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forsakenoathkeeper · 3 years

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I Am Alive (chapter 6/?)

Deviant!Connor[RK800] x (fem!)Reader Rated M(18+) for canon-typical violence and gore, medical procedures, and graphic sexual content

Synopsis: You were a mechanical engineer, now a nurse for androids, who moved back to Detroit after the revolution to offer aid. After reconciling with an old friend, you became rather acquainted with his android partner.

Please support me on AO3 & thanks for reading ♥

The rain had finally started to die down when Connor pulled into the Thirium Clinic's parking lot. There were only a couple other cars present, likely your coworkers.

The android retrieved an umbrella from his trunk before trotting over to the entrance. Not wanting to make a mess by dripping water all over the place, he decided to wait outside, beneath the awning covering the front entrance.

"I'm right outside," he messaged you.

Not even a full minute later, a nurse came sprinting through the building, over to the front door. He could see her through the window, and lifted a brow at the sight. She smacked the door with her side, swinging it open, and hung half her body out the doorway.

"Are you Connor?" she asked, beaming with a wild grin.

"...yes," he replied, feeling strangely uneasy under her gaze.

The nurse stuck her head back inside and shouted, "I told you he was an android! You owe me twenty bucks!"

She turned back around to face Connor. "You can come inside - already a mess in here anyway," she said before immediately flinging herself back inside.

Connor hesitated for a moment before letting himself in; sure enough, the roof had leaked at the seam, which allowed water to come pouring in through a gap in the wall. There were puddles everywhere. The nurses for closing shift didn't seem the least bit perturbed by it.

"We've been dying to meet you," the nurse who had made a bet about him proclaimed.

Another nurse approached, a backpack slung over his shoulder. He fished his wallet out of his pocket and threw a folded twenty-dollar bill at the other nurse. It smacked her on the side of the head before fluttering to the ground.

She hastily snatched it off the floor and waved it in the air, laughing maniacally for a second. She shoved the crinkled bill in her pocket before turning her head to the android.

"Soooo, what do you do, Connor?" she asked sweetly.

"I'm a detective with the Detroit Police Department," Connor answered, his hand unconsciously lowering to straighten his tie. Considering it was sopping wet, it was a pointless effort.

"That puts a new meaning to 'blue blood', huh?" she teased, elbowing the other nurse.

"Sir, I want this woman arrested for shitty jokes," he said dryly. "It's physically hurting me."

"Tch. Shut up," she retorted, lacking any real spite. In fact, she was still smiling. "My jokes are amazing."

"They're criminal," he retorted, lip twitching.

You came around the corner, bag in tow, jacket zipped up over your scrubs, hair pulled back sloppily. Your eyes landed on Connor and-

-oh damn.

He had said he got caught in the rain; but, he wasn't just a little dampened, he was absolutely soaked, clothes clinging to his body. The best part was that Connor didn't seem the least bit perturbed by his state, standing there, completely unbothered by it.

"You're a little wet?" you chuckled as you walked up to him.

Connor's lip twitched into a nervous smile. "Sorry. I promise the car is dry - well, except for the driver's seat."

You looked up at Connor's freckled face like a lovestruck moron. A week and some odd days was way too long. He was more handsome than you remembered, gorgeous smile on his lips, brown eyes reflecting the shiny, obnoxious overhead lights. His LED was shining a magnificent blue.

"So, this is the one you've been keeping from us?" the female nurse teased as the party headed for the door. The male nurse took care of the light switches along the way.

"Everyone needs to be protected from you," the male nurse jutted in, loudly, to make sure she heard him.

"I haven't been keeping him from you," you laughed.

"You probably should," the female nurse teased. "He's way too cute."

You seemed embarrassed by that, a slight blush on your cheeks, trying to hold back soft laughter. You were forthcoming with how attracted you were to him in private; yet, Connor still felt pride bubble up inside him when that same attraction was presented in front of others.

Was that... normal?

"See you idiots tomorrow," you teased on the way out. The male nurse locked the door while the other stayed behind so they could walk to their car together.

Connor was prepared to open the umbrella, but realized the raining had stopped.

"Let's hurry before it picks back up," you said before starting a trot over to Connor's car.

As soon as you slid into the passenger, tossing your bag into the back, you realized it was still warm in the car.

"Did you...?" you uttered as Connor slid into the driver's seat. "-run the heater for me?"

"Yes," he replied plainly.

"Oh - thank you." You felt embarrassed knowing that he took the time to be mindful of things that, as an android, he was unaffected by.

Connor started the car and carefully peeled out of the parking lot.

"Your coworkers are very curious of me," Connor observed. You glanced over at him, perfect posture, hands on the wheel in the textbook locations they were supposed to be. You hadn't thought about it when he brought you to his apartment, but Connor drove a manual transmission. It made you wonder if he used his car for work more than he let on. Or maybe he just felt more comfortable like this?

"Yeah, they're just being dorks," you replied softly, tearing your eyes away from him.

"I hope they don't trouble you."

Connor left it unspoken; but, you knew what he was referring to.

"Oh - no, it's not - people are just like that. It has nothing to do with you being an android," you insisted. "You know - they're just being nosy."

"I understand. Officers at the precinct enjoy gossiping about each other's relationships," Connor said, some intrigue in his voice.

"Oh?" You hummed. "What kind of gossip goes on about you?"

"I don't believe they think I am capable of it," Connor explained.

Capable of dating? -of sex? His words brought a frown to your face, not that it was particularly surprising. You had wondered what kind of environment Connor worked in. Was he an equal part of the team or just another android? Somehow, you doubted it was the former. Hank was probably the only one who gave him any respect.

"It doesn't bother me," Connor added, sensing your frustration.

"Oh, I - I shouldn't butt into your job," you said.

"I don't see it as 'butting in'," Connor uttered. His eyes had been focused on the road; but, he let them shift to you for a second. "I like when you ask questions about me."

That made you smile. He said it as if it was something he wasn't quite used to experiencing. "Then, I have something I wanna ask - is there anything you've wanted to do? -something you were afraid to ask about? -or, just, didn't have the chance?"

Connor's LED shifted to yellow for a moment as he pondered your question.

"A concert," he blurted out. Not expecting that answer, you looked over at him, intrigued. He seemed really concentrated, taking your question very seriously.

"They seem overwhelming," he added on with some uncertainty. "But, I think it would be fun to experience something like that," he continued, sounding a bit more confident this time. His LED shifted back to blue.

"You know you said you wanted to treat me to something?" You asked. "Then, let's do a concert."

"Well, I - uhm - wanted it to be something that you wanted," he said, almost apologetically.

"I do," you said with a chuckle, shifting your eyes back to the road. "I haven't been to one since I was a kid. It'll be fun. -and, taking you to your first concert would be an honor."

"I'll do my best to make it enjoyable," he stated - no, promised.

"You don't have to-" you began, cutting yourself off when you realized he wasn't really going to listen. You grumbled quietly to yourself. When your eyes shifted to the android for a second, you caught him smiling.

Sometime later, the car slid into your driveway.

You remained seated, staring ahead like an idiot. Connor didn't say anything, either because he was polite, or because he didn't want to leave.

"Do you wanna come inside and dry off?" you blurted, turning to Connor.

He seemed surprised by your question, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"I - I mean-" you sputtered. Simultaneously, Connor answered, "yes."

You smacked your mouth shut, and Connor uttered, "I don't want to keep you up late?" not very convincingly.

"You wouldn't," you squeaked. "-and some towels to dry your car?"

"T-that would be nice," Connor stated, a little more confidently.

"Y-yea," you stammered before rotating around to slip out of the car. Connor shut it off while you fished your bag out of the backseat and scurried inside.

You tossed your bag onto the dining table - that was never actually used for dining - and made a dash for the master bathroom. After fishing out some towels, you returned to the entryway, where Connor had waited patiently.

"I might have something that fits you if you want a change of clothes?" you offered as you handed him the towels. "I could go look for - uhm..."

You could have smacked yourself being this way. You were dating, had sex, for fucks sake. This shouldn't be so damn hard.

"Thank you," Connor replied, caught off guard by the offer. "Are you s-?"

"It's no trouble," you interrupted him gently, giving him an encouraging nudge.

Connor returned to his car and you sprinted into your bedroom to rummage through your dressers. You definitely had some oversized lounge pants that would fit him. When you fished them out - light grey, strings missing - you tossed them onto the bed and kept digging.

Sure enough, you had a couple white T-shirts leftover from your days in uni. The course demanded white and you decided to buy men's because they were cheaper, and large was the only size they had left at the time. At least, they were going to come in handy again.

The android was waiting in your entryway again when you exited to look for him.

"Hope this is alright?" you offered, holding the clothes up.

He hardly glanced at them. "Anything would be adequate."

Anything? Well, geez, then wear nothing.

-you wanted to say.

"You can come inside," you laughed, gesturing to the hallway that led to your bedroom. Connor followed you through the living room to your bedroom and into the connected bathroom. You set the clothes on the countertop near the sink. When you turned around, Connor was already undressing.

It wasn't new, but-

-it still swarmed your tummy with butterflies.

To distract yourself, and so you wouldn't stare at him stupidly, you retreated to your bedroom to change out of your scrubs and into something more comfortable. Connor stepped out of the bathroom just in time to see you pull a shirt over your head and cover any exposed skin.

You turned to see him standing there, looking almost nervous, out of his element. Up until now, you had only seen Connor dressed prim and proper, or not dressed at all. He looked startlingly good in a plain white shirt and grey lounge pants, or maybe you just liked how domestic it was.

You were about to blurt out a question: to ask him if he was thirsty. When you remembered, he couldn't.

"Oh - uhm - I forgot something," you uttered, stepping towards him.

"What was it?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Do we need to go back to the-"

Connor silenced himself when he saw you leaning in, the look in your eyes ushering him closer. He met you halfway. It was brief, chaste, but enthusiastic. He closed his eyes, and let himself get swept away for a moment. It felt good, maybe better than it did last time because he was starving, something he didn't know he was capable of.

When you leaned back, you uttered against his mouth, "thank you for the ride."

Connor's LED flashed red as he contemplated leaning back in and claiming your mouth again. You were also standing between him and your bed. All it would take was a little nudge to get you falling onto the sheets.

No-

-that was-

-inappropriate.

His LED hummed to yellow and then back to blue as he calmed his processor.

"No need to thank me," he replied, almost robotically.

You turned away, saying over your shoulder, "gonna get a drink."

As Connor followed you into the kitchen, he looked around your house casually. It was simple, furnished lightly, hardly any decorations. Then again, you had just moved back here not too long ago.

In the kitchen, you poured some juice from a pitcher in the fridge, and sipped it. The android joined you in the kitchen and leaned against the counter, posture slouching, collar on the shirt wide enough that it exposed his collar bones.

"Not as fancy as your apartment," you commented, noticing he was looking around.

"I didn't realize it was," he replied, sincere. "Hank referred to it in that sense, as well."

You laughed quietly before chugging the rest of your drink. It was easy to see Hank saying something like that about Connor's apartment. He probably had a few other choice words that Connor decided not to mention.

"I bet you two had some crazy shenanigans when you first met," you said, beaming at Connor.

