t bother you, don’t worry. It’s a nice spot, right? Nice and quiet.” He carefully lowers himself to sitting, then snorts.
“Sorry, it’s usually quiet. I mean, when I’m not talking. I ramble when I’m nervous.”
The cat blinks at him again, still crouched over his paws like he’s ready to spring up at any moment. Luke rubs a hand over his face and groans.
“I’m monologuing to a cat.”
He glances at the cat, realizes how that came across, and throws out a placating arm. The cat flinches.
“I mean, no offense,” he cringes. “I know you’re a magical cat, so maybe you can understand me, in which case this is even more embarrassing, and I’m going to stop now and let you get back to whatever you were doing, although I really hope it wasn’t hunting because I like all of the wildlife here and I don’t want you disrupting the ecosystem.”
He takes a deep breath, cheeks stinging with embarrassment even though the cat is the only one here to witness his awkwardness.
“Please don’t tell Michael about this,” he says. “If you two have some sort of magic communication thingy, he doesn’t need to know how much of a disaster I am outside his shop, too.”
The cat tilts his head, bright green eyes questioning. Luke’s not sure what the answer is supposed to be, so he opens his bag and pulls out his sketchbook. Maybe he can use this opportunity to practice his live animal sketches.
When he finally finds a pencil and looks up again, the cat is gone.
-/-
Luke sees the cat more frequently after that. He doesn’t see him when he stops by the shop to pick up his potion and awkwardly exchanges a few words with Michael before running, but he swears he catches glimpses of him from the corner of his eye just about everywhere else. He sees more and more evidence of people trying to catch the cat as well, although no one has been successful.
Luke thinks the cat is far too intelligent to fall for any of the primitive traps he’s seen. He also can’t imagine Michael actually being willing to marry anyone who hurts his familiar. If someone truly loved Michael and was willing to put in the work he deserves, they wouldn’t try to catch the cat, they’d befriend it. Sure, it would take a lot longer, but Luke thinks it’d be better for everyone.
Because of that, sometimes Luke trips the traps he sees. He’s not sure if that’s technically allowed, but he hates the idea of the poor cat making a mistake one day and getting hurt because of it. There’s no formal competition, so it’s not like a referee is going to jump out of the shadows, give him a foul, and shame him in front of the whole town. He just has to be sure he doesn’t get caught. He doesn’t want any of these hunters to turn their traps against him in revenge.
This trap snaps shut with more force than he anticipated, and he yelps in surprise. He’s glad that no one is here to witness it, but his hopes of getting away discretely are dashed when he turns around to find the cat staring at him.
“Uh,” he says intelligently.
“Meow,” says the cat.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he begs. He and the cat seem to be accumulating secrets between them at an alarming rate.
“Meow,” the cat repeats.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt! Some of these traps are really dangerous. I know you’re smart enough to avoid them, but we all have our off days.”
The cat meows again, taking one step toward him. Before he can come any closer, he whips his head to the side, every nerve on alert, then bounds off in the opposite direction. Luke doesn’t stick around to see who or what spooked him. He takes that as his cue to leave and speedwalks back to Main Street.
-/-
Luke sees the cat more often than he sees Michael, it seems. The cat shows up at Luke’s spot in the forest more frequently, inching slightly closer each time while Luke rambles about the most recent batch of senior portraits he’s taken, a new song he’s fallen in love with, or Ashton’s latest attempts to push him out of his comfort zone. The cat always listens intently, gazing at him with his chin resting on his paws. Sometimes he doesn’t talk and they coexist in silence instead. Luke’s sketchbook fills with little doodles of the cat in various poses surrounded by leaves. Most of the other pages include continuously improving sketches of Michael.
“What do you think?” Luke asks, showing the cat a page of his cat sketches. The cat cocks his head and takes a few curious steps forward
“Mrow,” he says.
“I’ll take that as a shining endorsement,” Luke laughs. “Maybe I’ll bring my colored pencils next time and try to figure out how to color your eyes. You and Michael have really pretty eyes, did you know that?”
The cat meows again, sitting up tall and preening. He’s a truly stunning creature, with his smooth black coat and bright eyes. Luke knows that his sketches will never perfectly capture him, but he’s enjoying the challenge.
“Michael?” someone calls nearby, disturbing the serenity of the forest. Luke glances at the cat quickly, but he doesn’t scamper away like Luke expects him to. Instead, he meows, and a moment later someone stumbles into the clearing.
“Oh,” the man says, straightening. Luke recognizes his curly black hair from Michael’s shop, which he sometimes covers if Michael is unavailable. What makes things stranger is that the cat, who Luke has ever seen be friendly with a human in his entire life, immediately trots over to him and twines himself around the man’s legs, purring loud enough for Luke to hear.
“Hello?” he asks, brow furrowed. The man–Luke is pretty sure his name is Calum–picks up the cat, who continues to purr and rub the top of his head against Calum’s chin.
“Sorry for barging in,” Calum says, trying to twist away so he can speak without getting a mouthful of fur. “I was just looking for Michael. I need his help in the store.”
“And you thought he’d be in the woods behind my studio?” Luke asks, tilting his head, eyebrows knitting together.
“Well, yeah,” Calum says, like it’s obvious. He offers no further explanation.
After a beat of them staring at each other, the cat meows.
“I thought he doesn’t like people.” Luke gestures to the cat, who has managed to wriggle out of Calum’s hold and drape himself around his shoulders. From the grimace on Calum’s face, his claws are digging in.
“He knows me,” Calum sighs. “I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Michael, and he knows I’m not after the key.”
“Why not?” Luke asks. Calum laughs.
“Mate, Michael’s basically my brother. The last thing I want is to marry him.”
“Meow,” the cat says definitively.
“Oh,” Luke says, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. He forgot that just because he and half the town are in love with Michael doesn’t mean everyone is. That’s good; people need friends and family. Maybe once Michael gets engaged, Luke can get over his obnoxious crush and be his friend, even if he has to watch someone else be his partner.
“Do you think… is the cat going to pick someone good?” Luke asks. Calum frowns. “I know he’s super smart and Michael obviously trusts him, but there’s a lot of people after that key. Michael won’t end up with an asshole, right?”
“‘Someone good’ meaning someone like you?”
This is the most mortifying conversation Luke has ever been involved in.
“Of course not,” he says, hunching his shoulders up to his ears. “Meaning… someone better. Someone who Michael would want.”
Calum’s expression softens. From his shoulder, the cat stares at Luke steadily. It makes the hair on his arms stand on end.
“He knows exactly what Michael wants in a partner,” Calum reassures him. “Whoever gets that key is going to be who Michael would’ve chosen for himself.”
“Meow,” says the cat.
“Okay,” Luke says hesitantly. “That’s good.”
“Meow.”
Calum reaches up and scratches the top of the cat's head.
“Well, we need to get back to the shop,” Calum says. “See you around, Luke.”
“See ya.”
The cat twists to keep eye contact with Luke until they’re swallowed by the trees. He can hear Calum berate him for using his claws for a few seconds until the forest descends to a lonely silence again.
-/-
“Hey.”
Luke, predictably, jumps out of his skin at the voice, especially with it so close to his ear. Michael, predictably, laughs.
“Oh my gosh,” Luke moans, covering his face with his hands to avoid eye contact with everyone else in the coffee shop who saw him get scared shitless.
“Is this seat taken?” Michael asks. Luke peaks through his fingers to see him gesture at the other chair at his table and shakes his head. Michael kicks the chair out and plops into it, setting his coffee cup down in front of him.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Luke whines in an attempt to distract his racing thoughts from the fact that Michael chose to sit across from him even though there are plenty of open tables around them. “What if I had been holding my coffee and spilt it all over?”
“Easy, I wouldn’t have done it then,” Michael says. “I never sneak up on you if I think it could end badly.” He takes a sip of his coffee, winces at the temperature, and gestures to Luke’s open laptop.
“Editing some pictures?”
“Yeah. Just a passion project, not an official shoot.” He tilts the laptop to show him. They’re all shots from his place in the forest, a continuous effort for him to capture some of the beauty and wonder he finds there every day. He lets Michael click through them, watching carefully for every smile and blushing at every compliment.
He doesn’t remember the cat pictures until Michael lands on the first one and pauses. The cat had joined him about halfway through the shoot, creeping closer to see what Luke captured and meow approvingly every time Luke showed him the camera screen. He’s gotten more comfortable being near Luke, even playing with a fern that Luke had dangled around like a string for him to chase. When he got bored of Luke’s photography and found a patch of sun to rest in instead, Luke couldn’t resist taking a few shots, moving painfully slow in an attempt to keep quiet and let him sleep.
“Sorry,” Luke says, wondering if he should’ve asked Michael’s permission before taking the photos. “He visits me in the forest behind my studio sometimes, and he’s such a pretty cat. I couldn't resist.”
“It’s fine,” Michael says, leaning towards the computer. “I just didn’t realize you took them.”
“Well, I haven’t seen you since I did.”
“Right,” Michael says, glancing at Luke and smiling privately. “These are really good, Luke.”
“They’re my favorite in the batch,” he confesses. “I like the way the sun shows all of the different colors in his coat underneath the black. I wish I could’ve gotten a picture of his eyes, though. You both have such beautiful eyes.”
“We both do?” Michael grins. Luke’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.
“Yeah,” he says, choosing honesty over cowardice. “They’re a really beautiful seafoam green. I’ve always thought your cat has the same color, but I’ve never seen you next to each other to compare, so maybe I’m wrong.”
“No, you’re right,” Michael says. “You’re the first person to notice that.”
“Really?” Luke asks. “But you have so many admirers. Someone else has to have caught on.”
Michael snorts.
“Admirers. Sure. Except none of them seem to be interested in me as a human being with my own thoughts and feelings. That’s why I’m doing the whole key thing. It really showed me how many people were talking to me because they enjoyed my company and how many people just liked the idea of getting with a witch. It turns out that most of my conversations before this were unwanted advances and uncomfortable come-ons.”
He picks idly at the paper sleeve around his cup, frown etched into his face. Luke wants to find a way to wipe it away, but he’s worried that it goes deeper than he can see.
“Those people have no clue what they’re doing,” Luke says, resisting the urge to reach out and put a comforting hand on Michael’s arm literally seconds after he talked about unwanted advances. “If it makes you feel better, I like you as a person.”
“I know,” Michael smiles. “That’s why I’m sitting here with you instead of sulking in my shop alone. As much as I like you and you like me, I realized we haven’t talked much outside of the shop.”
“Oh,” Luke says, trying not to turn into a puddle of mush at the I like you. “What do you want to talk about?”
Michael shrugs with a small, lopsided smile.
“I didn’t think this far ahead.”
His awkwardness feels familiar and endearing. Luke likes how it softens him and puts them on a more even footing.
“Well, let’s start easy. What do you like to do? Besides magic, of course.”
Michael grins and begins talking, easily capturing all of Luke’s attention. His laptop goes to sleep unnoticed, Luke too busy snorting at Michael’s jokes and enjoying the attention when it’s his turn to speak. Michael is fun to talk to, and he’s interesting. Luke could spend weeks listening to him explain magic, but he could also spend days hearing him talk about his favorite video games, concerts he’s been to, and adventures with Calum. He's a good listener, too, asking about Luke’s family and hobbies with just as much attentiveness as Luke gave him.
The coffee shop staff ask them to leave five minutes after closing. Michael looks just as startled as Luke feels to find that hours have passed.
“You didn’t even drink your coffee,” Luke says as he shoves his laptop into his bag. Michael picks up the cup, no doubt cold and disgusting by now, and throws it directly into the trash.
“It’s fine,” he says. “Maybe I just got it so I’d have an excuse to talk to you.”
“Really?” Luke asks, following him onto the street.
“Maybe,” Michael says, giving him a cheeky grin. “You’ll have to see if I show up tomorrow.”
“What if I have a shoot tomorrow?” Luke asks.
“Do you?”
“Yeah. But I’ll probably be here after.”
“Then I’ll probably stop by,” Michael says. Luke smiles and adjusts his grip on his bag.
“Okay. Cool.”
“See you later, Luke.”
“See you.”
Michael turns and heads towards his shop and apartment. Luke forces himself to turn towards his own home, but he can’t force the smile off his face.
-/-
Luke and Michael continue meeting at the coffee shop over the next few weeks, and on the days when Luke doesn’t see him, he sees the cat. Various traps still lie in wait around town, but the competition has become so normalized that Luke barely notices them anymore. Michael said that he’s getting bothered less due to people losing interest, and the cat seems happier and more enthusiastic whenever Luke sees him.
The one downside to the waning competition is that Luke’s crush still stubbornly hangs on, as if fewer people liking Michael somehow increases the chances of Michael liking him. It doesn’t help that their coffee conversations feel like dates, nor that the cat has taken to affectionately headbutting Luke in greeting before scampering to a safe distance away.
Luke is going crazy. He has heart palpitations multiple times a day, which can’t be healthy. He keeps sketching Michael’s face when he goes to his spot in the forest, and the fact that he can do it so well from memory is a red flag.
He tosses the sketchbook to the side and tips backwards onto the grass with a groan, scrubbing his hands over his face. The cat meows in what he assumes is a question, and he turns his head to look at him sideways.
“This is your fault, you know,” he says mildly. The cat huffs, indignant. “Don’t give me that look. I’m right.”
“Meow!” the cat says, stalking forward. The sun manages to worm its way through the trees and glint mockingly off the key still around his neck. Luke turns back to the tree branches above him.
“I’m supposed to be over this by now!” he moans. “With Michael unavailable, I’m supposed to get over this silly crush, but now that he keeps talking to me and you keep hanging out with me here, it’s not going away! If anything, it’s getting worse! I know he’s not going to fall for me, of all people. I don’t need this false hope.”
He throws an arm over his eyes, just to be dramatic.
“I’m glad no one else has gotten the key yet,” he confesses. “I’m glad you’re waiting for someone who’s right for him. He deserves the right person. I just wish I wasn’t still holding on to the hope that it could be me.”
He exhales and listens to the wind stir the leaves above him. The cat stays unusually quiet, and he wonders if he scared him away with his pathetic pining. Maybe if the cat hates him, he can finally get it into his head that he and Michael won’t end up together.
Four paws land squarely on his stomach, making him jolt.
“Meow,” the cat says forcefully, peering at him.
“Huh?” he asks, pushing himself onto his elbows. The cat stays put, warm on his gut.
“Me-ow,” he repeats, green eyes boring into him. Goosebumps erupt on his arms, like there’s magic crackling in the air. The cat pushes himself up and sits tall, tilting his chin and giving Luke a side-eye. Luke’s breath catches in his throat.
“Are you… what are you doing?”
The cat keeps staring at him, the key hanging from his collar.
“Okay, wait. Hang on.”
Luke sits up, dislodging the cat from his spot with a disgruntled mrow. The cat rubs his head against Luke’s arm, and he flinches away from the unfamiliar sensation.
“Meow,” the cat says, tilting his chin to reveal the key again.
“Are you offering me the key?” Luke asks. The cat side-eyes him again hard, then meows once. Luke blinks.
“Is this serious? Are you going to claw my face off once I reach for it?”
The cat huffs and rubs against his arm again. Luke tentatively reaches up and runs his fingers through the fur at the top of his head, right between his ears. He tries it again, scratching a bit, and the cat leans into it and purrs.