Connor chuckled warmly, looking down at the floor for a second. "The first night we met, I had - ugh - spilt Hank's drink and he threatened to attack me, and I informed him that I was 'worth a small fortune'."

"Oh?" you chuckled. "How much we talkin' here? I've got student loan debts," you teased, tapping your chin in faux consideration.

The corner of Connor's lip twitched. "Are you plotting to get rid of me for a profit?" he asked, voice lowering an octane. It was clear he was joking, but there was something a little dangerous to his tone.

"Maybe-" you laughed.

"Because that is very illegal," Connor explained. The laughter drained from your face and you stared at him, very much enjoying the change in tone in his voice. His eyes were the only indicator that he wasn't being serious. Something mischievous was in his gaze.

You saw his LED fade form blue to yellow as he continued, "as an officer of the law, I would have to arrest you for conspiring to comit a crime." His slight grin broke the tension in his voice.

"What if I said I was sorry?" you offered, stepping into his space. Connor looked down at you, crossed between predatory and innocent. Sometimes, it startled you how he managed to look like a seasoned detective and eager rookie at the same time.

He had a few inches on you. You loved how he had to crane his neck a little to catch your eyes.

"You can't bribe me," he uttered carefully.

You hummed, accepting the challenge that Connor had not realized he made. Your hands fell onto his chest, slowly falling down the material of the shirt, testing the waters. Connor let you, standing stiffly against the counter. He was staring at you fiercely.

What if-

Would he like it if-

Part of you was afraid he would be uncomfortable by the suggestion. Part of you wanted to take the risk.

The look in Connor's eyes changed drastically when you slowly sunk to the ground in front of him, like he suddenly had no idea what was going on.

"Ugh-" he stammered when your hands lowered to the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up and out of the way to dig your fingers into the hem of his sweatpants. He was already pitching a tent, you realized, as your face lowered to crotch level.

Oh-

-he definitely knew what was going on.

Connor gripped the edge of the counter for dear life. "I-I was just joking," he stammered out. "You don't have to-"

"I know," you replied, giving him a very real smile.

Connor visibly relaxed, his panicked eyes shifting between your eyes and your mouth. You saw his adam's apple bob, a gesture that he had no need for, being an android.

"Do you want me to stop?" you asked, hands stopped at his waist.

His LED flashed to red for a second before returning to its golden hue. "No," he replied lowly.

Connor looked incredibly nervous despite the fact that this wasn't your first sexual encounter together. He had given you amazing lip service last time, and you were dying to return the favor. You didn't exactly get the opportunity to appreciate his anatomy properly.

You slipped the hem of his lounge pants down until his cock bobbed free. He wasn't fully hard yet, which surprised you because you didn't know that was an option. You had anticipated it would behave like an on and off switch; however, it seemed that you had misjudged the intricacies of his anatomy.

You pressed a kiss to the tip and heard Connor sharply suck a breath in through his nose.

"You okay?" you uttered, your lips still close, knowing full well he would feel your breath against his skin.

His LED flickered to red again for a brief second before back to yellow. You were tantalized by the thought of what exactly it was you were doing to him: what buttons were you pushing, what types of thoughts rushed through his mind.

His brown eyes were hypnotizing, more beautiful than anything you had ever seen before and expressive to a fault. They constantly changed between raw hunger and innocent passion.

"Yes," Connor eventually answered.

You ducked your head down to kiss at the base and slowly trailed back to the tip, taking your sweet ass time to mask the fact that you were admiring him.

You wrapped your dominant hand around him, reveling in the feel of his skin. It was smooth, velvety, dragged along the artificial organ beneath. It was easy, very easy, to forget that his cock wasn't real. It was indistinguishable from any human's.

He had freckles on his thighs, like sprinklings of spilt coffee, and freckles in the dip where his thigh met his torso. His pubes were neatly assembled around his base and trailed up to end beneath his belly button, soft but still wiry like real hair.

-somebody took the time to make him look this, you realized.

You had to force that thought away. This wasn't about that, this was about him.

You pushed those thoughts away by sucking the tip into your mouth and sinking halfway down, forcing a strangled grunt from the android. You felt him harden fully, stiffening in your mouth. It startled you a little. You shifted back to the tip, lapped your tongue at the underside, and sunk back down. Connor moaned, a staticky, broken sound.

Oh. You had missed those noises: his voice box going on the frits as his processor was too busy focusing on the feelings in his sex to simultaneously deliver proper audio output.

Eager, spurred on by his beautiful noises, you took in as much as you could and near choked, sputtering and coughing when you went too deep.

Connor's hand landed on your shoulder and he huffed out a weak, "a-are you okay?"

You hummed around his member - the vibration briefly putting him on edge - and slid back. Keeping your hand around the spot that you recognized as your limit, you bobbed your head back down, till your lips met your palm. You stroked what your mouth couldn't fit.

Connor's hand maneuvered off your shoulder to the back of your head, where he caressed you with the type of loose touch that suggested he was afraid to grab you too hard. He stared like he was possessed, awestruck at the sight of his cock disappearing past your lips, overwhelmed by the simple fact that you wanted to do this to him.

He wasn't sure why-

You had engaged in intercourse-

-but this-

-this was different.

Connor was released into the world with a different understanding of humans compared to most androids. While he was given instructions on who to obey and when, he wasn't exactly made to serve humans, at least not traditionally as most androids were.

That translated to having a knowledge for social issues that most androids did not.

As such, he knew full well that there was a power dynamic in this action, one that could be perceived as degrading. You were on your knees, servicing his phallus with your mouth-

-surrendering of power.

-giving of trust.

But, when he took in the sight of you, cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen from the friction, eyes closed peacefully and brow lowered in concentration - you seemed pleased at the opportunity to do this to him. Maybe Connor understood; after all, he had dived face first into your sex the second it was presented to him.

Lost in his thoughts - trying not to be lost in his thoughts - trying not to overanalyze, or analyze at all - Connor failed to realize he had been puffing out little noises through his mouth each time his cock slid back into your mouth. It was a faint sound that resembled an inhale.

You heard it, and you loved it - you loved that you could do that to him: this powerful android.

His fingers were tangled loosely in your hair, barely holding on, mostly as a gesture of praise than to maintain control. You did, however, notice the faint way his hips shifted forward slightly, urging you to continue when you sunk back down. You cupped your free hand over his hip and uselessly attempted to hold him down. He seemed to notice, eventually, and suddenly halted his movements.

In your enthusiasm, you managed to drool all over him. Excess saliva coated your palm, which aided in jerking him off. Your hand trailed behind your mouth when you slid back and forth, creating a symphony of lewd, wet noises. You paused to suction tightly around him and carefully draw back to the tip. Connor hissed out a loud, staticky, "aahhhh."

He was trying to watch you; but, as his orgasm approached, his optic sensor began to fail him. He could feel the tension rising in his core, his thirium pump overexerting to keep up with the demand on his processor. His sensor's focus was shifting to his cock, the feeling of the countertop digging into his back starting to go numb.

Connor's fingers suddenly tightened against the back of your head, the pads of his fingers gently digging into your skull. He seemed like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pull you off or push you down.

"W-wa - s-stop," he panted. "-m close-"

You pulled off with an obscene, wet sound, giving him just the slightest break, enough to refocus his eyes. Your hand lowered for a second to cup his sack. Of course, that felt as real as it looked. You squeezed gently and saw his jaw tighten.

"Why do you want me to stop?" you uttered, voice a little hoarse. You almost didn't recognize yourself, sounding so sinful.

"I want to..." he responded lowly, trailing off as you started stroking him again, tugging gently at his shaft. Connor didn't know what the correct answer was. He wanted to touch and please you, too; but, he wasn't being entirely selfless. He wanted to take you again.

"What's your refractory period?" you uttered, sounding quite debauched, lips wet and jaw tired.

Connor gawked at you for a moment, and you ate up that delicious expression. He looked fucked out of his mind, gaze hazy and cheeks red.

"4.27 seconds," he answered lowly.

You almost laughed. He definitely searched his manual for the answer to that.

"Then, come for me," you encouraged, immediately drawing him back into your mouth. It startled a moan out of him.

You were more enthusiastic this time, drawing in as much as you could and sliding back tightly, mouth hot and dripping wet with saliva. The sensation started to claw its way through him again.

He didn't have to obey humans anymore. He broke down every wall that his programming had built up around his free will. However, your gentle command, breathed like a plea on his skin, spurred him on. He doubted he could stop even if he wanted to.

Connor let go of your head and let his hand slide down your back, settling at the top of your spine. He hunched over, thighs trembling and groaning, something like the thrum of an engine rumbling in his chest, mingled with the voice of his audio output unit and the mechanical pieces in his chassis. He moaned hoarsely, a sound that wasn't quite human. His hips shifted, bucking gently into your mouth, as he chased the sensation.

It shouldn't have-

-but fuck if it didn't make your clit throb painfully.

You slid back to the tip so you could look up and catch the sight of him doubled over in pleasure. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched, LED shining magnificent crimson. There was a faint red tint to his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Fuck, he looked beautiful - and you, you did that.

You fluttered your eyes shut and continued working him over through his orgasm, until he relaxed against the counter, straightening his posture. His hand maneuvered around to cup your jaw and gently pull you off of him. He was huffing in air to cool his systems, eyes taking in your face with adoration.

"You okay?" you asked lowly, ignoring the ache in your jaw and the numbness in your mouth from the friction.

"Y-yeah," he breathed.

He reached for you with his other hand, bending over slightly to help you rise off your knees. As soon as you were standing, his arms wrapped around your back and tugged you in. He claimed your mouth hungrily. You reciprocated as best you could, feeling less like you were being kissed and more like you were being devoured, not that you minded.

Your hands gripped his shoulders for dear life while one of his hands maneuvered to the back of your neck, holding gently to keep you where he wanted you. He liked how puffy your lips felt, tasting you with the knowledge that you were just tasting him - that this sinful mouth brought him to completion - that you wanted to do that to him.

Rutting against each other in the kitchen, you realized he was still hard as steel between you. Either taking consideration for the question you had asked him... or, maybe, he decided that he just wasn't done with you yet.

Connor pulled back when you started huffing pathetic breaths of air through your nose. You gasped when your mouth was finally free.

"Sorry - sorry," he stammered out.

You huffed a short, breathless laugh. Sorry for wanting you so bad... the nerve.

Connor ducked his head down into your neck and lapped his tongue against your throat. You hummed at the sensation, letting your head fall back, easing into the touch.

"Please?" he pleaded into your neck. One of his hands was teasing the hem of your pajama bottoms, right at the base of your spine.

"Mhmm," you hummed pathetically.

The android's hand dipped down, past the hem of your panties and in between your thighs. His longest digit dipped between your folds. You were already dripping wet and slippery with arousal. His finger glided through your folds and found your entrance effortlessly, slipping in with ease.

"Oh," Connor breathed against your throat, surprised by how soaked you were. His breath was hot like the exhaust out of an engine and nearly burned your skin.

You were so, so warm on the inside, walls squishy and compliant to his intrusion. He almost couldn't believe that you had gotten this excited over sucking him off.

He crooked his finger and you cried out, "fuck!" breathless and desperate, clinging to him like you were afraid you were going to fall. He continued that gesture, stretching you tenderly. At this angle, he couldn't reach your clit. But, that was fine; right now, you just wanted him inside you.

"Okay - okay - that's enough," you urged, pushing at him until he let go. "Bed - bed - please."

You had intended for Connor to turn around and walk and you would follow behind him; you didn't expect the android to scoop you up and carry you effortlessly through the house.

"Wait - wait," you pleaded before he could set you on the bed. Connor complied and carefully set you down on your feet, looking at you with nervous eyes, as if he had made a mistake.

You gave him a soft smile and then a gentle push and then another, until he got the message and sat down at the edge of the bed. His palms fell into the sheets and he leaned back slightly, staring at you with bright, brown eyes and LED a vibrant gold hue.

You admired him as you slid your bottoms and underwear off, very much enjoying how he looked, seated at the edge of your bed, cock hanging out, hungry look in his eyes.

He was oozing lubrication from the tip in preparation for what was to follow. His eyes didn't leave yours when he reached down to smear it down his shaft. He didn't intend to make a show of it; but, you looked down and stared just a little longer than necessary.

When you approached, he stopped, and let that hand fall back into the sheets. You took hold of his shoulders and carefully climbed onto his lap, thighs on either side of his.

"Oh," Connor sighed, suddenly understanding why you had nudged him onto the bed.

You smiled, feeling like a seductress. Your forehead fell against his and a sigh slipped free when you felt that velvety tip brush against your folds. You shifted your hips and lowered, slowly impaling yourself on his length.

Connor's head fell back and he hummed, groaning low in his throat. The faint distortion in his sound lit a fire in your belly. His hands lifted to brush your thighs, sliding up to settle at your hips. He touched carefully, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to. The look he was giving you was tantalizing: hunger and adoration.

You gripped his shoulders for balance and slid up until his cock was only halfway inside you before rolling your hips back down. You moaned, fanning hot air over his cheeks. Again, he managed to leave you awestruck.

"Ohh, Connor," you breathed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to bring him in closer.

The android nuzzled his face into your neck, resisting the urge to thrust up into you. Your mouth was warm; but, your sex was burning hot, muscles fluttering around him.

Connor peppered kisses along your jaw, artificial breath heavy on your skin, expelling the heat generated from his processor. You could feel the texture change in his hands when his skin faded away to expose the android flesh beneath. It didn't bother you if he gained pleasure in analyzing you. It must have, for Connor groaned into the skin of your neck.

His hands lifted suddenly, curling beneath the hem of your shirt. You removed your arms from him briefly so he could pull the fabric through and toss it somewhere in the room to be forgotten. Connor's shirt followed soon after.

Your bodies clung together again, chest to chest. This time, Connor's mouth sought out yours. The kiss wasn't particularly wet; but, it was noisy, sloppy, fleshy sounds echoing between you. His hands continued to smooth up and down your back, the rough texture of his android skin leaving goosebumps.

"Is it uncomfortable?" he uttered, some insecurity in this tone. He was so close, his lips brushed yours when he spoke.

"Not at all," you panted against his mouth.

You nudged against him until he complied and leaned back, flat on the bed. You braced your hands on his chassis, palms flat on his chest. Connor stared up at you like he had no idea where he was. His hands continued tracing an invisible trail along your waist and thighs, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You rolled your hips, riding him a little more enthusiastically. "Oohh fuck," you uttered, low in your throat, breathlessly. Connor stared, awestruck at the sight of you above him, shifting your hips to take him in deeper, hands pressing down on him. The pleasured look on your face, eyes closed and mouth open, while you took and took was enough to drive him insane.

He was trying to be still, in case this was how you wanted him to be. But, he could sense your frustration, hear it in your voice, feel it in the way your hips shuddered, trying to grind down harder, to get him deeper.

"Please," you whimpered pathetically, eyes fluttering open to look down at him: freckles splattered down his body, muscles tight as the tension rose in his body, pleasure etched across his face.

Connor experimentally lifted his hips to meet yours. Your eyes fell shut and you moaned loudly. Well, he didn't have to be told twice.

After a few thrusts, your hands slipped and you fell on him, chest to chest. Your hands fell onto the sheets and you briefly attempted to sit back up; however, Connor kept the momentum going. Immediately, you gave up and went limp above him, letting him drive into you at the speed he wanted.

You lifted up onto your elbows to kiss him. You missed and pressed a sloppy wet kiss against his cheek. Thinking it was intentional, Connor kissed back against your cheek. You would have laughed if not for the fact that he was churning up your insides.

Your head fell into his hair where you uttered lewd encouragements . "Please - please - mm'close. Con - nor - fuck me - aghh. Don't - stop." He turned his head, lips falling against the shell of your ear. Likely, he intended to say something; however, all that came out was static. Of all things, it was that that pushed you over the edge. You panted and wheezed above him, shuddering violently. Connor could feel it in the thundering of your heartbeat and the way your walls tightened around him.

Connor's head tilted back, pressed down into the sheets, and his eyes pinched shut. His LED was a magnificent shade of crimson.

When he finally stilled, his hands were still holding your waist.

"Connor?" you breathed, finding the strength to lean up and look at him.

His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.

"Connor?" you asked again, some panic rising in your voice. He turned his head with a small twitch, eyes blinking in tune with his LED. The color softened to blue. "Did you soft reboot?" you asked, concern heavy in your tone.

"N-no," the android replied quietly. "Was just..." he trailed off. "Really good."

You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. "You worried me."

Slowly, carefully, you lifted off of him. The skin on Connor's hands returned, holding you to try to help. Your legs were sore; but, it was worth the hunger satiated in your core.

"What was it you were trying to say earlier?" you asked softly, taking a seat beside him to catch your breath.

Connor was watching you carefully, likely to make sure you were okay. His brow furrowed slightly at your question and he shifted his eyes nervously away from you.

"I wanted to... to say something that you would like," he offered.

"You mean, dirty talk?" you replied softly, voice dripping with interest.

"Yes," he confessed quietly.

"You did that last time, too," you commented, rising to your feet. Connor watched you curiously, waiting for an explanation. "You said there were things you wanted to do me, and when I asked what those were, you didn't answer."

"I'm... afraid I will say something you won't like," he confessed quietly.

"Connor," you said his name breathlessly. "I doubt there's anything you would say that I wouldn't like. Do you wanna run one by me?"

Connor was leaning up, seated at the edge of the bed. You stepped in close to him and caressed his cheek with your hand. Connor leaned into the touch. You loved the way his skin felt, like he had just shaved yesterday morning, even though that was impossible.

His eyes flickered up to yours, uncertainty in them.

"That... you're mine," he uttered quietly, so quietly that you almost didn't hear him. "It feels wrong."

"It can be," you said, honest, sincere. "But, I don't think you mean it that way. You don't ever try to control me or tell me what to do. You're protective and sometimes that can feel possessive and that isn't always a bad thing. You always know what's right and what's wrong, Connor."

"I don't think I always know what's right," he retorted gently. "I don't want to control you." He sounded almost pained by the mere thought of it. "But, sometimes, I feel like..."

"It's new and can be a little scary; but, I trust you, no matter what..."

Connor pressed a kiss against your palm before gently removing your hand from his face. "I don't want to hurt you..."

You rolled your eyes gently, fondly. "You said that last time, too." He was still holding your hand; so, you gently squeezed back. "You care so much about what I want," you breathed. "I know that you would stop if I asked you to. I want you to feel comfortable with me - that you can be yourself..."

Connor's eyes shot up to your face. "I do," he proclaimed, sounding almost insulted at the suggestion. "I just - I-... I don't want to lose control."

You returned beside him on the bed.

"-of myself," he added on.

"Connor," you began fiercely. He seemed a bit surprised by your tone change. "We all feel that way sometimes: afraid we'll lose ourselves. I'm not telling you to not be afraid, just that-... -that-... -that you aren't alone."

His LED shined yellow for a moment, eyes focused on yours as he pondered over your words. His LED shifted back to blue and his shoulders relaxed. The android leaned in and nuzzled his nose against your cheek. You smiled at the intrusion.

"Connor?" you whispered, questioning, hopeful.

"Thank you," he murmured against your skin.

“Are you okay?” you asked, leaning back to look into his eyes.

“I feel better,” he uttered.

You nodded, maintaining his gaze for a few seconds longer, hoping that he would tell you if something was wrong. He seemed more relaxed now, brown eyes warm and inviting. To further prove his point, Connor stole a quick kiss from your lips, then another, and one last one.

You pulled back with a smile and rose to your feet. "I better get to bed... You-... you can-... -whatever you'd like." You wanted to ask him to stay, but wanted him to make that decision without your interference.

"I'd like to stay?" he asked sincerely. “I’ll have to leave before you get up...”

You nodded with a smile and retreated into the bathroom to clean up and brush your teeth. When you returned, Connor was already tucked into the sheets, like he belonged there. You turned the lights off before joining him.

"Do you have a band you want to see?" you uttered tiredly into your pillow.

"Not in particular," he answered quietly, shuffling in close to nuzzle up against your back. His bare legs tangled with yours, having ditched the lounge pants. You smiled against your pillow, thinking that maybe there was no point in suggesting clothes since you had a track record of ending up this way.

"My favorite band is Starset if you want to try them out?" you offered, pausing halfway to yawn.

Connor nodded into the flesh of your shoulder. He waited patiently until your breathing pattern shifted, telling him that you were asleep.

He searched the internet for that band and immediately recognized one of the members as an android. He wondered if it was a coincidence that you enjoyed music made by an android. Or, maybe, all things considered, that made perfect sense.

The first song that came up was titled 'Starlight'. He listened to it in its entirety and found the lyrics left a strange hole in his chest.

♪ ♫ “So say the word and I'll be running back to find you...

A thousand armies won't stop me - I'll break through...

I'll soar the endless skies for only one sight...

Of your starlight...” ♫ ♪

#connor x reader #deviant connor #deviant connor x reader #dbh fanfic #rk800 x reader #rk800 smut #connor smut

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chipper9906 · 3 years

Text

Bound To You - Chapter 12: Last Dream

< - - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 15

NOTE: Pairings and Ratings Will Change As Story Is Updated

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 9,332

Overall Word Count: 94,075

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (12/?)

Chapter Preview:

“I just… I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get what?”

“That you’re not angry!” Dean throws his hands in the air, his voice rising in volume as his frustration takes over. “You should be furious, Cas! Furious that Chuck made you for the sole purpose of being his good little slave! Furious that, once you decided you didn’t want to be part of that, he was so willing to throw you away! And now, after everything… this is how it ends?”

“What use is there in being angry?” Castiel’s voice is calm and soothing, a complete opposite to the rage brewing in Dean’s. “I could spend the last few hours of my life angry. I could rage on and on, shout to a God that no longer exists about how unfair it is. Or, I could spend my last few hours by your side. I could cherish the moments I get to feel your hand in mine, your heartbeat under my ear, all the things I never thought I’d get to have.”

Link To Fic

Click Below To Keep Reading

Character Key For Telepathic Conversations

'Italic Text' - Castiel

'Bold Text' - Dean

* * *

The air felt stale when they left the Mill’s house. Sam would tell you that Dean’s little stunt of surprising Jody and the girls with his new condition was a jerk move to make, but in reality, it was the exact move he should have made. Because that’s what Dean would have done. Made a joke of things, try and make everything seem light-hearted.