“Okay,” Luke says, more to himself than to the cat. “Okay. This is weird. I wasn’t expecting this. I’m petting the cat. Do you let all the boys do this?”
The cat meows sharply, then presses against his hand and resumes purring with even more pointed enthusiasm. Luke gets the impression that he’s losing patience.
He tries to picture himself untying the key, then using it to let himself into Michael’s shop to show him.
He could do it. The cat is offering, and Luke would love to date Michael. He’d try his best to make him happy, and Michael makes him happy, too, if the past few weeks of the best coffee conversations he’s ever had are any indication.
He could do it, but…
“I don’t want him to be disappointed,” he says, already envisioning Michael’s polite sadness when Luke is the one to present the key. “I know he trusts you, and you obviously like me, and he at least likes me as a friend, but what if he doesn’t like me like that?”
The cat stares at him with those big, sympathetic eyes. He rubs against Luke’s side, then climbs onto his lap and settles in to resume purring.
“You’re a stubborn little guy, aren’t you,” Luke says with a smile, running a hand along the cat’s back. The cat shifts so the key is still easily visible, and Luke continues petting him while he lets his mind wander.
If Ashton were here, he’d tell Luke that Michael would be lucky to get him and that the cat obviously has great taste. He’s always trying to boost Luke’s confidence with ridiculous compliments like that, but he rarely has someone like Michael’s cat backing him up. Luke knows that all it took was kindness and patience, but he still can’t believe he managed to charm the cat so thoroughly. It’s almost as mind-boggling as the fact that Michael seems to find Luke to be great company outside of shop hours. He even invited him to a concert with him in the next town over in a couple of weeks, and Luke is trying to muster up the courage to bring him here, to his private sanctuary.
Michael and the cat both have been the ones to seek him out. They could’ve easily chosen a different spot in the forest or chair at the coffee shop, but they want to spend time with Luke. Maybe Michael would be okay with Luke as a partner.
If he isn’t, Luke can let him go. Michael won’t be held to an agreement he doesn't want, just like he won’t hold Luke if he needs to leave, too.
“Well…” he considers. The cat cracks one eye open to watch him. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? Even if he says no, at least this way I’ll have tried.”
He stares at the golden key, unnaturally shiny and beautiful in the dappled sunlight, and reaches for it. The moment his fingers brush it, the crackle of magic fills the air, wind whipping around them, the force of it pushing him flat on his back with an oof. A heavy weight falls on his lap, winding him again, and when Luke blinks to clear his vision he finds Michael peering back at him.
“You,” Michael says, jabbing a finger at Luke’s chest from where he straddles his thighs, “are too fucking self-deprecating.”
“What?” Luke asks, still grappling with the fact that Michael is sitting on him and the cat is nowhere to be seen.
“You think I wouldn’t want you?” Michael demands, poking him again. “You’re funny, dorky, absolutely adorable, and when we’re together I feel more comfortable than I am around just about anyone else. You never tried to take the key until it was offered, and you were always nice to me as a cat even though i wouldn’t let you close. Why would I give my heart to anyone else?”
Luke gapes. His thoughts feel like they’re wading through molasses in an attempt to process everything being thrown at him.
“You’re the cat?” he asks, because it’s the easiest part of that speech to respond to.
“Yeah,” Michael says with a toothy grin. “My whole family are shapeshifters, but only a few people know. Don't tell anyone.”
“Why didn’t you transform and tell me instead of letting me freak out about not being who you wanted?” Luke asks, face heating.
“Because I wanted you to go for what you want, for once,” Michael says. “And I wanted you to choose me because you want to, not because you felt pressured by me watching.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Luke lies, even though he once did the exact same thing when asked out in high school. Michael levels him with a look.
“I do like you, though,” Luke amends. “Which you know because of the embarrassing things I said when you were a cat. I’m so sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” Michael says. “It was cute. Seriously, you’re so fucking cute, Luke.”
“Stop,” Luke groans, covering his face, which he’s certain is tomato-red.
“Hey, I mean it,” Michael says, gently prying his hands away. “I really like you, Luke. I hope you’ll let me compliment you more now that we’re dating.”
“We are?” Luke asks, a light, undefinable feeling blooming in his chest.
“If you want,” Michael says, letting go of his wrists and drawing his hands back to himself. “You got the key. You haven’t told me to stop sitting on you yet. Unless you’re changing your mind?”
“No! No, I want to,” Luke says quickly. Michael grins.
“Good. That’s settled, then.”
“There’s something else I’ve been wanting, too,” Luke says, suddenly emboldened by the glimmer in Michael’s eyes and the intoxicating knowledge that his affections are returned.
“Yeah?” Michael asks, entire face lit up. “What is it?”
Luke pushes himself onto his elbows and swallows, mustering up as much courage as he can.
“A kiss?” he asks, heart thundering in his chest.
Michael’s grin grows, which Luke didn’t think was possible. He reaches forward to cup Luke’s jaw in his hands, sending a pleasant tingle of warmth through his nerves.
“You should always ask for the things you want,” Michael says. “So far I’ve liked all of your ideas.”
He closes the gap and kisses Luke sweetly. Everything inside of Luke settles to a gentle hum, and he knows in his heart that this is what magic feels like.
#my writing#muke#5sos fanfiction#5sos fic#man i fought tooth and nail to get this posted this weekend#it's much later than i would've liked but it's here!#first non-ficmas muke on my ao3 account :)#i feel like this is going to be the year of muke for me i have a lot of ideas and wips for them#anyway please please please enjoy i miss posting fic
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Fathers and Sons
This is for Ouiche. Read it on ao3. Why is Destruction called Joe?
Hob stretched his arms in the beautiful early spring sunshine. Dream’s brother Joe and sister Del were visiting, with Del’s dog Barnabas. They’d agreed together to visit the nearby dog park, ostensibly so Barnabas could run a bit, but actually to get Del away from the New Inn’s patrons. She tended to augment the effects of alcohol unexpectedly, with sometimes undesirable results especially if Joe was also present (Hob had seen enough bar fights, and it was too early in the day to deal with that). No, he’d much rather be here, sitting on the bench between Joe and Dream, while Dream desultorily scattered the bird seed Hob had persuaded him to purchase instead of bread for the crows and pigeons, and occasional seagull, chipmunk or squirrel.
“Hob! Dream!” An excited squeal drew his attention as a rambunctious five year old with pink ponytails charged toward them, followed closely by a big white dog and less closely by a tall slim white man with tidy blond hair.
“Anya! Bond! Loid!” Hob greeted them with a smile, as Dream held back his grumble about the birds scattering.
“Borf!” Bond greeted him back, as Hob scratched his head.
“Anya came to play in the dog park! Look, Bond! There’s Del and Barnabas!” Anya and Bond took off again for Del, as Loid drew up to the group and nodded his greeting.
“Joe, this is our friend, Loid Forger,” Hob introduced. “Loid, this is Dream’s brother, Joe.” Loid and Joe nodded and smiled, handshakes and air kisses having mostly disappeared after Covid.
“Actually, if you don’t mind,” Loid said, glancing at Joe and then looking at Dream, “I have a question for you.” Joe and Dream both nodded permission, Hob’s eyebrows rising in curiosity.
“It’s been very different around our home since we learned Anya’s secret. How did you get her to tell us?”
“Ah, yes,” Dream began. “She was writing about the visit to the aquarium, and she revealed to me how much danger she was in because she tried to help you with your work, and how Yor saved her. I merely told her of a time I was in danger, and how, if I had not been keeping so many secrets from Hob, he would have been able to help me.” He paused to gaze adoringly at Hob for a moment, then turned to Loid again. “She’s very bright and saw the point immediately. Truly, your work and Yor’s in gaining her trust had done most of the work already. Apparently, she had not had any trustworthy adults in her life before you.”
Loid sighed. “Yes, it’s true. The orphanage where I found her was very grey and dim, and I can only hope she doesn’t have many memories from the time before that. We are so happy we can give her a chance at a real childhood, one where she is taken care of rather than having to take care of herself and everyone else too.”
Joe turned to look at Anya and Del, and laughed at the sight of them gamboling in the sunshine with their dogs. “She looks happy and carefree today!” he observed.
Loid smiled in quiet pride. Hob wondered if he’d admitted to himself yet how besotted he was with his family.
“Well,” he confessed, “today she is helping me with my work again! We are meeting her classmate here to play, and his father is someone I’ve been looking forward to talking to for quite some time!”
Just then, Hob was distracted by two sleek, dark cars pulling up at the entrance to the park. From the first, a tall, severe man emerged, followed by a young boy and an older one holding a dog in his arms. The older boy put the dog down and released his leash as two security persons exited the second car.
“Damian!” Anya yelled, running for the group with Del in tow. Hob noticed with amusement how the older boy’s interest was piqued by Del. He was just the age to notice someone her apparent age.
“Over here!” Loid waved to the newcomers with a friendly smile. The man watched his sons greet Anya and Del for a moment, then turned toward Loid as his security found unobtrusive stations from which to observe the park.
“Loid Forger,” he nodded on reaching them.
“Mr. Desmond,” Loid nodded back. “These are my friends, Hob and Dream, and their brother Joe.”
“Please, call me Donovan,” he requested, and Hob watched Loid carefully not let his jaw drop.
“Of course, Donovan,” Loid responded smoothly. “Thank you for bringing Damian to play with Anya.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” If Loid wasn’t a spy, Hob thought, he would have staggered at that. As it was, it was only Hob’s hundreds of years’ experience reading body language that let him see the well controlled reaction.
“We should let you sit!” Hob exclaimed, dragging Dream up with him. Loid and Donovan took the free spaces on the bench, but Donovan looked up and said, “Please stay. Perhaps you can help with my quandary also.” Hob nodded curiously, wondering why Dream, rather than wanting to leave shyly, seemed so invested in this conversation with a total stranger.
“You see,” Donovan began, “all my life I’ve thought that I could keep my family safe by winning the war. But this week, I’ve had some very vivid dreams.” Hob suddenly realized why Dream was so focused. “I’ve dreamt that I was playing with my sons, hugging them and laughing. I’ve never done this, and my father didn’t either so I don’t know where it is coming from. I was taught to keep my emotions inside, and I’ve raised my boys the same way. In these dreams, we are so happy.” He pauses to glower. “Then the war comes, and everything is destroyed.” Hob sees the pain of his past wartime experiences eating him from the inside. “As always, I do everything I can, but nothing is enough to save my family. Then the dream takes an even worse twist. I suddenly discover that it is not the enemy but my own nation which has destroyed my life!”
“Yes,” Joe interrupted. “That’s always the way of it with war. People make the enemy inhuman so they can justify killing them. In the end, everyone dies just the same. The only way to end war is to realize that we are all human; everyone has a friend, a brother, a mother, who will hurt when they die. Wars are not started by violence but by power, greed and delusion. They are not ended by violence but by looking honestly at the cost and finding another way.”
“So, how do I keep my family safe?” Donovan pleaded desperately.
“You work for peace,” Loid suggested.
“You love them every day you have them, in the way they can receive it best,” added Hob.
“You dream bigger, more complicated dreams than winning the war,” Dream declared.
“You work for change that grows slowly rather than laying waste to all before it,” Joe pronounced.
A loud shout of laughter interrupted them, and they turned to see Del, the children, and the dogs heading in their direction. As they all tumbled to a stop by the bench, gasping for breath, Damian and Demetrius both started arguing, competing for their father’s attention. Donovan sternly held up his hand, and the boys came to an abrupt halt, standing straight and looking at their feet.
“What is all this?” he questioned, with a clear attempt to soften his harsh tone.
“Well it’s my fault,” Delirium twirled between him and the boys, “well, not really my fault. But I started it. Or Anya started it. Anyway it was about the butterflies. Well not really the butterflies, the butterflies are fine. It’s just that Anya wanted butterflies.”
“And I want some too!” Damian shouted.
“Butterflies are for sissies!” Balling his fists, Demetrius rounded on his brother.
“Ah, I see the problem here.” Hob stepped calmly between the two boys, putting his hands gently on their shoulders. He saw Donovan taking mental notes and hoped he noticed the calm tone as well as the grounding physical touch.
“Donovan, I’d like you to meet my sister, Del. Del, this is Donovan, the boys’ father.” Del turned her head almost upside down and squinted at Donovan.
“He needs a butterfly too!” she declared.
“Della, that’s a beautiful name,” he mused. Was that the hint of a gentle smile, Hob wondered, shooting Dream one of those spousal telepathy glances that said, Let him have his little delusion, he doesn’t need the weight of Delirium’s full name today. Dream subsided, as he always did when Hob was right.
“Anya wants butterflies in her hair!” proclaimed Anya. “Hob had butterflies in his hair!”
“That’s right!” Hob regarded the touch starved young adolescent under his hand and wondered if a bit of rough housing would do him good. With an internal shrug, he took Demetrius’ feet out from under him and gently pinned him to the ground. “And I am a sissy” he glanced fondly at Dream, “but not that kind of sissy.” Demetrius’ jaw dropped in awe and Hob figured he was ready for a bit more of a lesson. “I don’t want you using that word as an insult again, okay, young man?”
“Okay!” Demetrius nodded eagerly. Hob let him up and brushed a piece of grass off his shoulder.
“Good man. Now, who wants butterflies?”
Del brought her hands together and when she separated them a cloud of colourful butterflies rose into the air. She plucked them out of the air one by one and placed several on Anya’s head. Anya twisted and turned to try to see them and laughed with glee.
“Me! Me! I want a blue one! And a green one!” Damian danced in delight as Del placed them on his head.
“Pink for Hobsie again!” Del giggled as she placed a couple in Hob’s hair.
“Oh, no,” Dream groaned, as she plucked a black one and headed for him. Glancing at Hob, then Demetrius, he bowed his head and accepted it gravely.
With a kiss on Joe’s forehead, she bestowed orange, yellow and red butterflies on his red hair and full beard. He beamed at her in open affection, then returned to doggy scritches.
Del tiptoed precariously around the water bowl Loid had filled for Bond, Barnabas and Damian’s dog, Max, and placed blue and yellow butterflies in his hair to match his socks.
“So many butterflies to pick and choose from, so many brothers and sons and fathers!” she prattled as she twirled back to Demetrius. “What colour for you? Salmon or coral or puce or teal?”
“What kind of colours are those?! Red! I just want red!” he decided hastily. Placing a red butterfly in his hair, she turned toward Donovan. Hob watched the emotions flicker over his face. Taken aback, first, at the thought of decorations in his hair, but then considering as he gazed at his two already adorned sons. A glimmer of affection, and then determination.
“Red,” he announced, looking at Demetrius, his Firstborn Son who he’d been so terribly hard on; and then, turning to the son he hardly knew but who he suddenly saw was desperately seeking his attention, his Second Son, Damian, he declared, “and blue!” As Del crowned him with fluttering butterflies, he put a hand on each of his sons’ shoulders, just as Hob had done.
Previous: Come sit on my lap
First: Space Buns
#the sandman x spy x family#dream of the endless#hob gadling#dreamling#the sandman#destruction of the endless#delirium of the endless#spy x family#anya forger#loid forger#damian desmond#demetrius desmond#donovan desmond#Barnabas the dog#bond forger#max desmond#tw homophobic slur#tw roughhousing#tw war mention#tryana find it back
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question from your dndads gift exchange gifter: how do you feel about nark? And glenn x morgan? (Idk if they have a ship name lol)
:D Oh hello there!
💜 Glenn x Morgan is cute! It’s not a ship I’ve found myself going out of my way to look for but you’re more than welcome to include them! 🥰 I quite like what we’ve seen of them In canon. Idk if they have a ship name either but I recently saw one of my mutuals suggest “Morglenn” and I mean that makes sense to me LOL.
My feelings surrounding Nark are a bit complicated to be honest with you! The thing is like, honestly, I *like* the ship (especially certain flavours of it)- but really in both Nicky and Lark’s cases I have other ships for them that in general I’m much more interested in tbh… In Nicky’s case Grant and Sparrow, in Lark’s case Grant and Terry… <- I suppose the loophole to be derived from that is that if you put them in a three-way sorta deal with Grant I’d accept it quite graciously LOL. Otherwise *taps pinned post but also my AO3* I’ve got a bit of a funky little crackship with Sparrow and Cassandra going on, so if by some very slim chance you were playing to that, I could definitely entertain some Nark beside it. I mean, that’s just good flavour!
🤔 I suppose the gist is that despite actually kinda liking Nark (and certainly appreciating plenty of the fan works for it ooh boy), I’ve a bit of an aversion for it in practice, mostly because I just don’t care for a kiddad shipping scene that’s too homogenous, particularly when I am in perpetual rarepair hell lol.
Sorry for the confusing answer love! I don’t want to give you a hard “no”, but I hope I at least cleared up my feelings on the matter a bit? 😅 I’m very bad at being brief about things that are interesting me, and ships are very fun to talk about lol.
:3 Thank you for asking, that’s very considerate. Feel free to hit me up with any further questions!
#Be it related to either of these ships or something else entirely#I don’t mind in the slightest!#For me this is fun this is like a sleepover except I have no fucking idea who you are#dndads gift exchange
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But somewhere people--not AO3, not its founders or developers or staff--forgot that it was not a community, and that the connections between us need more than an archive to sustain us.
—Dawn Felagund, in a comment on her excellent reflection about the way AO3 drowns out single-fandom communities. [link]
I am struggling with community lately. It’s hard to put into words why, because by nearly any quantitative measure, I’m at my most involved: comments have been steady this year, kudos counts on my fics have increased relative to a year ago, I’ve met tons more people and know more places to go to chat with them, etc. There is a quantity of engagement available to me, and it’s more than it’s ever been, and yet—I find myself snappish, more easily irritated by annoyances, less quick to respond to fic comments, and generally unmotivated to talk about fandom.
I can write. I am good at writing. From the first chapter, I have never worried about my ability to complete a writing project, if that’s my goal.
Perhaps it’s something in the water—a hundred community engagement posts have crossed my dashboard this month alone. Everyone is feeling it, which is unfortunate, because then it seems like if we’re all dissatisfied with the lack of community, there should be more than enough of us to band together and make it happen, yes?
And that’s where I return to the journal entry above. AO3 handles its role as an archive beautifully, but it isn’t a community space, and I’ve had to look elsewhere for that. But there isn’t a community for what I like—there are a bunch of communities that are a step or two to the side of what interests me, and it’s not their fault that I find them an uncomfortable and, sometimes, unwelcoming fit, but it’s true all the same. Only it’s been wearing on me more, recently.
The comments in response to the post contain some of the most thorough and real descriptions of the labor that goes into running communities, something that I’ve done before and don’t really wish to do again. Smaller things, perhaps, like writing fic recs and tumblr posts, can fill some of the raw need to talk, even if they don’t really get anyone responding. There are only so many hours in a day, though; I can’t fit it all.
And I’ve been making the choice to prioritize response over… well, even over my own interest in the discussion, just to be where people are. It’s not working for me, right now. It feels like eating cotton candy for dinner, complete with the stomach pains of seeing that annoyance, whatever it is, when I’ve over-indulged. I miss things I don’t have control over—the anons who enabled so many of my long essays last year, the set of commenters for this or that fic who totally got it and were excited to chat, my own prior enthusiasm for things that don’t move me the same way anymore. I can’t, like, make any of that happen. Or, rather, I put my years into the salt mines already, and I’m not interested in revisiting them on the slim chance that with another year’s effort, I can have the pleasure of mod duties on the Voldemort fan server of my dreams.
Anyway, I’m drawing back from certain community ventures in an effort to waste less time on frustration. We’ll see if it changes much.
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In Case of Emergency
Chapter 11: But They Might Not Stay Dead
Previous | Next | AO3 | FFN
Chapter Summary: Danny's worst nightmare.
Chapter word count: 2249
Warnings: non-graphic surgical procedure
—
Danny woke up feeling like he went a couple of rounds with Pariah Dark without the Ecto-Skeleton. His stomach burned. His chest ached. Despite holding himself perfectly still, his fingers kept twitching, too, little jolts running down his arms. Every twitch was accompanied by a throb in his heart.
"I am never getting crushed by a building again," Danny said. The next time some dumb elephant ghost went on a rampage, Amity Park was on its own. Not really, though. Danny wasn't sure if he could live with the guilt if someone got hurt because of him. If only he were allowed to be so petty. It wasn't the first time Danny went to bed feeling more bruise than boy. He expected a lot of soreness but figured his shoulder would hurt the worst. That pain was a footnote compared to whatever the hell was going on with his torso. What were the chances that he could stay at home today and fake sick? He wouldn't even be faking. It definitely felt like he was dying.
Out of habit, Danny reached for his phone on his bedside table. He probed the dusty surface for a few seconds before he remembered. His phone was still at school.
"They're going to kill me." Danny groaned. Sam was going to string him up for leaving them hanging last night. Tucker wouldn't do anything quite so physical, but he would probably hack into Danny's latest Doomed save and delete the file as recompense. The horror. He could only hope that the collapse hadn't been broadcasted on the news. Slim chances.
A knock came at his door.
"Danny?" his mother's voice called.
Danny almost didn't answer. The conversation he overheard last night played over and over in his head. Those words cut him deeper than any of his physical wounds at that moment and he didn't want to talk to his parents. And yet, that same conversation made him desperate to be good. He needed to show them that he wasn't the disappointment they thought he was. He grabbed his covers and pulled them up over his head before responding. "I'm awake."
His bedroom door creaked.
Danny held his breath, waiting for his mom to say something. Anything. The silence dragged on. He didn't know how much time had passed, but it felt like ages. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he pulled his covers down to peek out. His mom stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, frowning at him. Their eyes met and Danny froze. Did she see something? His foot was cold. It was sticking out of the bottom of the blanket. Was there a bruise? A cut? He didn't bother keeping track of every wound he got yesterday, but the doctor spent a solid half-hour fixing up minor injuries. He trembled beneath his covers, waiting for her to call him out.
"Your father and I are going out of town today. Don't be late for school." His mom spoke flatly then turned and walked away, leaving his bedroom door open. Somehow, that was so much worse.
—
Danny was late for school. Really late. And he couldn't even blame a ghost unless the ghost was him. After his mom left, he went back to sleep, hoping another half-hour of shuteye would help him feel better. It was not half an hour. It did not make him feel better. He woke up just after the start of first period. He had to drag himself out of bed. Just the thought of wiggling his way into a pair of jeans made his wounds ache, so he had settled on the closest and loosest clothing he could find on his floor. His sweatpants and one of his dad's old sweaters.
Getting ready took him ten minutes. The walk to school would take even longer. Typically, it was only a five-minute walk if nothing interrupted him, but considering the trek home last night, he wasn't foolish enough to think he could make it to school in good time. Standing on his front step, he almost turned back right there. School wasn't worth the kind of pain he would have to put himself through to get there. Then he remembered his mom. The disappointment in her voice last night. The disinterest in her eyes that morning. She was giving up on him.
A sharp pain ripped through his chest. Danny dropped to his knees, clutching his shirt and gasping. Everything around him went fuzzy. His fingers spasmed. He couldn't see, breathe, think, or move. For one long, horrifying moment, all Danny knew was pain. And then it stopped. He came to lying on the top step, cheek pressed to the concrete. What the hell was that?
Danny waited until his heart stopped pounding and his breathing evened out before collecting himself and rising to his feet. School. He had to get to school. He couldn't become the disappointment his parents thought he was.
Except he still missed half of first period and Mrs. Carrol was looking at him the way she always did when he crawled in late. Danny could only hold her gaze so long before he had to look away, shame flooding through him. He should have forged a note. He had done it before, but the thought hadn't occurred to him through all the pain and his rush to get to school. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't do the one thing his mom wanted him to do that day. Pathetic.
"Are you sick, Mr. Fenton?"
Danny nearly choked on his own breath. He spun toward Lancer's voice. Of course, he was there. Of course, they would come across each other at that moment. Of course, because Lancer was the vice principal, and he was always there when Danny didn't want him to be. Except for the one time Danny did want him, but that had been a mistake.
Danny stepped back toward the door, prepared to run if he needed to. Out of everyone Danny knew, Lancer would be the one to connect the dots between his two identities. He already knew Phantom was alive. How long would it take him to realize Fenton was dead? The only thing that kept Danny from bolting was the knowledge that that would look far more suspicious than anything else. As much as he didn't want to, he stayed and answered.
"I'm fine. Didn't sleep well." Not a lie, technically.
"I see. Is that why you're twenty minutes late to school?"
Yes.
"With no note. I told you to make sure you have a note next time," Mrs. Carrol said.
"I remember."
She only told him that a dozen times, but it wasn't like Danny could go up to his parents and say "Hey I'm actually Phantom and I got distracted by a ghost on the way to school. Can you write me a note, so I don't get in trouble?" A hand appeared at the edge of Danny's vision. He jerked away, gaze snapping toward the source. Lancer, now standing beside him. When had he moved?
"It's fine, Mrs. Carrol," Lancer said.
Danny's eyes narrowed. He missed something while he was busy thinking, and he can't tell if it was good or bad. Judging by Mrs. Carrol's sour face, she thought it was bad. Which probably meant it was very good for Danny. Lancer opened the office door and gestured for Danny to head out into the hall. He ducked his head and followed.
"That boy isn't worth the trouble." Danny stumbled when he heard Mrs. Carrol's last piercing remark. It didn't take much to piece together what he had missed after hearing her words.
"You didn't have to do that," Danny said to Lancer.
"And yet, I did."
Frankly, Danny was starting to think that was a bad habit of Lancer's, doing things he didn't need to. "That's the problem, isn't it?"
When Lancer frowned, Danny worried that he had overhead his muttered words. His worry was unfounded, however, because Lancer moved on without commenting. "What class do you have right now?"
"Health, I think. Or gym. I don't know if it's a gym day." It had better not be. Danny couldn't fake his way through a gym class, not today.
"It is."
Well then. It looked like today would be the day he died if that was the case. He mentally prepared himself for the hell he was about to face—until Lancer stepped up and proved why he was Danny's favourite teacher. Not that Danny would ever tell him so.
"Are you sure?" Danny asked. Permission to skip class, from the vice principal no less, was not something to scoff at. A part of him felt annoyed, though. How could Lancer get it but his parents couldn't?
"It's enough time for a half-decent nap."
"I don't need that." The stabbing in his chest disagreed. "Maybe I do. Thanks, Mr. L."
It wasn't as intense as it was that morning when it brought him to his knees, but Danny still struggled to keep himself upright. He limped his way to the nurse's office, the jolt of each step rattling his bones. The door was open when Danny arrived. The school nurse, Mr. Wyatt, sat with his back to the door. Danny hovered for a few awkward seconds before clearing his throat.
Mr. Wyatt looked up from his work. "Oh, hey. What can I help you with?"
"Mr. Lancer sent me down. I'm late for class, but I'm kind of tired, and the bell is gonna go off soon anyway, so..." Danny trailed off.
Mr. Wyatt grinned. "Nap time?"
"I'm not a toddler."
"Never said you were. No one else is here, so pick any bed you want. Have a nice nap." Mr. Wyatt waved Danny in and then went back to his work.
Danny headed straight for the back of the room. In the minute it took him to get down there and talk to Mr. Wyatt, the feeling in his chest had grown. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. He fell forward when he reached the bed, collapsing onto the mattress. Something was wrong. Not just physically, but ghostly. While his stomach was hot, his chest was growing colder. It reminded him of the moment he transformed into his ghost form, but that wasn't happening now. He hadn't been able to transform back since last night.
Danny grabbed the curtain and yanked it around the bed. Whatever was about to happen, he couldn't let the nurse see.
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine," Danny mumbled to himself. He clambered onto the bed, nearly slipping off twice thanks to the spasms, and curled in on himself. Maybe he really was dying.
The last thing Danny saw before he passed out was sparks dancing between his fingers.
—
Carmen clicks her tongue as she discards yet another scalpel. While most of Danny's blood labs were bullshit, it appears that the "acidic blood" part wasn't a lie at all. Ectoplasm is very acidic, apparently, and it keeps eating through her instruments. How on Earth his surgeons managed to get through his surgery eludes her when she could barely get him open.
It had started with the first slice. Carmen dug her scalpel into Danny's chest, beginning the standard Y incision, and a thick green sludge bubbled up through the wound. It startled her enough that she immediately checked his vitals. She had to work fast to finish the cut and peel the skin back, but she managed, and he now lays open on her table.
If Carmen has to pick one word to describe what she saw when he opened Danny up, she will say green. Ectoplasm fills the inside of his body. It coats his organs, his bones, everything. Even now, as she watches, it gathers along the edges of the skin flaps, growing denser. She pokes at a glob of ectoplasm with a pair of forceps. The metal starts hissing and smoking.
"Would you stop that?" she snaps. There's been no answer, of course. Danny's heart is not beating. There is no breath in his lungs. His chest is open on her table, and he has zero signs of life. By all medical definitions, he is dead.
She chucks the forceps into the instrument tray and leans back. The morgue stinks from all the melted metal. She never realized metal had a smell when melting, but it does, and she has become intimately familiar with it. It smells the way pennies taste. The forceps were her last usable instrument, too. Carmen only grabbed a handful in case the scrub nurses noticed they were missing, and now they are all irreparably damaged. She hopes the hospital has a budget for instruments melted by ectoplasm.
When she first opened Danny up, she had planned on performing a standard autopsy to she found what killed him. His chart blames ventricular fibrillation, but something has to have caused the arrhythmia that lead to his heart stopping. Seeing the ectoplasm, though, Carmen can't tell what went wrong. She isn't sure if there is something wrong. It appears to be coming from his heart. Carmen can't see it properly, not without removing his ribs, and she's hesitant to do so at this point. But the ectoplasm bubbles from between his lungs, oozing over the bones. She grabs her forceps again, wary of the melted tip, and pushes some of the ectoplasm on his ribs aside. The bone beneath is cracked, a long fissure running through it. More ectoplasm seeps over the space and she quickly pushes that aside, too. The fissure is smaller.
Carmen leans closer, peering into the space between Danny's ribs. There is a light in his chest, surrounding his heart. No, not surrounding it, overlaying it, occupying the same space. Something is there. Something that pulses and fluctuates. Carmen looks again at Danny's cracked rib, except it's not cracked anymore. She looks at the ectoplasm crawling along the edges of his incision. Gooey strings stretch between the skin.
Carmen's eyes widen.
The thing in Danny's chest sparks.
"Oh, shit." That's all she has time to say before the room explodes into light.