They hadn’t even stayed for dinner. Not that Jody hadn’t offered – she had nearly forced them to sit down at the dinner table by gunpoint. There was something about Dean’s slumped, distant posture that eventually had Jody backing off. Dean had insisted that he wasn’t hungry and had ‘lost his appetite’, which was a cause of concern in itself when it came to Dean, but after what had just happened… Sam would be lying if he said he felt in the mood for sitting around the table for a family dinner, too.

The goodbyes were short, made up of sympathetic pats to their backs and squeezes of their arms. Claire seemed to hold onto Dean for just a little bit longer, holding each other’s gaze for a moment more than usual. Sam tried to pretend he didn’t feel the squeeze around his heart when he saw those blue eyes flash for just a moment as Claire held onto him.

It felt like Cas was saying goodbye for the last time.

At least he had a chance to do so this time, Sam supposed.

“Sam?” Eileen pulls his attention away from Jody squeezing Dean’s hand with a sad smile. Eileen tucks her hand into his, her thumb brushing against his wrist. “Are you… okay?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits to her. “I want to believe that we have the answer. That Cas is going to be okay, and all we need to do is follow the spell.”

Eileen’s face twists in pity. “But you don’t?”

“It’s hard to when it comes to something this unknown…” Sam stops in his sentence as Dean finishes up his goodbyes, quickly planting a smile on his face when Dean turns to face them. “Hey, do you wanna stop by a diner on the way home or-,”

Sam trails off as Dean just wheels right by him, not even glancing up at the two as he passes by. Sam looks back to Jody over his shoulder as Dean goes, who could only give him one last sorrowful look and a wave before she’s closing the door.

“Right…” Sam mumbles to Eileen, looking to Dean as he continues towards the Impala. “This is going to be a fun car ride home…”

At least, that’s what he thought.

Instead, Dean was quiet. Not a peep in the first two hours of the car ride, just staring out of the window with his eyes unfocused. There was every chance he was talking to Cas in his head, which would make the whole blank look on his face much less disconcerting, but… he gets the feeling that Dean doesn’t want to be interrupted from his thoughts right now, whether he’s talking to Cas or not.

An hour later, Sam glances at him through the rearview mirror. Instead of that empty look on his face, Sam has to keep back a bark of laughter at the sight of his brother’s face planted against the window, mouth open and drooling over himself. Sam taps at Eileen, gesturing towards Dean with a jerk of his head when she turns to see what he wants.

Eileen twists herself around to get a glimpse of Dean, her face breaking out into a grin at the sight of him. “Not the prettiest of sleepers…”

“Probably why he sleeps on his front so much,” Sam jokes. The amused smile quickly drops off his face however, the concern for his brother that he was trying to ignore pushing to the front. “Do you think… with how much he’s sleeping, maybe it’s like… I don’t know, maybe an escape for him?”

“You mean like he’s running away?”

“Yeah. Not that I blame him, but… sleeping has never really been a peaceful thing for either of us, you know? Sometimes I can hear him shouting from across the hall on particularly bad nights. All the bad stuff that’s happened to us, memories of Hell… it’s a weird way to escape.”

“Look at it this way: Dean’s already been through Hell. He knows what happened, he knows what to expect in those dreams. What’s happening here is something he doesn’t know the ending of. In the real world, he might be about to lose Cas. Maybe facing those memories is better than facing reality. One type of Hell that’s more bearable than the other…”

* * *

There’s a door.

It’s a door Castiel has been stood in front of many times. The dreary grey concrete walls seem to focus his vision in towards the warm, soft colors of the door’s wooden material. Castiel’s hand wraps around the door handle, stepping forward to push it open. The door doesn’t budge under his grip, keeping him locked out from the room’s interior.

“Dean?” Castiel calls out to him softly, hand still wrapped around the door’s handle. He waits for a response he doesn’t get. “Dean, I know you’re in there. Can we talk?”

The handle shifts under his hand. A subtle click in its mechanisms underneath the cold metal. When Castiel pushes the door this time, it swings open easily. He takes a cautious step into Dean’s room, waiting for Dean to move from his position on the bed; laid out flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped just under his chest.

It wasn’t until Castiel realized that Dean wasn’t laying in his usual spot on the bed that he moved closer. Dean wasn’t sat in the middle of his bed like he usually was, typically taking advantage of every inch of memory-foam that was available to him. This time, he had shifted over to the left side of the bed, leaving ample room next to him.

Enough room for another person.

Castiel takes a seat on the edge of the bed, letting out a tired sigh when Dean remains silent next to him. His eyes were still firmly fixed on the ceiling, only barely able to see the worried look Castiel was throwing over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye.

“Can’t say I was expecting the bunker this time around,” Castiel breaks the dreadful silence they were in, speaking towards the wall in front of him. “Why the bunker?”

Dean finally reacts, letting his eyes fall closed. “I wanted something normal for us. By our standards, anyway. Not a beach we’ll never get to visit, or some fake bar that only exists in my head. Just… me and you, in the bunker. At home. Something that feels… real.”

Castiel nods, twisting his body around to face Dean. “Why now? That didn’t stop you before?”

“You know why,” Dean mutters darkly. “In a few hours, we’ll be back home. Sam will start getting the ingredients together, and we’ll perform the spell. In a few hours… you might be gone. This could be my last dream with you. Not a memory of you, but the actual you. I… I wanted my last few hours with the real you to feel real.”

“I don’t think it matters where we are, Dean. Your dream could take place on the Moon, and it would be all the same; so long as you’re with me.”

The seconds tick by without a reply from Dean. Castiel makes up his mind, bending down to pull the laces of his shoes out of their neat loops, pulling his feet out from his shoes and lining them up neatly next to each other by the bed. He swings his legs up onto the bed, laying down lowering his head on the pillow next to Dean.

Dean’s breath hitches as feels Cas turn towards him. Cas had his fingers scrunched into the soft material of Dean’s shirt, his hand heavy atop Dean’s chest. It does at least get Dean to open his eyes again, greeted to the sight of Cas tucked into his side. Dean feels his hand lifting up before he can think about it, settling on top of Cas’s hand.

“Are you going to tell me why you tried to lock me out?” Castiel’s voice rumbled through the bed.

“Wasn’t my decision. At least, I didn’t choose to.”

“You did,” Castiel insists. “But perhaps it was a subconscious desire to keep me away.”

“Why d’ya think that?”

“You’re trying to push me away,” Castiel says it like a statement of fact, not a guess. “You’re trying to distance yourself, so it won’t hurt as much when I die.”

“Don’t-,” Dean snaps, the heat in his voice dropping away as quickly as it had come. “Don’t say it like that…”

Castiel frowned at that, the confusion clear on his face. “I thought that was the whole reason you were doing this… that you’ve accepted my fate?”

“It’s not fate,” Dean’s voice has a dangerous edge to it. “This isn’t some pre-destined crap. It’s life screwing us over once again, and I won’t-,”

“You won’t what?”

“Look, maybe the spell will go perfectly, okay? Maybe we’ll get our miracle, and you’ll be back. But… I think we both know that that’s just a pipe dream at this point. Rowena wouldn’t bring it up unless she thought it was a problem, and clearly… she doesn’t have much hope for this either.”

“It could work, yes.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I don’t know for sure, Dean. We’ve gone over this already.”

Dean nodded his head, turning his gaze back towards the bland ceiling above. “I’ve been doing some thinking, Cas. It’s something that’s been on my mind for a while, and after Rowena… I’ve made up my mind.”

Castiel didn’t like the sound of that. Underneath his hand, he could feel Dean’s heart pounding in his chest. “Dean… what are you talking about?”

“I know I made you a promise, Cas. But I’m going to have to take back that promise.”

“What?”

“When the time comes… when the spell starts to fail, and you’re left with the last of your grace… I want you to kill me.”

Castiel must have heard incorrectly. Yes, that was the only explanation for what he had just heard. Because there was no way Dean had just asked him that.

“This better be some joke I don’t understand, Dean Winchester,” Cas pushed himself up until he was sitting, panicked eyes settling on Dean’s – unfortunately - completely serious face.

“Not a joke,” Dean says quietly. “I don’t care what way you do it; burn me out from the inside, slit my throat and use the last of your grace to heal my body, whatever.”

“How could you ask me that?” Castiel blanches, feeling his voice catch in his throat.

“Because you deserve better, Cas,” Dean pushes himself up to face Cas, both of their expressions beginning to shift to matching frustration at the other. “This way, you get another chance at life, okay? I don’t want to have to live with the reminder that you’re stuck in the Empty, because of me. You can take over my body and… and live.”

“Live?” Castiel splutters. “I will not be living, Dean. I will be stuck, staring at your face in the mirror every day, knowing that I took you away. That you are dead by my hands.”

“I won’t be living either, Cas!” Dean argued back. “When I die… if I’m lucky, my soul goes up instead of down. And hey, maybe it’ll be a fun mariachi party with Rowena if I go downstairs, either way, you can bet your ass that they’d be better than having to live with the reminder that I lost you! That I finally got to know what it’s like to truly have you as my own, then have you taken away! Stuck in that awful freakin’ place for eternity-,”

“Dean, no matter what road we take, I’ll always end up in the Empty,” Castiel interrupted Dean. “Even if we do get me back into my own body, even when my grace runs out, I won’t be truly human. I won’t have a soul. I’ll age, I’ll die… and I’ll be taken to the Empty. We may be only prolonging my fate, but… I still want to experience life – with you. Without you, it… it all falls apart.”

“Cas… I can’t do this again…”

“Yes, you can,” Castiel assured him. “If this spell doesn’t work, then… that’s just how it goes. Sam and Eileen will still be here, Dean. You’ll all still have each other. No matter what happens, I’m just grateful that we got to spend the time together that we did – even if most of it was in your head. I never thought we’d ever get to have this, Dean, so the fact that you’ve given me the one thing I always wanted? I’d consider my life fulfilled.”

“You shouldn’t be content with just that, Cas,” Dean argued. “I just… I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get what?”

And that’s why, Dean thinks. That’s the reason he’s as angry as he is on Cas’s behalf. He’s not just angry at God, at the universe, of whatever it is that’s decided that Cas doesn’t get to live. He’s angry because all those things Cas wants to cherish in his last few hours are things Cas should have been able to experience years ago. They’re things that Cas thought he wasn’t allowed to have, things that he thought Dean would never want to share with him.

He’s blaming himself. And he knows that something that Cas wouldn’t want him doing, but he can’t help it. Because it’s not just Cas that loses his life, but Dean, too. Maybe not in the traditional way. Maybe his heart will continue beating in his chest, his soul will still shine in his body, but a part of him will go with Cas. The part of him that found a new type of joy in life.

“You shouldn’t have fallen in love with a coward, Cas,” Dean whispers to him, the fight draining out of him at Castiel’s affectionate gaze.