—
Next
#phic phight#phic phight 2022#unluckyalis#danny phantom#lancer#mentor lancer#parental lancer#in case of emergency#phicc#phanfic#danny phantom fanfiction#tumblroneshots
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Abby Anderson x GN!Reader - Please Don’t Leave Me
Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Please Don’t Leave Me (I’m creative with my titles)
Can be found on AO3 here.
Setting: before Abby leaves to go golfing. Abby and the reader are in an established relationship.
Warning: angst angst angst, excessive usage of the f-bomb and discussions of murder.
(Y/N) replacer safe.
Word count: 1846
Fuck, she’s really doing this.
Every day since Isaac had granted the Salt Lake Crew leave to hunt down Joel Miller, you tried to bargain with Abby, tried to make her see some sense. That killing him won’t take away any of the pain she feels. The grief. The gaping hole in her heart. But she’d always brush you off, distancing herself from you, suppressing her emotions with bicep curls and crunches as per habit.
Each passing hour, a nail was hammered into the coffin of the woman you love. And this morning is the final nail.
The quaint apartment you call home is filled with a cacophony of rustling and pleas as Abby shovels supplies into her backpack, preparing for her hunt. In her mind, Joel’s death warrant is signed, the execution nigh. And God are you desperate, trying to drill some semblance of reality into her stubborn mind one last time before she embarks on a journey she’ll only regret.
“Abby, please just listen to me for one minute—”
“I need to do this.” She heads to your small shared closet, refusing to look at you from your position by the bed. You frantically try to intercept her path, knowing full well she’s much, much stronger and can reposition you with ease. But it’s worth a try.
“This isn’t going to solve anything,” you implore, clutching the wood.
“Move, (Y/N).”
“Abby, this isn’t going to bring him back. You know that.”
“Move.” Her tone is exasperated, utterly focused on packing her shit and promptly leaving. Your heart sinks to your stomach.
“That girl in the hospital. The immune one. She must have been like a daughter to him for Joel to kill a group of innocent people for her,” you plead, feet firmly planted on the floor. Searching for her eyes, those blue irises alight with a maelstrom of hateful determination. They meet yours. “Killing him will just put her through all of this.”
Abby reaches for the closet door and slowly pulls it open, acknowledging your reluctance to move, deciding to disregard it. The wood begins to dig into your back and you’re forced to step aside. “This isn’t going to end, Abby. You fucking know this.” As she folds some spare clothes and places them in her backpack, you fall gracelessly to the bed, needing to sit down. Bile climbs up your oesophagus. Shit, where was her sense of fucking empathy?
“Abby…” Once again, she doesn’t so much as spare you a glance, folding the garments in robotic fashion. “Abby, you said she was a kid. A kid.”
The final shirt is stuffed haphazardly into the bag. She grits her teeth and turns to you. “He killed dozens of Fireflies, (Y/N). Dozens. And that’s all we fucking know of. There could be hundreds of others because he’s a stone cold killer.” Her face flushes with anger, no remnants of the woman you know left behind. “No one person is worth that many fucking lives.”
You let out a breathy laugh in sheer disbelief. “But it’s not about them, is it? Not to you.” The words escaped you in a hiss, one that didn’t go unnoticed. “Never fuckin’ has been.”
Abby rolls her eyes and grabs her maps from the coffee table, iron fist crumpling the papers beyond legibility. “There could have been a cure. A fucking cure to all this.”
On the surface, her words are rational. One life for a cure that would save millions was a worthy sacrifice, that you would be foolish to deny. But the odds of developing this cure were slim, and the girl would have likely died in vain. You knew this. Abby knew this. Jerry knew this.
With a shaky breath, you cradle your arms, never before having felt the urge to cage yourself around Abby. Fingers firmly gripping at your elbows, you let the cards fold. Unadulterated truth.
“You’re in denial, Abigail.”
A tut. “Don’t you fucking ‘Abigail’ me.” Her previous efforts to maintain a steady tone have been vanquished, anger seeping into each progressing word.
She’s gone.
And it’s this precise revelation that fills your eyes with oceans. Throat closing up, nose burning with the urge to spill over, you attempt – attempt – to articulate yourself, to no avail. Seconds later, rivulets trickle from your eyes to your cheeks, and you find yourself sniffling like some stupid kid… No, not a kid. A grieving adult, bereaved by the loss of a lover. Because the other figure in the room is but a husk of the radiant soul you fell for.
“All…” You pause to inhale, deeply: a futile effort to regulate your breathing, to lay rest to the turmoil suffocating your ability to fucking think. “All that’s going to happen is… You’re going to have to—” Hiccupping, you close your eyes, praying no more tears would fall. “To live with the guilt of orphaning a kid.”
Sentence finally out, you surrender to your sorrows, allowing them to wrack your chest with sobs and heaves until it gets too much, salt freely spilling from the floodgates. You can’t…you won’t bring yourself to look at Abby – the machine in her place, one programmed to kill and kill alone.
It’s wholly terrifying.
Distress flickers in her eyes, her frown slackening for a fraction of a second at the sound of your despair. “No one is forcing you to come,” she puts plainly, as if that has anything to do with the issue at hand.
“You know this – isn’t about that. Fuck, even Owen knows this…this is a bad idea.” Too dejected to cry. Too dejected to battle the hitched breaths you take trying to force out the words.
Words that fall upon deaf ears. “That’s not what Owen told me.” She slots a Swiss army knife into her cargo pants’ pocket, headed with a canteen in hand towards the kitchenette. “He was there, (Y/N). He agreed that Joel needs to die.”
“Because he’s fucking scared of you!” We all are, nearly breaks free from your lips, but that’s not what Abby needs to hear right now. Nothing that will push her away. Further away. The reigns you have on your lover are fraying, leaving you grasping at nought but strings. Frenzied, you attempt a softer, less concrete approach. “Baby, it isn’t normal to be so…hellbent on revenge like this.”
Silence. The delicate trickle of water sounds from the faucet as Abby fills her canteen. Then, a sigh, one of frustration as opposed to defeat. “If you think calling me ‘baby’ is going to erase four motherfucking years of grief, you are sorely mistaken. You’re smarter than that.”
Patience thinning, you stand up, wading through strewn supplies across the apartment floor towards the kitchenette. “Four years and you still haven’t given yourself time to mourn properly,” you reason, deliberately obstructing her path out of the kitchen with your body again. “Maybe if you had you’d see some fucking sense.”
God, that was a mistake. Shit, shit, shit shit shit the last thing you want to do is piss her off, not with her mind in such a volatile state, devoid of all logic.
“I appreciate you’ve lived a fucking sheltered life since the outbreak,” she seethed. What?
“That’s not true—”
“And you have no fucking idea what it’s like to have someone ripped away from you like that.” Volume rising, words a mantra fuelled by detest. “And you know, maybe, just fucking maybe, this’ll be my one chance to put an end to this shit!” The fist not clutching her backpack clenches. And for the first time ever while alone in her company, you flinch.
“He fucking deserves this, (Y/N)! If I can show him a fraction of the pain he caused me—”
“Abby, you’re scaring me,” you whimper, closing in on yourself. Genuinely afraid she’d raise her hand towards you.
Had you a mirror, you’d know truly how perturbed you look in this very moment. Streamlines drying on your cheeks, eyes reddening and puffy from crying, wide with fear like a doe face-to-face with a moving car. Body subconsciously making itself smaller, reducing its surface area, reducing the likelihood for any incoming swings to hit.
She lowers her guard, colour returning to her knuckles as she unravelled her fist. Knitted brows returning to their natural place above her eyes, mouth parted as the horror of her behaviour settles in.
“You know I would never hurt you, right?” Even her previously stern voice cracks at this.
It takes tremendous willpower to not fall back as she takes a tentative step towards you.
Drying your eyes with your sleeves – her sleeves…you forgot you’re wearing her old sweater, the notion sour on your tongue – you break your mutual gaze. “You’re not you right now,” you whisper, not trusting your larynx to produce anything above a mouse’s squeak. “This isn’t the Abby I know.”
For the first time this morning, a sentiment other than bloodlust registers in her face. Hurt.
Either unable or unwilling to respond, Abby recommences her packing in solemn silence.
Shit, you have three, perchance five minutes at best to dissuade your girlfriend from leaving and doing something that will haunt her for all eternity. Yet all you can do is brace yourself against the wall and allow a second tsunami of tears to wash over you, pangs of anguish striking your heart. “Abby—”
“I’m going, (Y/N).” Firm, with a shred less conviction, but firm enough.
A violent sob tears through you as you beg, beg, the vessel of the woman you adore, “Please don’t leave me.”
For a fleeting moment, your heart stops as she hesitates in her tracks. A flicker of hope seizes your mind, that perhaps she has reconsidered, that finally some logic has entered her train of thought.
It all crashes down when she reaches for the spare rifle ammunition by the front door.
“Fuck, Abby—”
“I’ll be gone a month at most.”
Hail-Mary.
Hail-Mary.
Please.
Chest shuddering with each sob that wracks through you, you utter through violently trembling lips and hiccups, “You’re so – fucking blinded – by your hatred – right now – that you can’t – fuck, see – this will – kill you—”
The gravity of the situation threatens to make your knees buckle.
Abby plucks her jacket from the coat hanger and wades over to your crippled stance by the kitchen. A hand brushes your salt-slicked cheek as a lock of hair is swept out of your line of sight. “I love you,” she whispers in pained honesty.
“Abby…” You try to take her hand, to ground her, to remind her of the life she’s leaving behind on her relentless pursuit of this warped sense of justice.
“Goodbye, (Y/N).” She squeezes your palm and lets go, zipping up her pack as the front door to the apartment creaks open and slams shut.
Death is a word that isn’t used lightly, especially not after an epidemic takes the world by storm. But part of your spirit certainly died the moment that door closed behind her.
(I’ll leave it up to you whether she has a change of heart or leaves and scores a few hits above par.)
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Terms of Endearment
I'm obsessed with Nesryn and Sartaq. And I am not ashamed.
Read on AO3
It had started innocently enough.
When Sartaq had slid his hands around her middle and drew her back into his chest their first night alone after the great victory, planting a kiss to that sensitive bend where her shoulder met her neck. He had seemed to breathe her in.
“My darling,” he’d sighed.
Nesryn had been taken aback, unaccustomed to pet names from him. Perhaps it was because they had fallen in love in the midst of war – not the time or place for terms of endearment.
But as soon as that final battle was over, it was as if Sartaq made it his mission to shower her with affection, praise, and every endearment he could possibly think of.
“My darling,” he had breathed into her neck that first night. It had been surprising, but not unwelcome. Nesryn was not accustomed to intimacy such as this, but she couldn’t deny the feeling of warmth that it sparked in her. Sartaq, so unlike any man she had ever known, made her feel precious and adored. Even when they were both covered in blood and gore.
“Good morning, sweet angel,” he murmured when she awoke in their shared cabin as they sailed back to the southern continent. She huffed out a laugh at him, but he only grinned back and tucked her messy morning hair behind her ear.
“I’m sure there is nothing angelic about me right now.” With a grumble she tucked herself into his chest, allowing her to feel his rich chuckle rumble through her. How fortunate for them that they had this opportunity to just be. That they had survived.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” he answered. “Angel.”
Nesryn just shook her head and drifted back to sleep in the arms of her prince.
~~~
As wonderful and loving as Sartaq had been, she had still physically cringed when he called her ‘sweetheart’. So much so that he had pulled back from the embrace he’d so tenderly wrapped her in, instead grabbing her by the shoulders and finding her eyes.
“Nesryn?”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Nesryn Faliq, it is obviously not nothing.” The prince reached up a hand to cup her cheek, and she closed her eyes with a sigh and leaned into that strong, comforting anchor. “Don’t hide from me, love. Please.”
She pulled his hand away, grasping it in both of hers. She loved his hands, the strength in them. They had seen battles for his homeland, for the world, and were still gentle against her flesh in those in-between moments when he made sure to remind her how loved she was.
“In Rifthold,” she began with a deep breath. “As a woman trying to make her way up the ranks, I found myself at odds with many a condescending man. Men who felt that a woman didn’t belong in the guard. Men who felt that a woman shouldn’t speak her mind. Men who felt entitled to my affections. And nearly all of them, being creatures of minimal creativity and intellect, would call me ‘sweetheart’ when they spoke to me as if I were nothing more than the dirt beneath their feet.”
Sartaq’s free hand fell at the small of her back and pulled her against him, lips falling against her temple.
“True men recognize and respect strength, regardless of whether it is a man or woman who possesses it. They were fools.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I will remember not to call you sweetheart. But know that you are my love, always, Nesryn Faliq.”
“And you are mine.”
~~~
“There you are, my beautiful morning dove.”
Nesryn turned, rolling her eyes, to find Sartaq striding toward her. He always wore that easy grin that toed the line between confident and arrogant. She hated how handsome that arrogant smirk looked on his tanned face.
“Good morning, your highness,” she answered haughtily. The prince only laughed.
“So formal, my lovely spring flower.” He was close enough for her to swat at him.
“You are insufferable,” she scowled, but her eyes had glittered with mirth.
“Insufferably in love with a stunning warrior goddess.” The prince grabbed her by the hips and leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her lips away from him. He didn’t let that stop him, though, and he simply peppered her cheek instead. Nesryn couldn’t contain her laughter.
~~~
Nesryn hadn’t thought that anything could be more exhausting than her time fighting in the war for Terrasen.
And yet, after a day of wedding planning with Duva and Hasar, she ached down to her bones from pacing. Her eyelids drooped dangerously as she stumbled into the suite she shared with Sartaq. She hadn’t made it two steps in when she was scooped into the prince’s arms.
“Empress of my heart, you look exhausted,” he whispered into her hair. Nesryn groaned.
“I’m too tired to even object to your ridiculous pet names tonight,” she grumbled. His chuckle rumbled through her, warming her aching nerves. She was not cut out for planning a royal wedding. How would she ever be empress?
A worry she would have to put off for another day. She did not have the strength.
“I shall have to take advantage, then, of your helplessness.” Sartaq carried her to their enormous bed. “Windseeker, song of my soul.”
“Sartaaaaaaq. If I didn’t love you so much I would hate you,” she muttered as he set her down, laying her shoulders and head on a veritable mountain of pillows. Instead of circling to the other side, the prince lifted a knee and placed it near her thigh on the mattress and climbed so she was caged between his arms and legs.
“You could never hate me, my beautiful cherub,” he chuckled as she grimaced. Sartaq leaned down and pecked the tip of her nose before rolling onto her other side. A strong hand wound around her stomach and pulled her back against a hard chest.
“I’m beginning to think maybe you just don’t remember my name, and you mean to overwhelm me with affectionate trickery.” Her eyes were already closed, the sensation of his lips against the shell of her ear making her shiver with delight. Damn him.
“Nesryn Faliq. Nieth’s arrow. Former captain of the Adarlanian king’s guard. Princess of the rukhin. Queen of my heart. My future empress –“ he grunted as Nesryn elbowed him in the ribs, but he only held her closer, whispering in her ear. “There will never be enough beautiful words to describe you. But I have never backed down from a challenge.”
~~~
They were to be married the next day. As was customary, Nesryn and Sartaq would spend the night apart. They stood in the middle of their sitting room, her head resting on his chest and his arms holding her against him.
“I shall miss you tonight, light of my soul,” he murmured, raising a hand to slide fingers over her hair.
“Could you not just call me by my name, for once?” The words ground together like stone. She didn’t mean to sound so callous.