“I didn’t,” Castiel refutes, the tender touch of his hand on Dean’s face enough for the last of Dean’s defense’s to crumble away. “I fell in love with a man who was raised with an aged idea of what it’s like to be a man. I fell in love with a man who’s willing to throw away any sense of comfort, of happiness for himself, if it means his little brother gets to experience them. I fell in love with a man who taught me what it’s like to truly be part of a family, who loved me even in the times I didn’t deserve it. It’s not just in the way you’ve devoted your life to saving innocents that makes you one of the bravest men I know. It’s that, despite all that’s happened to you, you still care. Even despite the way you were taught to believe you should be, you found a way to accept a love you didn’t know you could feel. You, Dean Winchester, are the furthest thing from a coward.”

Despite this, Dean Winchester still considers himself to be a coward. Because, instead of responding to Castiel’s earnest words with ones he himself deserves to hear, he falls back on a move his done many times before – whenever the girl’s he picked up from the bar start talking about going for breakfast the next morning, or whether she can have his number. Instead of telling Cas what he deserves to hear, he closes the small distance between their lips, ignoring that nagging nuisance in the back of his head telling him to savor the taste of Castiel’s lips in case it’s the last time he gets to.

He takes out his frustration against Castiel’s mouth. Instead of using his lips to talk, he all but attacks Cas’s, pushing forward into the angel’s space until his back is forced down into the bed. The sudden drop and subsequent impact have Castiel’s teeth catching at Dean’s lip, piercing the soft flesh without meaning to. The stinging pain is a good distraction, the intensity of it stirring Dean on to push harder, to chase the pain that comes from it.

It’s almost like a battle. Castiel fights back in his own way, pushing himself up against Dean just as much as Dean is forcing him down. He manages to push himself up onto his elbows, his chest pressed against Dean as Dean’s hands snake up his back, the feeling of his fingers brushing against the back of his neck making Cas gasp into his mouth. His lungs are telling him he needs air, but all the rest of his body wants to do is to breathe in more of Dean; to take in the smell of gunpowder ingrained into his skin after years of wielding firearms, of the cheap multi-pack of soap from the local grocery store and the fancy conditioner he secretly steals from Sam on occasion because he likes the way it makes his hair all soft.

Castiel lets his fingers tangle into those soft strands of hair, the sharp tug and burst of pain across Dean’s scalp getting him to growl against Castiel’s mouth, giving Cas more access as his tongue swipes across the freshly open wound that was gouged into Dean’s lip. The taste of metal bursts across his tongue, that sharp coppery flavor he’s so used to tasting from his own blood mixed with an unexpected saltiness – one he realizes with a jolt and a caving feeling in his stomach is of Dean’s tears slipping down to his lips.

“Dean-,” Castiel tries to stop him, but it’s made abundantly clear by the way Dean quickly swoops back in and reclaims his lips that he doesn’t want to hear it.

Castiel gets an arm between them, pushing against Dean’s chest in an attempt to make space. It’s enough to get Dean’s lips to pause, to stutter to a stop, which is all Cas needs to pull away. “Dean, stop.”

Dean listens. His lips are parted, hovering only a mere few inches from Cas’s as his breath fans across Cas, panting in his exertion. His eyes are firmly shut, managing to escape Castiel’s disturbed gaze – though not enough to stop his tears from spilling over, mixing with the thin trail of blood that ran down his chin.

“You’re hurt,” Castiel raises a hand to wipe away the blood from Dean’s chin, only to have his hand gently caught in mid-air by Dean’s.

“I know,” Dean rumbles in response, placing a kiss on Castiel’s fingers, leaving behind a smear of red across tan skin. “It’s okay. I need it right about now. The pain makes this feel more…more….”

More real.

Castiel’s brow furrows at the pain that flashes across Dean’s scrunched face, letting his hand rest on the side of Dean's face, wanting to just brush the pain away. “We can’t do this like this, Dean. It wouldn’t… we wouldn’t truly be ourselves.”

Castiel is looking at him in that way again. That way that says he already knows all the little things inside Dean's head, all the things he thinks before he even thinks them.

“You're throwing yourself at me as a means to escape. A physical sensation that will help you run away from the problem at hand. That’s not what I want us to be, Dean. I can’t be… a distraction for you.”

“That’s not what you are,” Dean says, ragged and harsh. “You’re not a distraction for me. You're… fuck, you’re my destination, Cas. And you know I don’t like saying girly shit like that, but… I'm trying with everything I got, to get to you. All this effort, everything we've done… its led to this. To the future I sometimes think about, with you, and I… I feel like I’m losing my mind, Cas. Because after everything… I might lose my best friend. I might lose my future, and its-,”

Dean drops back down onto the bed, burrowing the heels of his palm into his closed eyes, pressing down until the burn of his tears is replaced by the immense pressure, his blurry vision replaced with the swirling and popping splotches of color in the dark of his closed eyelids.

“Unfair?” Castiel offers the word to finish Dean's rant. It’s enough for Dean to bark out a dry laugh.

“Understatement of the century there, Cas, but sure.”

“I would perhaps argue it’s the understatement of the millennia,” Castiel says, his oddly light and joking tone enough for Dean to peer up at him underneath his hands. “Though, I may be biased; it is me that’s dying, after all.”

Dean laughs, then contradicts himself by telling Cas, “That's not funny.”

“Well, I thought it was funny,” Cas drops into the bed next to him, turning his head to face Dean and gifting him with one of those gummy smiles he so rarely sees from Cas. “And I got most of my sense of humor from you, so… I know you found it funny.”

The toothy smile on Cas’s face relaxes into a more gentle, yet also more perplexed one when he notices Dean’s eyes scanning across his face, seemingly taking in every little detail he can see. “What is it?” Castiel asks after what felt like a good two minutes or so of Dean just looking.

“Just… devoting you to memory,” Dean’s whispered confession brushes across his face the same time Dean’s finger slides down the bridge of his nose. “Your nose scrunches up when you smile. I mean really smile. The ones when you’re about to laugh.”

“Does it?” Castiel’s brow shoots up in surprise, pinching at his own nose as if it was scrunched up right this minute.

“Yeah. It’s adorable,” Dean tells him with a beaming smile of his own. “Never get to see it from you that often.”

“Didn’t have much to smile about,” Castiel turns onto his side, curled towards Dean – who finds himself copying Cas without much of thought; there was always something about Cas that was like a magnet to him, drawing him in towards the angel, finding himself mere inches away from him in the blink of an eye.

If Cas wasn’t off doing his own thing, causing Dean much undue stress – like he didn’t already have enough of that - there was one place he’d always be: by his side.

As had been stated by many different people – Hell, different species of monsters, angels, and demons alike – in the occasional times they found themselves in such company. It quite literally seemed like everyone and everything knew about him and Cas before they did. Or, at least, he did…

Castiel? Oh, he’s not here. You see, he has this weakness: he likes you.

Sorry, you have me confused with the other angel. You know, the one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you?

The stench of that Impala’s all over your overcoat, angel.

I spent all that time trying to get through to you. Dean calls once and now it's “hello?”

Of course. Yeah. You just lost one of the best friends you ever had. But you’re ‘fine.’

The very touch of you corrupts! When Castiel first laid a hand on you in hell, he was lost!

How do I start looking for this ‘Castiel?’ - - I’ve got one word for you: Winchester.

Ask him, he was your boyfriend first.

What about, uh, Castiel? He seems helpful and… dreamy?

To save Dean Winchester. That was your goal, right? I mean you draped yourself in the flag of heaven but ultimately, it was all about saving one human, right?

And then you’d kill the angel, Castiel. Now that one… that I suspect would hurt something awful.

There comes a time where every relationship has… run its course.

I’m gonna cure you of your human weakness, same way I cured my own; by cutting it out.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on the road? It’s when someone’s pining for somebody else.

How is it that you lost Dean? I thought you two were joined at the… you know, everything.

“You’ve been smiling more recently, though.” Dean points out. “These past few years with Jack… you seemed… happier.”

“I wouldn’t say happy. Otherwise, the Empty would have taken me long ago. I was… content. Weighed down by this fear I would lose you, or Sam, or Jack, or Mary… lose my family. But, content that I, at the very least, had a family. That I was part of your family. And now, these past few weeks… you’ve given me more to smile about, Dean.”

“Glad I’m of some use,” Dean says, eyes flicking up to Cas’s as he picks up on something else. His finger shifts from where it had settled in the dip of Cas’s chin, his feather-like touch now brushing across the corner of Cas’s eyes. “You’ve got crow-eyes too, now. Don’t really see it with the small smiles, but every now and then you do these smiles with your eyes and they’re there. That’s how I know you’re really smiling.”

Castiel hummed in amusement, tapping at Dean’s chest. “You get them too. Beautiful laugh lines…”

“Guess we’re getting older, huh?” Dean cracks a smile that brings out the laugh lines Cas was talking about, which in turn brings them out from Cas.

“Technically, if we’re talking solely vessels, I was able to keep Jimmy’s body from aging for a few years before I stopped channeling my grace towards preserving his age. We’re probably around the same age at this point. I might even be younger than you.”

Dean huffs. “That’s cheating. Us puny humans can’t just pause our aging, you know?”

“Hmm. Instead, you send your aging body into dangerous hunts that would be challenging even to your twenty-six-year-old self. Smart.”

“You’re never going to stop giving me shit for that, huh?”

The care-free smile on Dean’s face disappears seconds after he says this, the painful constricting in chest wrenching it off his face from the cruel thoughts his brain has supplied:

He doesn’t have much time left to tease you about it.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Castiel’s words, along with the feeling of his hand reaching out to grab hold of his, brings his focus back onto the angel laid beside him. “Tell me about something else.”

Dean swallows hard, trying to push down the lump in his throat that seemed to have been stuck there ever since they had left the Mill’s family home. “Like what?”

“Tell me about that future you were talking about,” Castiel suggests, letting his fingers trace soothing, delicate patterns across the back of Dean’s hands; weathered, roughened, and scarred hands that aren’t used to such loving touches. “What does that look like?”

Dean ducks his head in embarrassment – which is hard to do when your face is smooshed up against the mattress – trying to laugh off Castiel’s conversation starter. “C’mon man, you don’t want to hear about that…”

“Then why did I ask?” Castiel refutes, which, yeah okay, that was a fair point.

“How far into the future we talking here?”

Castiel’s fingers tap against Dean’s hand as he thinks. “Start small. Then go as far as you can see.”

“Alright…” Dean clears his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to look Castiel directly in the face. “Uh… I guess, without my legs, I’d have to give up the physical part of hunting. Also pretty sure you cant be an FBI agent, or wildlife and game, or whatever else when you can't walk, so… that would rule out the whole investigating and talking to witnesses part, but uh…”

Dean huffs out a laugh at the imaginary scenario playing out in his head, the subtle curl of his lips enough for Castiel’s heart to feel ten times lighter in his chest. “You’d probably have to grab hold of my damn wheelchair to stop me going out there… we’d yell at each other about what I can and can’t do; I’d tell you you’re not my damn babysitter, you’d tell me to stop being such an ass and listen for once…”

“Hmm… I’m starting to wonder if you’re a prophet that we were never told about.”

“Nah. I just know you as well as I know myself. Like how I’m a stubborn dick-,”

“-Who’s being stubborn about his need to keep helping people,” Castiel softens the blow of Dean’s own insult at himself.

“-And how a part of you wishes I could still hunt, because not long ago you could just touch my head and my legs would be fixed, and that guilt eats you up every day. Mostly because, that other part of you is glad I can’t hunt anymore, because now it’s easier to keep me safe.”

Castiel goes quiet at that, the tenseness of his body under Dean’s hand only going to prove his previous statement right. And yet, he still asks Cas, “Am I right?”

“I thought I was the one in your head, not the other way around.”

Dean taps at the center of Cas’s forehead, pushing down a laugh at the way Cas’s eyes go crossed when they try to focus on his finger. “You hang around a guy for twelve years, you tend to get an idea of what’s going on in that big ol’ billions year old celestial brain of yours.”

Castiel grabs hold of Dean’s tapping finger. “Technically, I don’t have a brain, rather a complex system made up of energy and-,”

“Really not feeling the science lesson right about now, Cas.”

“Apologies. Please continue with your story about how we become a couple that argues all the time.”

Dean snorts at the sass from Cas – the one trait that followed over from his few dickish years of ‘loyal solider of the lord’ Cas – letting Cas fold his hand around Dean’s finger, sliding their hands together in the small space between them. “We do end up arguing about stuff all the time. At first it’s stuff like me staying up too late watching over the hunter phone line… you suggesting you join Sam and Eileen on a hunt – that one gets you sent to the dog house for a few nights.”

“Ah, I could definitely see that… you’d be cuddled up to Miracle whilst I’m left all alone on the couch…”

Dean grins at Cas, raising his free hand to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Ya see? One in the same mind…”

“Do we only argue about hunting related topics?”

“Course not. I mean, mostly at first, yeah. But as time goes on… it becomes stuff like who’s turn it is to wash the dishes, you turning into Sam and getting all mother-hen about my diet-,”

“Heart disease is no joke, Dean.”

“Hey, what do you know, not the future but the present!”

Cas shoots him a smite worthy squinty glare. “Well, it is concerning the amount of red meat you eat.”

“Says the guy who was ‘in the low hundreds’ when he went on his ‘White Castle’ binge.”

“That hardly counts; I was being influence by Famine himself.”

“I watched you eat raw burger meat out of a tray on the floor, Cas. On your knees. With your hands.”

“Dean, I once saw you puking up into a bush when you thought Sam and I weren’t looking after you bet Sam you couldn’t eat a whole cherry pie after already eaten a triple bacon cheeseburger with a side order of fries and onion rings. Without Famine’s influence, may I add.”

“You, uh… you saw that?”

“Yes,” Castiel answered, nose crinkling in disgust at the memory of the cherry-red tinted vomit. “I tried distracting Sam by asking him about a ‘meme’ Claire had sent me on my phone so he wouldn’t see you, quite literally, throwing away your winning bet.”

“Yeah… that didn’t taste as good coming up as it did going down…”

“And yet, you ate two grilled cheese sandwiches when we got back to the bunker.”

“I made space for more food, Cas. I was hungry.” Dean defended himself.

Cas wasn’t swayed by his argument. “You didn’t even brush your teeth first!”

“Eh, I washed the vomit flavor away with beer, it was fine.”

Castiel shook his head at the hunter in a mix of amazement and downright concern. “You are a disaster of a human being, Dean Winchester.”

“Yep. And you love me.”

“And I love you,” Castiel confirms, the words sending Dean's heart into overdrive every time he hears Cas speak them. “Even in our future, when you send me to sleep on the couch for things that are likely your fault.”

“Hey! If I sent you out of our bed, then I would have had a good reason for it.”

“Hmm. Sure.” Castiel hummed in that obnoxiously higher-pitched tone that shows he doesn’t agree with Dean in the slightest.

“Wow. Fine then, guess I won’t tell you about our wedding-,”

That gets Cas’s attention.

“Wedding? You… you’ve thought about that?”

Dean shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal – when in reality his mind is screaming at him to shut up and not talk about this because what red-blooded American guy daydreams about his wedding? “Sometimes, yeah. Do, uh… do you ever think about it?”

“I… I suppose not, no. Marriage is a very human custom, and so… it’s not really something that had crossed my mind.”

“Huh. Guess that makes sense…”

Castiel’s brow pinches at the apparent disappointment in Dean’s voice, worried he took his previous statement as discouragement. “I’d imagine you have a broader knowledge of weddings than me. Describe it for me, Dean.”

Dean huffs, eyes drifting up to the polished wood of his bed’s headboard. “Uh… The reception after would be huge, I'm talking everyone we know – though that’s not many people. Any chance to throw a party, right? But the ceremony itself would be small. Like, ‘small’ small. I’m talking just me, you, Sam, Eileen, and uh…”

Castiel tries to catch Dean’s attention as Dean trails off, but Dean’s eyes are fixed on a small, out of place chip etched into the headboard. “And… who?”

“Well, I thought… if she’d be up for it, that is, that… maybe Claire would be there to, uh… to give you away?”

Castiel’s brows shoot up, taken aback both by Dean’s offer to have Claire be a part of their wedding – even one that was entirely fictional right now – and that Dean was seemingly dancing around the mention of Claire, as if he wouldn’t like the idea of having one of the few people he cares about in this world be there as he marries the only person he’s ever loved.

“Sam would be best man, of course.” Dean continues hurriedly, having missed the emotions on display as they flickered past Castiel’s face. “He’d probably want to officiate too… wouldn’t be too hard to get one of those online licenses for it – at least, that’s what movies and shows have taught me. You’d ask Eileen to be maid of honor, and she’d burst into tears which would probably set Sam off too, and I’ll have to sit there in disbelief as all three of you cry about this wedding that’s still only being planned…”

The small smile on Cas’s face slowly grows bigger and bigger as Dean babbles on, not even noticing the shiny glean that was swimming in Castiel’s ocean eyes.

“And… shit, seeing as this is a fake wedding and all that… I’d like… Fuck-,”

The expletive takes Cas by surprise – almost as much as the tears that Dean quickly wipes away with his thumb before Castiel can even be sure they were there.

“It would just be nice if Jack was there, you know? I mean, he… I know, he’s God and all that now, more important things, but… he’s our son, and-,”

That did it. Castiel didn’t think anything could both hurt him and make him feel like his heart was full more than Dean calling Jack their ‘kid’, but there was something about ‘son’… something so much more personal and fatherly about that, that pushed the tears that had been building out from the creases of his lids and spill down the angels face, catching in the maze of stubble that was lightly brushed across his cheeks.

Castiel reaches out a shaking hand, placing it atop the handprint he knows lays beneath the flannel shirt covering skin he had once rebuilt atom-by-atom, giving Dean a watery smile when the hunter's breath hitches at the contact. “I don’t know much about weddings… but I can’t imagine one more perfect than that.”

Dean returns the smile with a tender one of his own, pulling out the arm that was pinned under his own body to rest his hand atop Cas’s. “Yeah… and I probably wouldn’t even need a ring – you’ve already branded ‘Property of Castiel’ right here on my arm.”

Castiel rolled his eyes at the teasing in Dean’s tone; humor was a typical fallback for Dean when in an emotional situation he didn’t know how to deal with, and Castiel was used to rolling with it at this point. “Are you saying you want it removed?”

Dean very nearly threw Castiel’s hand off his shoulder in case he was about to do exactly that. “Don’t you dare. I kind of like being your property. Next time a cougar at the bar is being a little too overenthusiastic about taking me home with her I’ll just flash her the scar, I’m sure that’ll scare her right off – If you don’t smite her on the spot, that is.”

“…Why would a feline be in a bar?”

The snort Dean makes catches even him off guard, dipping his head down to stifle his short burst of (totally manly) giggles. “Not… not that kind of cougar, Cas…” Dean barely manages to say through his chuckles, shaking his head at his, occasionally, clueless angel. “You know… part of me wishes I could give you a handprint of my own. My version of a ‘Property of Dean Winchester’ sign… Guess the ring would have to do…”

Except… except the ring wouldn’t do. Because he’ll never get to place that ring on Castiel’s finger. He’ll never stand by his side, with Sam reading him some made-up vows- because screw doing it the God-given way – and he’ll never get to flash those girls at the bar an apologetic smile and tell them ‘Sorry ladies, I’m married.’

“I’m still not completely up to date with human etiquette, but I’m fairly certain that most couples do not wish to scar their significant others?”

Oh, Cas. There you are to save the day again.

“Most people don’t fall in love with an angel,” Dean points out.

Dean leans forward at the same time as Cas, the two meeting halfway. This kiss is polar opposite from the last; it’s soft and tender, lingering touches where neither seems to want to end it, smooth and natural like they’ve been doing it all their lives.

Dean’s throat burns furiously as he smiles at Cas, hoping that if he somehow does make it to that ripe old age where you can pretty much eat only soup and spend your day's retailing stories of your youth, that his aged and concussion addled brain remembers every detail of this moment.

“And you know what, Cas? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

* * *

The white lines of the Enochian sigil painted onto the murky grey of the concrete floor seem almost blinding, begging for his attention. The long library table had been pushed off to the side, making room for the large sigil Eileen had painstakingly painted onto the floor, both Sam and Dean hovering nearby anxiously to make sure not a single mark or line was missing.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at it now. Long enough for Sam to throw him anxious looks from behind the library table, flittering back and forth from the table to other rooms to gather all the ingredients they needed.

Sam had been giving him those looks non-stop since they had arrived back at the bunker. Dean had come to groggily in the back of the Impala, unable to wipe away the tears that had transferred over from his dream existence to the real one before Sam has spotted them, his mouth straightening into a thin line that screamed of his need to comfort his older brother, but knowing the conversation would either get him nowhere, or a black eye.

Cas’s trench coat was draped over his legs, ready to be placed into the sigil when Sam signaled for it for the spell. None of it seemed real. Everything felt so hurried, so… ready to go, except for him. The thought that all of this would be over in a few minutes or so made him want to throw up. Either he’d lose Cas, or they’d get him back in the physical world for the first time in weeks, but he knew what the more likely outcome was here and-

“It’s ready.”

Dean jolts at Sam’s voice, glancing up to see Sam stood behind the table alongside Eileen; a sturdy wooden bowl they used for many spells sat directly in front of him whilst the few ingredients needed for the spell were situated in smaller contains, situated around the bowl on top of the table.

“Wait, hang on!” Dean calls out just as Sam is reaching for the first ingredient. “My soul!”

Sam can only frown at that, moments away from berating Dean if he were about to suggest making another deal. “…What about it?”

“Can’t angels kind of boost their grace with a soul? I mean, it’s just one form of energy converting into another, right?”

“Oh!” Sam realized in surprise, almost smacking himself atop the head for not remembering it sooner. “How did I forget about that?”

‘Dean…’

‘You can do it, right? I know you were in your body the last time you powered up from my soul, but…’

‘Yes, I can still do it, but… are you sure?’

‘What the hell is there to be sure about, Cas?’

‘Surely you remember what it was like from the last time? It’s an excruciatingly painful procedure that-,’

‘Gonna stop you right there, Cas. I don’t care how painful it is, okay? If it’s going to help you, then I’m doing it. End of discussion.’

“Cas is on board,” Dean tells Sam before Cas can argue anymore, getting a long-suffering sigh from the angel.