“Does it truly bother you, Nesryn? All this time, have you truly hated the way I speak to you?” Sartaq’s voice was nearly as quiet as that day he had first told her that he loved her. That day when they both thought they would never have a chance to see what their future could be. Nesryn took an unsteady breath against him.
“Of course not, Sartaq. Every word that you utter is beautiful. It warms me down to my core. It’s just…” Her voice trailed off. The prince gently unwrapped his arms and pulled back so he could see her face. His warm eyes gave her strength, and his strong weathered hands wrapped around her much smaller ones. “Sartaq… I’m no princess. I’ve spent most of my life avoiding praise for my accomplishments or appearances. They were all expectations, and I knew that – as a woman – if those expectations were not exceeded, even if the margins were slim and the odds impossible, I would be cast out. Left with nothing. I have been a warrior. Royal archer, member of the royal guard, and captain of it. I know nothing of flattering, fancy words or poetic declarations of love.”
Nesryn lifted their joined hands and pulled them against her chest, lowering her gaze to them. “Everything you say makes me feel incredible, precious, adored. Never in my life did I think I could find a future like this, a love so astounding. What bothers me is that I do not possess those skills or gifts, and I fear I cannot give the same feelings to you that you give to me.”
The silence between them… she hated it. Sartaq was always so self-assured and knew exactly what to say, but all she could hear was the sound of their breaths softly escaping. Anxiety rippled through her when he pulled his hands away, but they landed on her cheeks.
“Nesryn Faliq. My warrior’s heart,” he murmured, tilting her face up. She lifted her eyes, lips parting at the heat she saw glimmering in his dark gaze. “I fell in love with you just as you are. I fell in love with Nesryn Faliq, Captain of the Royal Guard. I have no expectations of flowery love poems or lengthy declarations of devotion. I have no need of those things. The only thing I have need of is you. Call me by my name. Call me by my title. Call me an arrogant bastard, if you feel so inclined. So long as you do it with that smile upon your face, with that love sparkling in your eyes, then I will be the most blessed man in all the world.”
Nesryn lifted her hands, fingers tracing up the strong line of his jaw. Her lips tilted up as a slow smile spread across her face. “I can do that.”
“And I call you such outlandish things, pour my heart out to you, precisely because of what you just said. You have spent your life conquering challenge after challenge. And while your skills and achievements are considerable, the world around you was not prepared to grant you the adoration you deserve for it. I strive to make you feel incredible, precious, adored, because that is what you have always deserved.” Sartaq dipped his chin, brushing his lips tenderly over hers. Resting his forehead against hers, their hands cupping each other’s cheeks, he murmured, “And I would be lying if I said I didn’t quite revel in making you blush and rendering you frustrated and speechless.”
One of Nesryn’s hands found his braid and tugged on it, a blush painting her face. But she smiled serenely, beaming at the man who would be her husband in a number of hours.
“I love you, my prince,” she whispered.
“And I love you, Windseeker,” he answered. He kissed her again, not nearly as softly but just as brief. “Tonight, I will sleep with empty arms, and then never again. For the rest of our days.” Sartaq finally pulled away, knowing rest was needed. He backed away, his gaze never wavering from hers. When he reached the doorway he leaned on it casually, crossing his arms.
“Imagine the pet names I will come up with once I can call you ‘wife’.”
Nesryn groaned and rolled her eyes, waving him off as she turned toward their bedroom. “Arrogant bastard,” she grumbled.
The prince’s rich, throaty laugh echoed through the sitting room as she slammed the door.
I have not tagged people here, since my tag list requests have come from my ACOTAR fic posts. If you would like to be tagged in any work I post, or if you have preferences as to fandom, please reach out!!
#throne of glass#throne of glass fanfiction#nestaq#nesryn x sartaq#nesryn faliq#sartaq#fanfiction#AO3
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I'm Not Afraid - Chapter 3
Word Count: 3,195
Characters: Female Reader Argent Character, Original Male Argent Character, Derek Hale, Allison Argent, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey, Lydia Martin, Chris Argent, Jackson Whittemore
Story Description: (Y/N) Argent arrived at Beacon Hills to put to rest her father’s sister, Kate Argent. For the first time, her family has decided to settle down and sustain a life in this interesting small town. After 17 years, (Y/N) has the opportunity to establish interpersonal relationships but will she be ready to face the complications that come with relating to her cousin’s, Allison, friends; especially, the infamous Derek Hale. She will face the adventure of being associated with the Derek and McCall pack as well as being faced with the discovery of certain aspects of her life she never imagined.
*DISCLAIMER*
I do not own in any way Teen Wolf, all credits of the pre-established characters, script, and storyline belong to Jeff Davis and MTV Network.
The only thing I own is Argent Reader insert, her immediate family, and her storyline, as well as her effects in the others’ storyline.
Chapter: 3/?
Warnings: brief mention of attempted suicide
A/N: If you enjoy my writing I’ll also be posting them in AO3 and Wattpad along with other stories (I also hope to start taking requests if ya’ll want) Hope you enjoy and all constructive criticism is encouraged.
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Chapter 3
"Time!" Mr. Harris looked up from his watch. "If you catalyzed the reaction correctly, you should now be looking at a crystal."
I looked down at my beaker and saw a horrible concoction of half crystal and half goo. Thanks to Stiles, my last partner of this weird-ass rotation the chemistry teacher had us partake in. Yet even though I didn't get with Stiles that well I was relieved that he was my partner. Isaac had been completely insufferable these last few days and I couldn't handle that.
"Now this part of the experiment I'm sure you'll all enjoy. You can eat it." I was bummed that I couldn't eat mine and I guess Lydia noticed.
"Hey, (Y/N), we can share mine. Don't frown." I smiled at her and she returned it.
After Lydia gave me half her rock crystal, Scott just stood up and screamed our names to stop, and everyone else just stared at us. We both turned and gave the boy a weird stare before diverging our attention back to the candy. After clinking our candies against the other, we savored the sweet treat.
Allison's POV
"Derek is outside waiting for (Y/N) and Lydia," Scott said.
"Waiting to kill them?"
"If he thinks one of them is the Kanima, then yes. Especially after what happened at the pool."
"It's not Lydia."
"Stiles, she didn't pass the test, man. Nothing happened."
"No, it can't be her."
"Well, it's not (Y/N) either."
"Well, it could be her."
"What is that supposed to mean?!" What the hell was his problem?
"Well, we have no idea who she is, and she hasn't really proven to be a good person. And the attacks did start after she first arrived at Beacon Hills."
"You don't know her, I do. Believe me, it's not her. I've known her my whole life. I think I would have noticed her turning into a killing lizard and I don't think I would be here to tell you. So, we can cross her out." We both sighed. "But it doesn't matter because Derek thinks it's one of them. So, either we can convince him that he's wrong or we've got to figure out a way to protect them."
"Well, I don't think he's gonna do anything here. Not at school." Scott stepped in.
"What about after school?" I asked and he sighed. "What if we can prove that Derek's wrong?"
"By three o'clock?"
"There can be something in the bestiary."
"Oh, you mean the 900-page book written in Archaic Latin that none of us can read? Good luck with that." Seriously Stiles, not helping. At least I was trying.
"Actually, I think there might be someone who can translate," I said thinking about our guidance counselor.
"Uh, I can talk to Derek maybe convince him to give us a chance to prove it's not either of them or... But if anything happens you guys let me handle it, okay?"
"What does that mean?"
"You can't heal like I do." I stared at him. I wasn't a defenseless baby. "I just don't want you getting hurt."
"I can protect myself." I took the crossbow out of my bag. He said nothing. "What? Did something else happen?"
"I just don't want you getting hurt. Seriously, if anything goes wrong you call me, okay?! I don't care if your dad finds out. Call or text, scream or yell; whatever, I'll find you as fast as I can." He stared straight into my eyes.
"We have until three."
He turned to leave until my crossbow went off. "Ooh." Scott quickly turned around and caught the arrow.
"Aah. Sorry." Stiles handed me the crossbow. "Sorry. Sensed a trigger on that."
Scott's POV
Currently, Stiles was on Lydia's and (Y/N)'s trail, and I was on the field with Boyd trying to find Derek.
"I wanna talk to Derek."
"Talk to me."
"I don't wanna fight."
"Good. Cause I'm twice the size of you" I looked up to find it true.
"True. Really, really true." He smirked. "But you wanna know what I think? I'm twice as fast." I smirked back and tackled him to the ground. Once we stood up, Derek appeared by our side.
"She failed the test." His face held his iconic scowl, and his arms were crossed.
"Yeah, but that doesn't prove anything. Lydia's different."
"I know. At night she turns into a homicidal walking snake."
"I'm not gonna let you kill her."
"Who said I was gonna do it?" I looked back to the school and realized Erica and Isaac were still back in the building. I tried to run towards it, but Boyd threw me down. "I don't know why you think you have to protect everyone now, Scott. But even so, Lydia has killed people and she's gonna do it again. And next time it's gonna be one of us."
"What if you're wrong? For all we know it could also be (Y/N). She didn't pass either, and how is it a coincidence that the attacks started after she arrived?" For a second I could have sworn there was a sign of desperation and worry in his face. But as quick as I blinked the look was gone.
"Lydia was bitten by an alpha. It's her."
"You saw that thing up close. You know it's not like us."
"But it is! We're all shapeshifters. You don't know what you're dealing with. It happens rarely and it happens for a reason."
"What reason?"
"Sometimes the shape you take reflects the person that you are." He gave me his hand and helped me up. "Even Stiles calls her cold-blooded."
"Well, what if she's immune? What if she has something else inside of her that makes her immune to the bite which is why she didn't get paralyzed."
"No one's immune. We've never seen it or heard of it. It's n... It's never happened." He argued.
"What about Jackson?" He looked away. "That's why you tested him, isn't it? Because you gave him what he wanted, didn't you?"
"Scott..."
"You said the bite either kills you or turns you. You were probably hoping that he would die. But nothing happened, right? You have no idea why do you?"
"No." Derek's jaw clenched and I knew I struck a never, so I pressured on buying more time.
"I have a theory. That she's immune and that somehow, she passed it on to Jackson. You know I'm right."
"No!
"You can NOT do this!"
"Look, I can't let her live! You should've known that."
"I was hoping I could convince you but then, I wasn't counting on it." He looked at me frazzled as to what I meant, I just smirked.
(Y/N)'s POV
Being stuck with Stiles and Lydia in the library is torture, an experiment I did not want to know the result of. Actually, just Stiles. Ever since Chemistry he had been on our trail like a lost puppy. Lydia and I had a project to work with, and he was just in the way. He was acting so weird and fidgety, more than usual.
"Hey, Allison. What are you doing here?" Lydia said looking behind her.
"Oh nothing, just wondering if you wanted to get together for a study group."
"Sure, that would actually maybe let the tension leave this group," I said and as we were leaving, Jackson joined.
"Study group? I'm coming with."
"Great." We left through the back door of the library, lord knows why, and we were walking at top speed.
"If we're doing a study group why don't we just stay in the library?" Lydia said. I was asking myself the same thing but since everyone else had stood up, I just followed.
"Because we're meeting up with somebody else."
"Why don't they just meet us at the library?" I asked.
"Oh, that would have been a great idea! Too late."
"Okay, hold on..." Lydia started saying but Jackson stopped her by grabbing her arm.
"Lydia, shut up and walk." Jerk.
We all got inside of Stile's jeep since he thought it would be faster that way because we were already late. It was an awkward ride to what I learned was Scott's house. No one said much except for the casual groan or scoff coming from Lydia.
"If we're meeting at Scott's house, where's Scott?" Lydia asked.
"Meeting us here. I think. I hope." Stiles said as he led us up to the front steps and into Scott's house.
Once inside he closed every single lock there was on the door. My reaction was involuntary as I stared at the slim boy in front of me as if he was another worldly creature.
"Uh, there's been a few break-ins in the neighborhood." He then put a chair on the doorknob and now Lydia joined in the stare. "And a murder. Yeah, it was bad."
"Lydia, follow me. I need to talk to you for a minute." Jackson spoke up.
"Seriously, what is going on with everyone?" Lydia said exasperated.
"Actually, I've been thinking the same thing. What the hell is going on?" I asked once Jackon and Lydia were out of sight.
"Nothing. Like we said it's just a study group." Stiles answered and I crossed my arms against my chest. Groveling for an answer seemed completely futile in this situation.
Allison's POV
"You know what, (Y/N). Why don't you go into the kitchen and help yourself to anything or go upstairs and lay down? I think Scott will take a while."
"O-kay?" She headed upstairs with an audible sigh and I motioned to Stiles to give me his phone to dial Scott.
"Hey, it's me. You need to get here. Quick." I looked outside and saw Derek and his pack waiting. I looked at the phone after Scott hung up and started dialing my dad's number.
"What are you doing?"
"I think... I think I have to call my dad."
"But if he finds you here, you and Scott..."
"I know." I stared at him. "What are we supposed to do? They're not here to scare us, okay, they're here to kill Lydia... Or, or even (Y/N)." We stood in silence and I debated on whether if it would be a good idea to call my father. If I did my relationship with Scott would be completely and truly over and if I didn't there could be a chance I would be down a friend or even a cousin.
"I've got an idea." I looked at a nervous Stiles. "Shoot one of them."
"Are you serious?"
"We told Scott we could protect ourselves. So, let's do it, at least give it a shot, right?" I debated for a moment.
"Okay." I don't think I sounded too confident.
"Look, they don't think we're gonna fight, so one of them gets hit, I guarantee they'll take off. So just shoot one of them." His reasoning made sense. I looked outside.
"Which one?"
"Um, Derek, preferably in the head."
"Stiles, if Scott can catch an arrow, Derek definitely can."
"Okay, ah, just shoot one of the other three."
"You mean two?"
"I mean three." Quickly he moved the curtains aside and looked outside to check on the pack. "Where's Isaac?" Without being able to think I was attacked and thrown to the ground and so was Stiles. I don't know how but Isaac found a way in.
(Y/N)'s POV
I was laying down on the bed of what I hoped was a guest room, scrolling through my phone when I heard a crash downstairs. I guess Lydia heard it too because when I looked outside the hallway, there she was. We moved slowly and carefully. After, I started to hear snarling and crashing.
"What's happening?" Lydia cried and I half hugged her as reassurance.
"Get back. Someone's trying to break in, okay? Go." Allison appeared from around the corner.
"I can help," I said.
"Stay." We didn't move. "Guys, go!" We both ran back to the room she was with Jackson and closed the door. Yet, Jackson was nowhere in sight.
"Jackson?!" Lydia screamed and we made our way to the bathroom locking the door.
"Who are you calling?" I asked Lydia as she took out her phone.
"Hi, I-I need the police. Th-there's someone trying to break in." She turned off the light and I heard the door outside slam.
"Stiles! It's here!" Allison screamed. What the hell was IT? Then the door crashed down. Lydia started squirming so I engulfed her in a hug and tried my best to calm her nerves.
"We're gonna be alright." But honestly, I was just as scared. Once silence was the only thing surrounding us, I checked the room. "Okay, I think it's gone. We'll go out slowly."
She nodded and followed me out of the bathroom and later out of the room. We made our way calmly down the hallway and the stairs. That's when I heard the worst screech ever and it was not human. We both ran outside to see what had made such an awful sound and were met by Derek, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Scott, Stiles, and Allison. What the hell were they all doing here, and why were Erica and Isaac limp on the floor?
"Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"
"It's Jackson," Scott said. What could that possibly mean?
After everyone had calmed down, Stiles took us back to the school to look for our abandoned cars. As I made my way to my bike, Allison stopped me. Claiming that she was too worried about my safety. Not having the energy to fight, I obliged and got into her car alongside Lydia, who was still a bit shaken from the events.
"I need you to promise that you both won't say anything about what just happened." Allison staged the statement as a request but it was clearly a command.
"I promise not to say anything about what just happened if you could tell me what the HELL just happened," Lydia said, exasperated.
"I'm with Lydia on that one."
"It's kinda complicated." Allison sighed.
"How about you start with why Derek was there?" I spoke. "And Isaac and all of those kids from school?"
"Or where Jackson went or what is wrong with Erica?" She looked down. "Need to come up with a possible lie?"
"Part of the reason I am asking is because Scott and I aren't supposed to be seeing each other, okay?" Seriously? That's your excuse "So it's better if you just keep what you know to yourselves."
"Fine. I'll keep what I know about you and your boyfriend, which is nothing, to myself." Lydia started to get out, but Allison held her back.
"Hey, he's not just my boyfriend, you get that right?"
"Let me go." The strawberry blonde spat.
"Just for one second, please try and remember. "
"Remember what?!" Lydia turned.
"Remember what it feels like. All those times in school when you see him standing in the hall and you cannot breathe until you're with him or those times in class when you can't stop looking at the clock because you know that he is standing right out there, waiting for you. Don't you remember what that's like?"
"No."
"What do you mean no? You've had boyfriends."
"Not like that." She closed the door and left. Allison stared at her until she had reached the door to her house before starting the car back up.
"I know you're lying. This has nothing to do with your relationship with Scott. Maybe like five percent but when you look at the whole picture it's not. So, why don't you actually tell me the truth or I swear I will get out of this car."
"We're moving."
"Doesn't mean I won't jump out."
"What do you want me to say?!"
"The truth. Just tell me why the hell everyone has been acting so weird?"
"You're one to talk." She scoffed.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You! Ever since you've arrived you have pushed everyone away, even though all they have been is nice to you. You're alienating yourself for no reason."
"No reason?! How about the fact that I don't want to grow attached to anyone because I know that once the year ends, I'm gone? It has been like that for almost ten fucking years. Allison, you have only had to move about three times in your life, maybe four. I have been moving every single year since I was eight years old. Don't you think that it doesn't hurt to leave behind people you have grown to love and won't see again, possibly forever?"
"I didn't think..." she sighed.
"Exactly, you didn't think because you don't understand. The last time I grew close to someone, I had to say goodbye and you know what happened?" She shook her head no. "She was bullied into attempting suicide. I did that."
"Are you talking about Josie?" I nodded, roughly wiping away the tears that had spilled. "That wasn't your fault. It was tragic but there was nothing you could have done. You didn't do it."
"I did. She was alone because I left, and I couldn't protect her. She won't even answer my messages. Now, I don't associate myself with people so I don't have to care about what happens to them. That way it doesn't hurt once I leave."
"I'm so sorry, (Y/N), I didn't know you felt that way. But don't push me away. I will always be a constant in your life. I'm your cousin, I will always be with you." She hugged me and wiped away any other tears left. "I love you but get out."
"Dude, you just ruined the moment."
"No, I mean we're at your house and I have to get home. I love you." She smiled and I got out of the car. Before I could say anything else, she sped off. She knew there was a conversation still lingering and she was trying to avoid it. I just hoped I didn't have to explain myself to anyone else.
I entered the empty house, making sure all the doors were locked, and made my way up the stairs. Opening my bedroom door, Brody jumped off my bed and onto me, slathering my face with kisses.
"Hey, buddy. I missed you too," I laughed. Being near him instantly calmed me and helped me feel more at ease after the night I had.
I changed into my pajamas, too tired to shower, and cuddled with Brody on my bed. Talking about my past always made me tense. I tried my best to stray away from the topic and reveal as little as possible as I could, but it always found a way to be uncovered. As hard as I tried it was the dark cloud that would always follow me around. All I could do was avoid the whole thing as much as I could and hope they didn't bring it up again.
With Brody's warmth next to me, I quickly nodded off to sleep and melted the stress of the day.
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Hi there! Im not sure if I've requested from you before have I?
So I was wondering if I could have a one-shot Sadie/F!ChubbyReader? Something sweet that gets steamy.
I was thinking that it could be the readers having a rough time because she thinks she's unworthy of love and the fact that she's into women makes it even harder.
Take your time, no need to rush~
Feel free to message me if you cant/won't do this I understand Xx
You hadn't requested from me before, btw. BUT I really loved writing this one for you! I hope it's what you've been looking for <3 (I also hope there are no more errors left, I only proofread this once)
Rating: Explicit
Words: 2679
Warnings: NSFW, Low Self-Esteem Reader (Body-Image issues)
AO3
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It was one of the rare occasions when camp was quiet, most gang-members fast asleep as darkness spread over Clemens Point.
You had missed the silence, already used to the rambunctious songs, to the laughter and chatter of the others. Even if those good times never were to last.
These days, it was hard to achieve happiness, to feel even remotely safe, your travels East having shaken the entire group to the core.
And sometimes, you wished you had stayed in the West, had bought land and settled down like you've planned, even if that might not have changed a thing.
When it was quiet, like now, your mind often wandered, drifted along with the sounds of rippling water.
It was nice here, better than it had been up at Colter, but you still felt out of place. And no amount of fresh air or crisp water could change that.
With a sigh, you leaned further against the log behind you, your arms crossed in front of your chest where you sat.
At least in the darkness, no one had to stare at you. Had to see you.
You could just be, with no obligations to be appealing to anyone at all.
Never before had Dutch sent you out to distract any targets, to use your good looks on unsuspecting fools like the other women at camp often did. Because you had none. Or so you told yourself.
Of course it was harsh, of course you had other things to offer. But with a couple pounds too many, with chub around your cheeks and your hips, you didn't feel as attractive as you wished you would be.
You envied Abigail, Mary-Beth, Karen, Tilly... if not for their appearance then for their confidence. And Sadie? Sometimes you wished you could walk a day in her shoes, that you could stop caring about what other people thought and put on some pants.
Though you feared you'd only get stared at more like that.
Time went by without you noticing. Maybe you've nodded off somewhere down the line, the sight of the water gleaming beneath the moonlight oddly tranquil and soothing to you.
Your thoughts continued to roam, continued to shift and flow like the water in front of you.
Occasionally, you'd see a fish jump out of the lake, would hear a nocturnal bird taking flight within the nearby trees. And you yearned to be free like them; free of judgment, of society's standards, and your own low self-esteem.
You wondered if they perceived beauty like humans did, if they stared down at the two-legged, wingless creatures, saw long and flowing hair idly whipping in the breeze, or a freckled face and bright eyes and fell in love.
It would be a loss if they didn't, if they were unable to see what you did – and you decided that maybe, being a human might not be all that bad.
Sure, all you could do was behold the beauty around you. You knew you would never get a chance of something more; knew you couldn't compliment the way Sadie's yellow blouse flattered her figure and receive more than a simple "thank you".
It had always been like that – you, finding beauty in another woman, finding beauty in her voice, the sparkle in her eyes and the way she strutted and sauntered along the way. You knew you couldn't change that, knew that you would never be 'normal', but hell, you didn't want to be. If there even was such a thing as normal.
In the past, and even up to the current day, you've struggled with it. With your sexuality.
You had come to terms with it, of course, but you knew that you only stood out more with your chosen way of life. If your body wasn't enough to keep people away, your orientation might just be, and it worried you, what the others might think should you ever come out to them.
It hadn't been your intention to grow upset, your brain doing it to yourself no matter what you tried to do about it.
So you sat and stared out onto the lake, gaze blank as you simply beheld the beauty all around. Watching, and doing nothing, as always.
The sound of boots upon sand drew you out of your thoughts, your head turning to see a familiar figure approaching.
She was tall, slim, her hair braided beneath her hat. A few strands hung loose, though that only held it's special charm.
"What're you doin' out here?" Sadie asked, sitting down on the fallen tree behind you. She kept a bit of a polite distance, crossing her legs as her elbows rested upon her propped up knee.
You swallowed softly, looked back ahead and out onto the wide lake. "Just thinking," you explained, unable to come up with anything else that might explain you being restless and awake at this time of day.
The other woman hummed, her own gaze trailing over the water in front of her.
It appeared black in the dark of night, only little light reflexes showing the movement of the soft waves.
"Did someone say somethin' again?"
Her sudden words brought you back to reality, the silence between you having stretched for a couple minutes before.
It wasn't rare that the less pleasant people at camp upset you over your insecurities, pointed out facets of yourself that didn't need to be addressed.
You shook your head, anyhow. Today, that hadn't been the case. Besides, you never knew Sadie paid any attention to the treatment you received. "It's me," you mumbled after a moment of consideration. "Me who made me feel like crap."
And while you huffed at the words you spoke, they were genuine. Oftentimes, it was you who made your life harder than it had to be.
Sadie pushed herself off the log, plopped down into the slightly moist sand by your side. You watched her from the corners of your eyes, unsure what she was intending to do.
But she didn't do anything, merely sat with you and stared out into the water, thinking about what you had said before.
"I did that a lot," she eventually spoke up, turning to face you. "Guess it ain't the same, but I– sat and thought a lot, too. That never seemed to help." She chuckled, but the sound was rather mirthless, her tone more serious than anything.
You had seen her in the past, had seen her sitting outside of camp, far from anyone else. She's had a broken heart to nurse, had a terrible loss to get over, and in the end she had come out stronger than ever.
"You don't gotta tell me, if you don't want. Maybe it'd make you feel better, though."
Inhaling, you thought about her words, wondered if you would even be able to put your innermost thoughts and feelings into words.
Never before had someone asked you to share them, no one ever having as much of an interest in you as that.
"It's nothing," you tried to deflect, tried to invalidate your troubles in order to not burden Sadie with them here and now.
The woman snorted, however, raised a brow as she looked at you. "Don't look like nothin' to me," she pointed out, not impolitely.
"How about this–" she sat up, her back against the log as she gestured for you to come closer, to lean back against her chest.
For a moment you could only stare in disbelief, though you took the chance now that it was offered to you. It had been a while since you've last been physically close to anyone, after all.
"Comfortable?" Sadie asked. You gave her a nod, your heart racing in your chest and beating within your ears.
Holy Shit. That hadn't been how you'd imagined this night would go.
Sadie wrapped her arms around you loosely, rested her chin atop your head. She seemed content herself, seemed like she had wanted to do that for a long while. The thought made your heart skip a beat.
"I know you think you're worse than you are," Sadie spoke up again, keeping her voice low while speaking to you. It was oddly soothing, her usual rough tone sounding more than just pleasant to your ears. "But you ain't bad. Truth be told, I admire you."
That made you pause, your breath catching in the back of your throat. "Me? For what?"
She chuckled kindly, brushing through your hair to tuck a few strands behind your ear. "For knowin' who you are, and what you want. For stayin' true to yourself no matter what anyone says."
Yet again, you hadn't expected her to be all that perceptive, hadn't expected her to know much about you at all. For as long as you've known her, your conversations had been brief, cut short by your occasional shyness and nervosity. Sadie seemed to have read you better than you ever could've thought.
"I..." you weren't sure what to say, or if you should say anything at all. The woman's arms around you were soothing, almost soporific, though the warmth pooling within you made it hard to consider dozing off.
"I always wanted t'know more about you," Sadie continued, nuzzling the top of your head, her lips brushing over your strands of hair. "Wanted to know more 'bout the beautiful woman who's stolen my heart."
You were sure this had to be a dream, that you had passed out after all and your mind was playing tricks on you by now.
But Sadie felt as real as could be, her hot breath in the nape of your neck, her arms around your waist, thighs left and right of your hips. Whatever you had thought of before, all your insecurities and doubts, it all seemed far away by now.
"Me– Me, too," you brought out, confessing to your feelings without directly doing so. Sadie was more bold and confident than you were, was more brave and straight-forward in your eyes. And just like she had said before, you admired her just as well. But most importantly, you were sure you loved her.
Feeling enlivened by her words, empowered by the warmth swelling within your heart, you turned around, straddled her lap and properly looked her in the face. "I think I love you," you properly confessed, cupping her freckled cheeks like you've wished to do for so long already.
She smiled up at you, keeping her hands on your waist for now as she leaned in, and captured your lips with her own.
The kiss didn't last as long as you've wanted it to, but upon pulling away, Sadie spoke up again; "I know I love you." Her smile grew, your forehead resting on hers when you returned the gesture.
Once your lips had met the first time, you couldn't stop yourself from going in for a second kiss. Your eyes fluttered shut, fingertips gliding along Sadie's sides and down to the hem of her shirt. Now that you knew of her feelings towards you, and were fully certain as those within yourself, you only wanted more.
She reacted in kind, teased your tongue with hers when her lips parted ever so slightly, a moan slipping into the kiss. You weren't sure if it had come from you or her, but that didn't matter much, not when your hands soon met bare skin, fingers gripping her sides while her own ran along your thighs.
"You wanna do this right here?" She asked, leaning back a little to capture your stare.
Slightly out of breath, you nodded. Hell, you didn't care where you'd do this, as long as you could feel her skin on yours.
Without missing a beat, Sadie worked on helping you out of your dress, glancing back, only to make sure camp was as quiet as it had been before.
Even if a few drunkards were still milling about, you couldn't care less, your fingers working on her buttons to relieve her off her top layer, before climbing off her lap to get her pants off her hips.
Naked, you laid back in the sand, invited her to follow you only for her lips to meet yours again. She placed her hat on top of your head, gave you a small smirk as her lips wandered lower, over your collarbone and down to your chest.
Moving boldly, her mouth latched onto one nipple right away, one hand kneading the other breast while she suckled and licked your sensitive bud.
Your breath hitched, spine curving to get closer to her heavenly mouth, your head already swimming without her having done too much just yet.
Soon enough, she had stimulated your other nipple to full hardness as well, laying down on her side next to you, and pulling you in for another kiss. "Let's keep this quiet," she muttered, her fingeres wandering once again until they reached your sex, a hum leaving her lips when she discovered the hot wetness there.
She caressed your folds, encouraged you to hitch one leg up and around her hip while coating her fingers within your slick. Slowly, her fingers circled your clit, made your hips jerk sporadically and your muscles tense here and there.
"Can I?" You had only pulled away from the kiss for a second, glancing at her while your fingers slid down her flat stomach.
"Be my guest," she grumbled, trailing lovebites along your collarbone and up to your shoulder, the small motions of her fingers on your clit steadily driving you insane.
To offer her the same kind of pleasure, your hand soon found the spot between her legs, met with an equal wetness as that between your own. You groaned, teasingly gliding your fingers through her folds before your thumb focused solely on her nub.
She gasped, almost sounding surprised, like she hadn't been touched there in a while, though that only spurred you on more. You wanted her to feel as good as possible, pulling away after another few moments only to propose another idea.
"I wanna taste you," you muttered, fingers disappearing from her soaked cunt as you laid back. Seemingly catching on right away, Sadie climbed on top, straddling your face while hers was right in front of your own crotch.
With the new position, you dove in without a moment's hesitation, held onto her hips and pulled her close as your tongue licked through her folds and up to her nub.