‘As you wish, Dean…’

“Okay, so…” Sam said, eyes darting between the ingredients in front of him. “It’s a fairly simple spell, like Rowena said. Just gotta prepare some of these ingredients first…”

Dean watches nervously as Eileen hands Sam whichever ingredients are required; a mix of herbs and rather disturbingly small animal bones that disappear into the bowl, crushed under the pestle in Sam’s giant hands.

“Alright… Now, Dean, you need to put Cas’s trench-coat in the sigil. Directly in the middle of it, if you can.”

Dean awkwardly wheels himself in between the lit white candles that were dotted along the exterior of the sigil, letting his hands brush across the scratchy material of Cas’s coat before carefully lowering it down onto the ground, spreading out the coat as much as his body would let him before wheeling himself back and out of the sigil.

“Okay… then it’s just the blood, a few words, Cas’s grace, and then… we can only wait and see.”

“Uh… Sam?”

Sam glanced up from the ingredients in his hands at Dean’s voice. “What? What is it?”

“I, uh… I was actually thinking we could try just using the grace we got from Claire first.”

Sam and Eileen turn to each other, matching expressions of both concern and surprise on the couple’s face.

“It’s the best way,” Dean tries defending himself at the sight of their faces. “Try the bit of Grace that isn’t entirely Cas first.”

“Okay…” Sam said slowly, the alarm in his voice making Dean’s chest clamp in worry. “And… and if that grace doesn’t work on its own?”

Dean swallowed deeply, somehow able to hear his own harsh swallow past the pounding of his heart. “Then… then we use the rest of Cas’s grace, powered up from my soul.”

Sam nods slowly, and Dean knows the words that are about to leave Sam’s mouth before he even says them. “And if that doesn’t work?”

Dean knew what Sam was trying to hint at. The memories he was trying to resurface, from when he practically lost himself to grief the last time Cas had died. Dean isn’t going to let him do that this time. He isn’t going to show Sam his cards.

“Then… it doesn’t work.”

Sam gives him one last stare, one last moment where his gaze seems stuck to Dean before it drops back down to the table in front of him. He clears his throat as he finishes grinding down the last of the ingredients in the bowl, taking a deep and trembling breath to steady himself as his eyes drift over the words to the spell one last time.

“You ready?” He has the courtesy of asking Dean.

‘No.’ “Yes.”

Sam’s shaking breaths may have given away his nerves, but his hands were as steady as a rock as they took the vial of blood that Eileen handed to him. The dark liquid dances around the glass vial, staining its sides with streaks of bright red as Sam carefully removes its lid.

“Acer Liquid e vita carnem Filii familiaritatem,” Sam lets the Latin roll off his tongue as the blood spills from the vial, staining the once vivid white bone powder a dark, muddy red. “Tumultus, caro est; et hoc est quod quidam uenti diuersos auctor est scriptor.”

Dean’s breath hitches in a strangled gasp as the flames of the candles first begin to flicker, blowing about like there was some sort of wind rushing past them before they begin to steadily grow in height, able to feel the heat of them against his face as they rise.

“Ad coniungere materia, quae olim pars eorum,” Sam continues, eyes fixated on the swirling glow of the grace in the vial Eileen held. With the slightest of nods from him, Eileen is uncapping the vial, directing the seemingly alive Grace towards the bowl.

“Esse vim auferre. Reversusque statim producat id quod est suum,” The grace seems to move on instinct, sliding towards the bowl instead of towards its owner, like a part of Sam was worried it would.

Sam only has a few seconds to admire the beautiful mix of white, blue, and red before the room disappears in a flash of blinding white light that has him turning away and burrowing his head into the crook of his elbow.

Dean blinks away the unexpected blindness, trying to peer past the spots in his vision to see what was going on. He can only gape in horror at the sight of…

Of flesh. Whatever was in the bowl had formed into a glob of squelching meat that seemed to crawl off the table, landing within the sigil with a wet thud. It inched itself towards the trenchcoat, burrowing itself underneath the piece of clothing, from which it seemed to…

“It’s taking shape,” Sam breaths in disbelief, pointing towards the disgusting mass on the floor. “Look!”

Sam was right. Dean could see that, underneath the cover of the trench coat, it was beginning to take form of something roughly human-like in appearance. All three of them held their breath as the mass continued to shift about on the floor, slowly forming from a ball of parts to what Dean imagined a human would look like if you only had the skeleton and a bunch of meaty colored playdough to sculpt with.

And then… it stopped.

They watched in absolute horror for a few moments as the mass stopped moving, stopped taking shape, and then… It seemed to move in reverse. It began losing its shape, pieces of flesh and muscles tearing away from it, blood seeping out from the ball of human material and smearing across the white lines of the sigil.

“It’s failing,” Sam stated the obvious, frantic eyes looking from what should have been Cas’s body to Dean. “Dean, the spell is failing. It’s not enough grace.”

Steely, determined eyes flicked up to meet his brothers, and in that moment, Sam knew. He knew what was coming, and he was powerless to stop it.

“No,” Dean said sternly, shaking his head furiously at the blob as it continued to shrink. “I’m not doing it, Cas. I’m not.”

There was a brief moment where Dean looked pained – shocked, even – before Sam saw green eyes be replaced by a flash of blue. Both Sam and Eileen could only watch on as Dean, no, Cas, pushed Dean’s body out of his wheelchair, painstakingly dragging himself towards the mass.

Then, the eyes flashed once more. Dean was back in control, teeth gritted in determination as he tried pushing himself away. “Do it, Cas! DO IT! TAKE CONTROL! KILL ME!”

A flash again. Cas, once more, letting the tears that had been building in Dean’s eyes slip over. HE can only shake his head at Dean’s screams – that of which Sam had no doubt he was having to hear within his own mind, as he continued crawling towards his body inch by inch with Dean’s arms.

It wasn’t enough. Another burst of blue, another moment of control by Dean. Only this time… he didn’t pull back. He wasn’t moving forward either, just laid out on the floor, gasping for breath as his sobs caught in his throat. “Please… Cas, I can’t do this without you, I-,”

Dean goes silent. His own sobs more muted now, trying to listen to the words Castiel was speaking in his mind. “Don’t say it now…” Sam hears Dean beg to Cas, not sure whether he wanted to know what Cas was saying, hoping that whatever it is, it gets through to his brother.

“Don’t say it when…” Is all Dean can get out before another sob wrenches from his lungs. “Fuck… Okay… Okay… I love you, too. You know I do.”

Eileen’s hand is gripped tightly around his, the only reminder he’s not alone in watching his brother go through what must likely be some of the worst pain in his life. Seeing physical vulnerability from his brother was one thing, but this? This was something else entirely. He just wanted for Cas to be okay. He wanted for his brother to be okay.

Please… Please, let them be okay.

Dean began moving forward again. Dean this time, not Cas. Something was sticking out from the mass, something vaguely arm shaped, and Dean flopped next to the beginnings of Castiel’s body, rolling onto his back on the hard concrete floor and turning his head to the side to face it. When Dean’s eyes flash blue again, Sam knows it is not because of a change in possession. Dean’s ear-piercing scream of agony is proof of that, the horrifying sound reverberating around the large rooms of the bunker as the glow of grace Castiel grows brighter and brighter.

And then, when Sam didn’t think it was possible for Castiel to glow any brighter than he was, Dean’s hand reaches out and intertwines with the hand of the being. Dean’s veins glow with that bright blue of angel grace, traveling from his chest down his arm, crossing over to the being which begins glowing with its own streaks of grace.

It pulsates one last time, and then…

The room explodes. One big ball of light, expanding out from the mass on the floor. Sam found himself instinctively turning towards Eileen, shielding her with his body. He had been expecting to be hit by a wave of heat, along with that solid wall of force that typically comes from such explosions, throwing them across the room.

None of that happens, however. As the light begins to fade, Sam unpeels himself from Eileen, glancing over his shoulder to what he thought would be a crater in the middle of the room. The sigil is still intact, though the candles had been blown out by the explosion of light. Dean was blinking furiously on the floor, still sprawled out on his back as he rubbed his burning eyes. He hadn’t noticed yet. He hadn’t noticed that there, right next to him on the ground, was a body.

Lying amongst the sigil, as naked as the day he was born – or at least, his vessel was born… was Cas. His trench-coat at least saved some of his modesty, acting as a blanket that the fresh body was curled under.

“Cas?” Dean croaks out at the sight of him. He scrambled towards Cas as fast as his arms would let him, cursing his useless legs for slowing him down as he pulls himself towards the angel – if he still was one, that is.

Beads of sweat roll down Dean’s temple as he reaches Cas's side, slipping his hands under Cas’s body and heaving him up onto his lap as he sits up as best he can. The dead-weight of Castiel under his hands has his chest squeezing tight with fear, the seconds that tick by without a response from Cas being the most torturous of his life. His eyes search frantically around Castiel’s face for a sign of life, met with closed eyes instead of the dazzling blue that never fails to take his breath away.

Dean’s gaze drops down to Castiel’s chest. There was…nothing. No movement, no steady rise and fall as Cas takes in his first breaths in a new, yet familiar, vessel.

“C’mon, Cas…” Dean whispers down to his angel. His hand rests on Castiel’s chest, waiting to feel that reassuring ‘thud’ of a heartbeat against his hand. The skin under his touch is firm, but stone cold. Castiel’s heart remains silent in his chest. “I need you to wake up, Cas. Okay? I need you to wake up for me.”

Dean can’t control the trembling of his fingers as they run through Castiel’s hair, his other arm pulling Castiel closer to him as his body is wracked with more sobs he has no hope of holding back. “Please… Don’t do this to me, Cas. I don’t wanna do this without you. Don’t… don’t leave me… I still need you… Please…”

Castiel remains still.

Next Chapter - - - >

#destiel #destiel fanfiction #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #destiel fix it #destiel fix it fic #fix it fic #castiel/dean #castiel/dean winchester #casdean #supernatural spoilers #season 15 spoilers

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dawnwave16 · 3 years

Note

dad Bruce Wayne only Marinette doesn't know till she has been shipped off to him thanks to lila's lies. So she has to hide the fact she us ladybug and the new guardion while the bat family have to find the fact they are the bat family Mean while Jason has started a betting pool on when the newest member of the family joins the bat family

Sorry, this has taken so long! While I read a lot of Maribat I’m not very familiar with how they are in canon so I’m not 100% sure if I got this right! I also kinda ran out of insperation near the end so if it feels rushed that’s why. :)

Story:

A bug amoung the bats.

To the staff of the plane, the girl sitting in the window seat just in front of the right wing was quiet and withdrawn. To her family, she was untrustworthy and a risk to their livelihood. To those who she used to think of as friends, she was a backstabber and a liar who hid her bullying tendencies behind an innocent face.

The truth was she was none of those things. Her name was Marinette Dupain-Cheng and what she was, was beyond angry.

She had arrived home after the battle with Miracle Queen only to find her bags sitting for her by the door. Her parents had given her two hours to box up everything she deemed worthy of being sent to her new home as well as any trinkets she might want to take with her in her hand luggage before they had handed her a bus pass, a one-way plane ticket, a letter to her new guardians and told her they could no longer risk having her under their roof so they were sending her to Gotham to be with a family there that could hopefully get her back onto the ‘right path’.