She moaned out, had to have bitten down on her lip to keep more sounds from surfacing before she leaned down herself, and focused on your clit right away.
Besides the sounds of your actions, the occasional slurping, squelching and your labored breaths, it was still mostly quiet, the area belonging solely to you in this moment.
You rolled your hips upwards, chased more of the heavenly feeling of her mouth on you as you felt yourself getting close.
Clearly, Sadie wasn't all that far, either, her abdominal muscles flexing while her thighs tried to squeeze your head, the motions of her tongue growing more desperate the closer she got to her climax.
It was over much too quickly, had been too long for you to hold back at all, your body tensing for a moment before releasing in a rush of endorphins that was better than anything you've had before.
You pulled back for air, slipped two fingers into Sadie's tight cunt to grant her a satisfying release as well, and watched, when she shook and trembled through her very own orgasm.
She rolled off of you after a moment, cursing under her breath as she did so.
It wasn't long before she crawled back up to you, however, before her lips met yours and you could taste yourselves upon each other's tongue.
"You fancy a midnight swim?" She asked when she pulled away, sitting back on her knees and helping you up when you agreed.
#Sadie Adler#Sadie Adler x female Reader#red dead redemption 2#rdr2 fanfiction#nsft#my writing#rdr2 requests#tw body negativity#anarchist-lolita
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dry me off and hold me close
Summary: Derek has finally relented and is bringing his boyfriend Spencer to meet the rest of the team. That means, though, he has to finally tell them about his boyfriend's disability. Terrified that they'll react badly, he puts it off until he can't anymore. Turns out he was worried for nothing.
Tags: so much fluff, protective derek, disabled spencer, caretaker derek, au: spencer is not in the bau, team as family, hurt/comfort, light angst, est. rel, day to day disabled life, physical disability/chronic illness
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid
Word Count: 5.7k
Masterlist // Read on AO3
Hello! I am nervous to share this one, I won't lie. It's incredibly personal. It was a pain in the arse to write but I love how it turned out and I hope you do, too.
Just a note: this may be triggering for some people - there is description of nausea and severe chronic pain, as well as frequent references to ableism towards wheelchair users.
As soon as Rossi brings up the prospect of a fully-catered family dinner at his ‘mansion’ this weekend, Derek’s heart sinks. They’re on their way home from a pretty gruelling case and it’s well-deserved of course, but he knows what comes next, knows what question will be asked of him, and he’s dreading it. There’s only so long he can go on avoiding answering.
“Please tell me you’ll finally let us meet Spencer, Derek,” JJ asks, levelling him with a look to rival one of Penelope’s. “At this point I’m starting to think you’ve made him up.”
Spencer is very real. He’s a very real, very sexy, very intelligent man who Derek has no doubt would get on brilliantly with the team. But Spencer also happens to be disabled. And while his boyfriend has had decades to get to terms with broaching such a sensitive, taboo topic, Derek has not. He’s far from ashamed of Spencer — that’s not it at all — he’s just so protective of him, and the idea of others being touchy or patronising or outright rude around him is an idea he’s never been able to get used to, no matter how many times he’s witnessed it.
Derek’s laugh is strained as he rubs his face awkwardly, trying to find the words to politely decline, but the others are pouncing on him before he can speak.
“You’ve put it off enough times now, Morgan,” Emily says, siding with JJ. “If he’s even half of what you say he is then we’ll love him. Just bring him along. Rossi doesn’t mind.”
“Oh no, I’m dying to meet the man who could finally tie Derek Morgan, ladies man extraordinaire, down,” Rossi chimes in.
“He definitely sounds like my kind of guy,” Alex agrees. “I’m impressed you managed to land such an educated man, Derek.”
He looks sort of desperately towards Hotch who raises his hands guiltily. “I would actually like to meet him, too, Morgan,” he says reluctantly, a rare smile playing across his face.
Derek groans and throws his head back against his plane seat. He can only be glad Penelope isn’t on the flight because she’d be absolutely relentless in such a conversation.
As hesitant as he is to let his team in, maybe it is time to finally get over himself and bring Spencer to meet them. After all, none of them have ever given him actual cause to be so nervous, and he knows they’d all inevitably fall in love with him almost as quickly as Derek did, so really it’s his own fears and fierce protective instincts keeping Spencer away from his second family.
“Fine,” he relents, anxious butterflies not easing. “He’s home this weekend, and apart from planning lectures I think he’s free, so I’ll ask him. But I can only promise to ask, I won’t promise he’ll agree.” It’s a pointless caveat; Spencer’s been bugging him to meet the team almost as long as they’ve been bugging him to meet Spencer, he’ll jump at the chance to go to dinner with them.
“Finally,” JJ groans, pretending to collapse against Emily in relief, who giggles fondly at her antics.
“I’m sure we’ll love him, Derek,” Rossi says reassuringly, a proud fatherly look on his face that has his chest clenching painfully.
As everyone settles down, his stomach churns anxiously as he stares back out of the jet window. He knows everyone will love Spencer; he just doesn’t know how to tell them what to expect. What if Spencer has a fainting episode or gets nauseous at dinner time? What if he can’t keep his energy up or is too photosensitive to have the lights on? What if meeting that many people at once overwhelms him? Spencer always tells him he worries too much, but he can’t help it — not when the love of his life is involved.
He’s brought out of his nervous stewing by Hotch. “You know, Morgan, if you really don’t want to bring Spencer, you don’t have to,” he says softly, making him look up to see everyone staring at him guiltily.
“We didn’t mean to pressure you,” JJ says hesitantly, and the others agree, all clearly having noticed his pensive expression.
He forces himself to take a calming breath and bite the damn bullet already. Spencer would be rolling his eyes at him. “Okay. There’s something I haven’t told you,” he starts carefully. He hasn’t had to introduce the concept of Spencer’s disability to anybody since he told his family. “Spencer is disabled. He has a chronic condition that impairs his mobility along with bringing a whole host of other symptoms, and while he’s had it for most of his adult life, I’m still not used to broaching the topic and I didn’t know how you would react. He already experienced enough difficulties in life, he doesn’t need my co-workers, hypothetically, being patronising or weird about it. So, I put it off.”
It feels like a weight off his chest once it’s out in the air, but the surprised looks on his team’s face make him briefly wonder whether telling them was a mistake after all. “Spencer will really look forward to coming though,” he rushes to continue. “He’s on his own a lot of the time and struggles to make it out of the house except for work if I’m not there, so he can feel quite isolated. It will be nice for him to spend time with other people, and finally meet you guys.”
By the time he’s finished speaking, everyone seems to have mostly recovered from their immediate shock, and look relaxed and intrigued again — far more appreciated expressions on Derek’s end.
“Well,” Rossi starts, and he feels like holding his breath in anticipation, “will he need any accommodations?” Relief spreads warm and thick across Derek’s chest as he feels himself physically relax. Of course immediate support would be the response from his team; he was stupid to think otherwise.
“His mobility fluctuates daily. Sometimes he can walk small distances okay, other times — and more frequently — he needs aids like forearm crutches or his wheelchair. Can I text you on the day and let you know?”
“Of course,” Rossi promises, a warm smile on his face, “whatever you and Spencer need.”
“There is one more thing, if Spencer’s coming it will need to be earlier in the evening… think more six rather than eight. He’ll be too exhausted later in the evening and he needs to be home early to get the amount of sleep he needs.”
“That’s fine,” Rossi agrees immediately, “six it is.”
“Sorry for pressuring you, Derek,” JJ says, tilting her head as she looks across the table at him. “But we’ll love Spencer, this won’t change anything.”
“Yeah, fuck you for thinking we’d be assholes about it,” Emily chuckles, punching him softly in the arm.
Derek grins at her before shaking his head. “I’m just too protective of him,” he explains a little guiltily. “He thinks it’s ridiculous but I can’t help it. We’ve been together nearly five years now and I’ve seen the things he has to go through, professionally and in his day to day life. I just saw an area for potential harm, no matter how slim the chances, and immediately bricked it up in my mind. It’s hard to tear walls down like that.”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” Alex says in her signature gentle tone, smiling at him.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Hotch agrees and Derek gives them all another quick smile before they settle in for the rest of the flight.
It’s late by the time Derek unlocks the door to his and Spencer’s home and he knows his boyfriend will already be in bed. It had been a weird adjustment when they’d first started dating, Spencer having to be home by 10pm so Spencer could get at least nine hours of sleep, topped up by regular naps during the day. Now though, he’s completely used to operating around Spencer’s sleep schedule; it’s just routine.
He makes his way through the house quietly, toeing his shoes off and shedding his coat before dumping his bag in the living room and padding up the stairs. The house is dark but their room is dimly lit by Spencer’s night lamps, there to ease him off to sleep and keep him company when bouts of painful insomnia torment him. There was a time Derek used to mind, but those days seem so long ago now. He climbs carefully onto the mattress, taking off his trousers and socks but not bothering to change into anything new.
As gentle as he is with his movement, Spencer still stirs beside him. “Derek?” He blinks sleepily over at him in the soft light of the bedroom and Derek immediately scoots over and wraps him in a hug. It might be gone midnight but he misses Spencer like crazy when he’s away and physical contact is very much essential business right now.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispers as he relishes the feeling of Spencer’s small frame against his own. “Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay. Just glad you’re home. Missed you.”
“I promise I missed you more,” Derek murmurs as the warmth of the room and comforting presence of his boyfriend wrapped around him finally break down the walls he’s been holding back the sleepiness working a 5 day case inevitably brings.
“Make me pancakes in the morning?”
Spencer doesn’t need to ask, it’s a tradition for Derek to make pancakes for breakfast the day he gets back from the case, but it makes him smile anyway. “Anything for you, baby boy,” he yawns. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
⭐️
Derek waits until dinner the next evening to bring up the subject of the dinner party. It’s just a simple takeaway on the sofa of the house Derek had renovated for them, but even five years into their relationship, every moment shared with Spencer feels like a date.
“How would you feel about going to a dinner party with the team?” Derek asks when there’s a lull in their conversation. Spencer’s just finished explaining a complicated debate he’s having with one of his colleagues about kinetic particle theory and Derek has no idea how to respond. Moments like these used to make him feel stupid and inadequete when they first got together, but now he just stares fondly at his genius boyfriend and wonders how on earth he got so lucky.
Spencer lowers his fork. They’re eating chinese but he still hasn’t mastered chopsticks, and it never fails to make Derek smile. “Are you serious?” he says, an excited grin spreading across his face.
“I am.” He quirks an amused eyebrow as he takes in Spencer’s eager expression. God, he’s so fucking in love.
“Well obviously I want to go,” he giggles, “you know that. When is it?”
“Saturday.”
Spencer just launches himself into Derek’s lap in lieu of response, not that he has far to move on their cosy sofa, slotting himself against his body as they melt into one another. “Thank you for finally getting over yourself,” he says with his face buried in Derek’s neck.
Derek’s responding laugh jostles both of them as he wraps his arms around Spencer’s small frame, loving the way he fits in the palms of his hands. “I’m sorry it took me so long, baby,” he says, tone transitioning into sincerity. “But they can’t wait to meet you, and you’re going to love them.”
“I know,” Spencer says drily, pulling back to look him in his eyes. “Why do you think I’ve been pushing to meet them for the last five years?”
Derek answers with a squeeze to Spencer’s waist and a kiss to his shoulder. “Go on,” he says, lifting him off his lap to sit on the sofa next to him. “Finish your dinner.”
“Mm, I think I’ve had enough,” Spencer hums nonchalantly, busying himself with putting the carton on the coffee table as if Derek doesn’t know him like the back of his hands.
“This is your favourite dish from your favourite Chinese and you’re expecting me to believe you’ve just had enough,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?”
“Nothing,” Spencer says, but he sounds winded and Derek isn’t stupid. He levels him with a look. “Okay… I just feel a bit sick is all.”
“Floor, sofa, or bed?” He’s aware of the nausea protocol, and he moves his own dinner aside as he springs into action.
“Floor.” He’d been surprised the first time his boyfriend had crawled onto the floor and lay curled up until the nausea passed, but it was second-nature now. Apparently, the flat, firm surface was the most comfortable when such intense sickness consumed him.
“Okay, baby, let’s go.” He gently lifts Spencer off the sofa and down onto the floor, taking care not to jostle him too much. His eyes stay closed, face screwed up as he tries to weather the waves of nausea crashing over him. It never fails to make Derek’s heart twist in pain. “Are you actually going to be sick?” The majority of nausea spells usually pass on their own with no vomit to speak of, and Spencer’s usually very good at telling which kind it is.
“No,” he whispers, reaching his hand slowly towards Derek’s and gripping it tightly. He gets the message and lays down next to him, stroking his hair softly as they wait in silence for Spencer’s body to right itself. It only takes about twenty minutes to pass, and when it does, Derek carries him to bed, bringing him his toothbrush and a flannel as they follow another of their set routines that have been established over so many years of being together.
“I love you so much, Spencer Reid,” Derek murmurs as they lay in bed together that night, the soft light of their bedroom catching on Spencer’s cheekbones.
“I love you more, Derek Morgan,” Spencer whispers back, voice slurred as he cuddles further into the arms of his boyfriend.
“Not possible,” Derek insists, but Spencer’s already dropping off to sleep.
⭐️
Spencer wakes up on the day of the dinner party in what Derek can clearly see is nothing short of agony. He doesn’t try to hide it, they’re mostly past that now — although he still sometimes convinces himself he can handle smaller symptoms by himself, no matter how many times Derek insists they’re a team — but he doesn’t say much either. The morning is spent on the sofa, using numerous heated blankets and painkiller combinations until he can at least think straight.
“How do you feel about this evening?” Derek asks as lunchtime approaches, rubbing Spencer’s good arm gently as he leans against him, legs outstretched on the chaise.
Spencer hums. “I’m gonna take a nap after lunch,” he decides after a moment of deliberation, “and then decide. I think with meds and the wheelchair, I’ll be okay.” He pauses for a moment as he nibbles nervously on his bottom lip. “Do you think they’ll be weird about the chair?”
“No, baby,” Derek says decisively. Really, he can’t believe he ever thought anything different, but he was scared and fear easily spirals into irrationality. “They won’t even blink. Especially since I warned them about the mobility aids. I think they’d be more surprised if you walked into the Rossi mansion.”
“You sure?”
It hurts Derek’s heart to hear him so anxious and uncertain, and it’s only more painful because he knows it's rooted in experience. He’s had to fight for most of his life to be seen as a competent adult, equal to his peers despite his disability, and people can be cruel. “I’m sure. And even if for some reason they were dicks about it, I’m there, okay? Nobody’s gonna get away with being anything other than an angel towards you when I’m around.”
Spencer giggles at that, turning his head into Derek’s chest. “You turn into the hulk when you’re protecting me.”
“I do,” he agrees, chuckling at the sound of Spencer’s adorable laugh, “and for good reason. No-one hurts my baby. You know that, and everyone else knows it, too. We’re gonna be just fine, pretty boy.”
Spencer sighs, reassured by Derek’s words. “Love you,” he whispers, twisting a bit to press a kiss to the side of Derek’s neck.
“I love you more,” Derek promises, lifting a hand to rest on Spencer’s cheek.
“Not possible.”
The rest of the day passes slowly as Spencer takes it easy, deciding that he’s definitely up to it after a decent nap curled up against a reading Derek. They get ready together, Derek helping him shower when his arms hurt too much to wash his hair and getting him dressed in his favourite outfit before dressing himself.
By the time six thirty rolls around, Spencer’s feeling a little bit better, his meds are hitting the spot and they’ve mastered all the wheelchair adaptations to make his life as easy as possible over the years. His cushions and heated seats connected to the wheelchair’s motor, which he uses to help self-propell at work, ease the pain as much as they can and the built in phone charger always makes him popular whenever they go out with friends. Plus, his cane and crutches connect neatly to the back of the chair, giving him more options, which is especially helpful on nights like this.
“Comfy?” Derek asks as he pushes him out of the apartment and into the hallway, locking the door behind them.
Spencer hums in affirmation, wiggling a little as he settles into the warm support of the chair. They have a ground floor apartment for safety reasons: Spencer needs to be able to exit the building if the lifts stop working, but it’s also convenient. They get down to the garage quickly and Derek helps him into the passenger seat before packing the wheelchair in the boot.
He spends the journey in contemplative silence and Derek can’t keep himself from shooting worried looks his way. His hand makes its way onto Spencer’s knee and he rubs his thumb gently against the skin, before stilling the digit, all too conscious of how painful repetitive stimulus can be, especially on days like these.
“Stop worrying, baby,” he says, ten minutes into the drive when Spencer still hasn’t said a word. His bottom lip is chapped from the worried chewing it has endured for most of the day. “They’re going to love you, I promise.”
“You really think so?”
Derek’s about to answer quickly but he looks over and sees how absolutely dead serious Spencer is. He sighs. “Let me tell you exactly why. Alex is a fellow academic with the softest streak of anyone in the BAU field team. Emily and JJ have the ability to befriend literally anyone, and Penelope already is in love with you, just from what I’ve said about you. She’s told me so multiple times. Rossi immediately accommodated you and wasn’t at all fazed when I mentioned your disability. Hotch is a gentle fatherly type when he’s talking to good people and the rest of the team, so he’ll just be interested in you as a person. There’s no-one I’m worried about, okay?”
“Okay,” Spencer whispers eventually, finally sounding like he actually believes him.
“Besides, you’ve already got one member of this team whipped,” Derek smirks, glancing over at him again.
He considers it a win when Spencer rolls his eyes, and his grin couldn’t be wider when he hears him mumble, “arrogant asshole” under his breath.
Derek’s grateful Rossi doesn’t have a gravel driveway as he gets Spencer out of the car and into his wheelchair, before pushing him the short way to the front door. They’d battled some tough terrain over the years, and gravel was absolutely his least favourite. As they approach the house, though, he notices that Spencer’s grip on his armrest is tight enough that his knuckles are white, and it hurts Derek’s heart that he’s only this nervous because real people and real experiences have given him genuine reason to be.
Before he gets to knock, though, the door is thrown open by an uncontainably excited Penelope. “You’re here!” she shouts, and completely bypasses Derek to shake Spencer’s hand. He’s glad she doesn’t crouch, just leans down a little so he doesn't have to reach up so far. “You must be Spencer. I’m Penelope. It is a crime that Derek has kept us apart for so long, but none of that matters now. Would you like me to push you in through to meet the others?”
“Um, it’s nice to finally meet you, Penelope,” he says, smiling at her genuinely. “Would you mind if Derek keeps pushing me, though?”
“Oh, no, that’s fine!” Her smile doesn’t drop a bit. “Come through, everyone’s already in the living room. Oh, and hi Chocolate Thunder.” She sends him a quick wink.
“Hi, Mama,” he says, rolling his eyes. He’s grinning, though. So far, so good.
They follow Penelope further into the house after Derek closes the door behind them, and the girls get up first. “Spencer, oh it’s so good to meet you,” Emily says, coming up and shaking his hand. “I’m Emily, this is JJ.”
“Hi,” JJ says, shaking his hand too, giving him a conspiratorial look. “I’m glad we finally bullied Derek into bringing his oh-so-secret beau to meet us.”
Derek just grins. “What can I say? I’m protective of my baby.” He reaches down and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.
“Ignore this caveman,” Spencer laughs, and Derek is sure he rolls his eyes again. “I’ve been dying to meet you all, too.”
“Well, it’s our pleasure,” Alex says, coming up for her turn. “I’m Alex. Your paper ‘How Thinking Makes Us Write’ you published a couple of years ago is incredible; I used it in my Psychology of Writing class last year and only just realised it was written by Derek’s top-secret boyfriend! I’d love to talk to you more about that later.”
“That’s so cool, wow, yeah I’d love that.” He smiles at her, clearly feeling a little flattered by the immediate praise of his work. Derek thinks it’s the least he deserves.
“I’m Aaron, but everyone calls me Hotch,” Hotch says as he and Rossi step forward, a warm smile on his face. “Sorry to overwhelm you with all these introductions, but it’s lovely to meet you. It really is a shame Derek’s been so secretive.”
Spencer smiles up at him. “Are we all going to dunk on Derek all night? Because if that’s the case, I’m glad I came,” he laughs, twisting around slightly to look at Derek.
“Yeah, yeah, keep talking, pretty boy,” he says, raising a brow. “Two can play at that game.”
“You’re too whipped, I’m not worried,” Spencer dismisses him, before touching his hand lovingly, letting him know that he’s only teasing.
“I don’t doubt it,” Rossi says. “I’m Dave, or Rossi, whichever you prefer. I actually own this house, despite being the last in line for a formal introduction. I’m sorry I didn’t greet you at the door, Penelope had been waiting on the stairs for half an hour so she could be the first to greet you.”
“That true, baby girl?” Derek chuckles, looking over at her.
She doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, but then Derek doesn’t know what else he expected. “This is on you,” she defends herself, “if you hadn’t waited so long to introduce me to baby genius here, I wouldn’t have been so desperate to meet him.”
Spencer laughs at their interaction, turning his attention back to Rossi. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “Derek told me you were really accommodating, so thank you for that.”
He waves the thanks aside with a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. Speaking of which, though, would you rather eat in your wheelchair or transfer to one of the dining chairs.”
Derek knows what’s about to happen even before he sees Spencer tense up. “Give us one second,” he says, wheeling him out into the hallway. Decisions are really hard for Spencer to make on bad days, especially those that pertain to his health or needs, and being under the eyes of so many people was not about to make that an easy interaction.
“Derek…” Spencer says anxiously, looking at him for help as he feels his mind spiral into fogginess at the question.
“Okay, it’s okay, baby,” he says soothingly, crouching down in front of him to be at eye level. He takes his hand and kisses it gently. “Do your hips need a break from the chair or would it be more painful to transfer?”
Phrasing questions like Rossi’s as directly applicable choices is always more digestible for Spencer and he sees him visibly relax at his words. “Hips need a break.”
“Great,” Derek says. “Do you want to go back in or do you need a minute to yourself?”
“No, I’m fine,” Spencer says, and he believes him. He instantly relaxed at having made a decision. “Let’s go back in.”
“As you wish, sweetheart.”
They walk back into a room full of vibrant conversation and laughter. “Oh, Spencer, Spencer,” Emily says, immediately roping him back into the conversation without making a big deal of him having to leave the room, “we’re debating whether Derek’s really the slob Alex insists he is. You need to help us settle it.”
“I shared a room with him once, okay,” she says, “it was a state!”
“I don’t doubt it,” Spencer agrees. “At home, he’s so anal about ‘everything in it’s place’ and won’t even let a mug sit on the counter without being washed up. But whenever we go away, he can’t keep the place clean, it’s the weirdest thing. It’s like his suitcase vomits its contents all over the room.”
“Hey, I didn’t know this dinner was gonna be all about airing my dirty laundry,” Derek laughs.
“Literally,” JJ points out.
“Right,” Rossi says, interrupting the laughter filling the room. “Dinner is ready, so we should eat. Did you come to a decision about seating, Spencer?” Derek’s impressed at how much he knows about accommodating disabilities. He probably has someone close to him who’s been through something similar to Spencer.
“I’ll transfer,” he confirms.
“Great, we can just move your wheelchair to the hall once you’re settled so it’s not in the way, if that’s okay?”
At Spencer’s nod, they all file into the kitchen/dining area and choose their places. Penelope bags the seat to Spencer’s left, Derek sitting to his right, as the other girls sit opposite them. Hotch and Rossi sit at Derek's end of the table. He holds hands with Spencer under the table all through the delicious pasta primavera, helping to ground him, reminding him he’s right there.
Conversation and laughter flows with the wine Rossi serves, and Derek doesn’t even mind his embarrassing stories being shared with the team, because it’s Spencer, and he’s so far gone for this man that he could slice him open and with his dying breath, Derek would thank him.
“I love you, really,” Spencer grins up at him, after he’s just revealed his Nina Simone shower concerts to everyone sitting around the table, everyone cracking up as the tough exterior Derek’s built up at work over the years slowly disintegrates, his own boyfriend fuelling the fire.
“And I love you, baby,” he says, leaning over to kiss him briefly, before pulling back. “Even when you spill my deepest darkest secrets.”
“Well, aren’t you two just the cutest,” Alex says fondly. “You’re a lucky man, Derek.”
“No, I’m the lucky one,” Spencer insists. “Do you know what he said when we first met? We were at the supermarket, and I was reaching for some baby carrots. He said ‘whoa, pretty boy, don’t get those ones. They go off far too quickly. Someone as beautiful as you deserves better than that’. No mention of the wheelchair or bags under my eyes. He didn’t see Disabled Spencer, he just saw Spencer. Asked for my number then and there.”
“You were irresistible,” Derek says fondly, brushing a thumb against his cheek. “I knew right at that moment I would spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Stop,” Penelope begs, “my heart is literally a puddle on the floor. This world needs more Derek Morgans.”
“I’ll toast to that,” JJ says, her face just as soft as Penelope’s.
“A real toast,” Hotch says, raising his glass with a happy smile on his face. Derek very rarely sees such a relaxed expression on his face, and as much as they have their disagreements, it’s a nice thing to see. “A toast to Derek and Spencer. May your happiness live long and be as contagious as it is tonight.”
Everyone toasts to his words, and Spencer buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, a little embarrassed at the attention. They sit around the table a little longer, but Spencer slowly sags against his body, finding it painful to keep himself upright.
Noticing this, Penelope claps her hands. “Shall we move back to the living room? I bought chocolate and Rossi has wine.”
“This is true,” Rossi says as they all get up. He grabs Spencer’s wheelchair from the hall and Derek helps him back into it as they head back to the sofas.
“It’s weird using my chair inside,” Spencer laughs as Derek pulls him into his chest so he doesn’t have to keep himself steady upright, everyone else settling themselves around the room.
“Do you not need it often?” Hotch asks.
“No, I need it quite a lot. I just don’t usually have to. Derek’s usually fairly insistent on carrying me around our apartment.”
“We’ll never live in a big house,” Derek says, chuckling along with anyone else. “I couldn’t haul this big lug around a Rossi mansion, now could I?”
“Hey!” Spencer smacks his side lightly.
“You’re 6 foot tall, baby,” Derek defends himself. “You might be tiny but there’s still a lot of you.”
“Fair enough,” Spencer acquiesces, laying his head just under Derek’s chin.
“Right,” Rossi says, coming back into the room, “I have more of your non-alcoholic wine, Spencer, and more of the real stuff for everyone else. Hand out the chocolates, Penelope, and we’ll have ourselves some satisfied guests.”
“I don’t live here, old man,” Penelope says, raising an eyebrow but getting up from her seat cuddled against Emily and JJ anyway.
“Hey, you answered the door to pretty much everyone today; you’re co-hosting.”
“Can’t argue with that, Penelope,” Emily says drily, looking on amusedly as she huffs but hands out the chocolates anyway.
Derek discreetly pops two painkillers out in his pocket and hands it to Spencer, who swallows them down with a sip of his non-alcoholic wine, relaxing as they start to take effect. They all chat leisurely for a while, enjoying each other’s company in a non-pressured environment where they’re not surrounded by high profile cases and serial killers.
Eventually, though, Spencer starts to fall asleep on his chest, clearly feeling relaxed enough in the warm room, pressed up against his boyfriend and surrounded by the reassuring conversation of people he trusts. As soon as Derek notices, though, he knows it’s time to get him home and into bed before any true crisis of pain or fatigue takes place.
“I think we’ll need to get going, guys,” he says quietly, drawing everyone’s attention to Spencer’s dozing form. He watches as their faces soften and conversation quietens, everyone clearly enamoured with his boyfriend. It occurs to him that he feels no jealousy, only pride that he gets to call this wonderful man his, that he’ll be going home with him tonight, tucking him into bed and cuddling him until he falls asleep.
He shakes Spencer gently, and the others start to get up, tidying or just moving through to the kitchen so as not to embarrass him when he opens his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmurs sleepily, as he looks up at Derek. “I’m tired.”
“I know, baby,” he says softly, feeling so fond his heart could burst. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
Everyone’s sad to see him go, gathering at the front door to say their goodbyes.
“You are invited to every BAU event from hereon in,” Penelope asserts confidently as she leans down for a gentle hug. She whispers, “you’re better company than Derek, anyway.”
“I heard that, Mama,” he says, poking her in the side.
“You were meant to,” she says, sending him a pointed look, before dropping the act and wrapping him in a hug as the others say goodbye to Spencer.
“It was so nice to finally meet you, Spencer,” Hotch says warmly. “Derek had better not keep us from seeing anymore of you.”
“I’m not sure I could possibly get away with that anymore,” he sighs. “Guess I’ll have to share my baby with you assholes.”
Spencer rolls his eyes at that, stifling a yawn. “Come on, caveman,” he says, rolling his eyes again. “I need to get home.”
“Anything for you, my highness,” he chuckles, before lifting his chin with his knuckle and bending down to kiss him briefly.
“Bye, lovebirds,” Emily calls as they make their way to their car.
“Drive safely,” JJ shouts, which makes Derek laugh fondly. He does love his team.
“See you on Monday,” he calls back as he helps Spencer into the passenger seat. They drive home in the comforting darkness of night, illuminated by the car and street lights of the city, and satisfaction pools in his stomach as he reflects on such a perfect evening as Spencer falls asleep against the passenger window. It really couldn’t have gone any better, and the relief he feels is staggering: the two most important facets of his life finally integrated after far too long.
While his whole life feels like it’s finally falling into place, all that really matters is that the man who is his entire world is happy, a small smile on his sleeping face as the shadows of the city brush their way over his cheekbones. He has to force his eyes back to the road, but he can’t resist the hand he slips into Spencer’s, or the smile that lights up his face as even in his sleep, Spencer’s fingers curl themselves around his.
Spencer's symptoms in this fic could fit any number of neurological conditions, but his unnamed condition was modelled on my own experience with fibromyalgia. I have a rather severe case, as would Spencer if he was diagnosed with this illness. The symptoms could also fit these conditions in one way or another: Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (M.E.), Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis or Axial Spondyloarthritis, as well as others I'm sure I'm forgetting.
Everything about Spencer’s disability is true to the chronically ill/disabled experience as I know it, and to learn more please visit the end notes on AO3 where I explain in a little more detail some of the features of Spencer’s symptoms and condition.
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taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @hotchgans @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith
#my writing#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds writing#moreid#derek morgan/spencer reid#derek morgan x spencer reid#moreid fic#moreid fluff#moreid au#criminal minds au#disabled spencer reid
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