A soft sigh escaped Marinette as she stared unseeingly out the small window. Slowly a tear rolled down her cheek before she angrily swiped it away. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with, she thought angrily. Now she would have to hide the fact that she was Ladybug as well as the newly christened High Guardian of the Miraculous from people she didn’t know. Who knew how well that would go.

Another tear escaped her eyes as she thought about how she had been betrayed. Looking back, she wished she had told Adrien that Lila had threatened her in the bathroom that day. Or that she hadn’t blindly believed him when he’d said that she would out herself if they took the high road. She wished she hadn’t tried to deal with everything by herself instead of telling her parents before Lila had gotten to them. But most of all she wished that her trust in adults hadn’t been completely destroyed by it all.

Now she was alone and heading to a country she had limited knowledge of, where they spoke a language she wasn’t confident in speaking (although she understood more than she could say) and to a city that had more villains than Paris.

By the time her plane landed in Gotham airport, Marinette had a new mask in place. She refused to let herself be hurt again and if that meant that she had to hide her true nature, so be it. From now on, the world would see the ice queen she needed to be even if she wasn’t sure how to be one yet. The seatbelt sign flickered off as the captain announced the time and weather conditions before wishing them well as they disembarked. Marinette took her time gathering all her things and making sure she had everything she might need, to hand.

The letter from her parents sat in the front pocket of her bag like lead. The miracle box was in the main compartment of said bag next to a blank sketchbook and a few odds and ends. She had been too upset to design during the flight.

Reluctantly, Marinette disembarked the plane and retrieved her bags from baggage claim. Once she had everything she scanned the waiting crowd for whoever was meant to be fetching her. Spotting her name on a card being held by a distinguished older gentleman she slowly made her way over to him, trying not to drag her feet despite waiting to.

“Sorry to keep you waiting sir. I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Marinette introduced herself in stilted high-school english, emotions locked behind a blank mask that would make an assassin proud.

“Oh God, it’s another Demon Spawn,” the man’s companion muttered. She flicked her eyes over him. Where the man holding the card was wearing a formal suit and looked neat and representable, the one who had just spoken looked like a biker. A scuffed brown leather jacket hung open over a black muscle t-shirt. Ratty jeans held up by an equally scuffed belt covered his legs. The bottom of said jeans were tucked into well worn combat boots while a white steak in his hair added to the ‘dangerous’ vibe rolling off of him.

Marinette returned her attention to the older gentleman.

“My name is Alfred Pennyworth, Miss Dupain-Cheng. Welcome to Gotham. Please ignore Jason, he tends to act before he thinks.” His voice was cultured, Marinette noticed even as she nodded. When he indicated that she was to follow him, she tightened her grip on her bag and the luggage trolley and did so silently.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jason watched his new sibling closely. Her face was guarded but her body language screamed that she had been hurt and badly so. Her stiff posture reminded him of Damian despite her being closer to Tim’s age. The strange thing was that as far as Jason could see the stiffness seemed to be more of a defence mechanism rather than her true personality. He sighed, what was it with his family always attracting those that were damaged to the point where they hid? And why was it that both of Bruce’s biological children were the worst damaged? Did the universe hate Bruce that much?

Although Jason didn’t know it, Alfred was thinking along the same lines.

The trip to the mansion passed in relative silence as Marinette pulled out a cell phone and quickly started messaging all of the people that had requested commissions to explain that their orders would be delayed. Her parents didn’t know about this phone, nor did they know about the fact that Marinette was a very successful designer with an exclusive customer base. They didn’t even know about Edna Mode mentoring her whenever the designer for the heroes had time. They thought she was still trying to get a foot in the door of the industry. It didn’t help Lila had claimed Marinette was trying to use Adrien as a way to get to his father either.

By the time the trio reached Wayne Manor she had caught up completely. She had also managed to further freak Jason out with how quiet she was. As far as he knew teenaged girls were ever this quiet even when they were on their phones. From what he remembered, girls talked non-stop no matter what. Well most girls, Cass seemed to be the exception and now, so did Marinette.

The meeting with the rest of the family was just as icily polite as the one she had given at the airport. All she did was hand an envelope to Bruce before saying she was tired and retreating to the room Alfred obligingly led her to. Jason turned his attention to Bruce, who had made a strangled sound.

“B?”

“She doesn’t know…” was the choked reply.

“What?” Dick queried in confusion.

“Marinette. She doesn’t know she’s my daughter. Sabine never told her.”

“Holy…” Jason breathed while Damian froze.

Damian had been willing to hate her just because Marinette had a better claim on Bruce due to being older than him but how could he hate her now? She didn’t know she was Bruce’s daughter at all!

* * * * * * * *

Over the next three months the bat family discovered very little about Marinette. She hadn’t reacted as they had expected to the news that she was Bruce’s daughter at all. Instead of bouncing off the ceiling in excitement she had become even more withdrawn, appearing only for meals and to attend school as was required.

All of the boys had tried to get closer to her but had been rebuffed which had just added to their frustration too. Eventually Tim had turned to his hacking skills and what he had found had left him in a cold fury.

“Tim?” Dick asked cautiously.

“Is everyone here?” Tim’s voice was noticeably trembling as he spoke.

“Yes,” Bruce grunted. He was just as frustrated as his sons.

“Spill already, Replacement,” Jason snorted.

“Right, well apparently our sister wasn’t always this cold. Judging from the records I’ve been able to get my hands on she used to be a virtual ball of sunshine. She was class president, she helped at the bakery, did charity work and bent over backwards from all those she considered to be her friends. I’m not sure what changed though. It looks like it was almost overnight that all her ‘friends’ started targeting her over social media, she was expelled but that got repealed fairly quickly, and suddenly she was the class parier. It doesn’t make sense.” Tim sighed as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

There was silence for a while before Damian growled and stalked out of the room. Dick shared a look with the others before running after him.

“What are you planning?”

“Just to get some answers, Greyson.”

The two soon found themselves at the door that led to Marinette’s room and Damian raised his hand to knock. A sound made him pause, it was almost like a…

“No way, did she just laugh?” Dick breathed. Soon both boys had their ears pressed against the door.

“Look, Uncle J, I get you want to send Fang after the little bitch but that would just give him indigestion.” Marinette was saying which made the two eve’s droppers eyes widen. Uncle J? Fang? And did she really just swear?

“Yeah, I know you are angry but really what more could be done? I tried exposing her lies. I tried warning the class. Heck I even tried taking the high road but in the end she won. I’m now in Gotham and none of those that I trusted to support me are here. I never thought Tom and Sabine would fall for her lies! They know I have multiple sketch books and that one of them is inspiration only. They know the books are colour coded. So why would they even think I’d copy someone else’s ideas!” Marinette’s voice was raw with pain and defeat as she spoke which stunned the boys.

There was a pause as Marinette listened to whoever was on the other end of the call then they heard a loud sigh.

“Do what you feel is best Uncle J. I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive them. Tom and Sabine raised me yet they still turned on me and sent me away. I grew up with most of the people in my class yet they still believed that I could bully someone. They turned on me so quickly I almost got whiplash from it. If that’s the thanks I get for trying to protect them, for trying to make sure they don’t fail to reach their dreams, then I wash my hands of them. Doesn’t stop it from hurting though.”

Dick and Damian shared a look. Marinette was chatting away in French but thanks to them learning it they were still able to understand everything. Slowly they straightened up and made their way back to the batcave to report what they had heard.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Marinette closed her eyes as she thought about the last three months. Bruce had enrolled her in Gotham Academy and she was working as hard as she always did to make sure her grades were as high as possible. She was pretty sure the whole school thought she was a total snob what with her ice cold attitude to most things but she didn’t care. The only ones she showed her true self to these days were Edna, Jagged and the clients she had amassed before leaving France, the Kwami’s and her online Boyfriend Roy.

She had met Roy by chance after attending a masked ball with Edna almost a year after she had started being mentored by the pint sized designer. Roy had tried to wriggle out of having to attend any future balls by behaving badly but Marinette had derailed his plan when she had simply grabbed his ear and told him to either quit his behaviour or she’d deal with him. He had tried to fight back but had found himself hogtied in a measuring tape. Once he had calmed down and Marinette had repaired the rips in his blazer the two had discovered they had a fair bit in common and they hadn’t stopped talking since.

When Jagged had called her to check on her she had decided to give him the full, unedited story. While he hadn’t been impressed he understood where she was coming from. Why should she have to keep fighting to help others when they wouldn’t do the same for her? Marinette flopped backwards on her bed as she thought about everything she’d learned. Bruce being her father had been a shock but it did explain why she had blue eyes. She didn’t care though. The family the man had built showed her he cared about family more than wealth so why hadn’t she known about him beforehand? Why had her mother sent her to him as a punishment?

A knock at the door had her sitting up and making herself look presentable in a hurry.

“Come in.”

“Marinette? Can we talk for a bit?” Bruce asked her cautiously.

“Sure.” Marinette kept her mask of cold, indifference in place as she replied. “What can I help you with?”

“I know coming here and finding out I am your father was a shock but I was wondering if you could tell me about what happened for you to be sent here in the first place? I will understand if you don’t want to but I want you to know I’m here for you if you do.” Bruce said carefully. Marinette looked over Bruce’s shoulder and saw Tikki and Wayzz nodding incouringly at her. The kwami’s didn’t like how closed off Marinette had forced herself to be but had understood.

“Will I have to change again if I do tell you?”

“Not change per say, maybe just drop the mask around the family a bit. As much as you are comfortable with anyway.”

Marinette studied Bruce for a moment before making up her mind. She’d tell him about the school issues but there was no way he’d be finding out she was Ladybug anytime soon. Secret identities and all that cam first.

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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

Text

But None, I Think, Do There Embrace (Part 2)

Part 1 ‖ Part 2

Summary: “The sight of Missy, conscious and walking, shakes loose a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding.” The conflict isn’t over when the gun goes off.

Warnings: None? Unresolved tension, mostly!

Word Count: 1815

NB: The promised continuation of “The Grave’s A Fine And Private Place”!

“Please, please work!”

The TARDIS hums softly in an inarticulate but clear expression of disagreement. The screen you clutch at with shaking hands remains a blurry mess of jumping pixels, the sound a warbled static hiss. You have no insight into what’s happening on the bridge.

Before you’d even glimpsed the creatures in the lifts, the ship had slammed her doors so hard that you were knocked backwards and off your feet, landing painfully on the metal floor. When you’d scrambled back up and tried to open them again, they wouldn’t budge. You still know precious little about how she functions, but it’s apparent that she’s determined to keep her human cargo safe from whatever wants to take them away.

“Siege mode,” Nardole points out unhelpfully, still fiddling with the console. “Hostile life forms detected on the bridge. No communications in or out. Your life signs are shielded, at least.”

White-knuckled on the handrail, you glance around desperately for inspiration. “We can’t just wait here!”

“I know,” Bill groans, head bowed and cradled in her hands. She sits on the stairs, catching her breath, steadying her racing heart. “I know, but what can we do? The TARDIS won’t let us outside and even if she would I don’t think we could help, I mean - we’re human! Whatever these things are, we can’t fight them.”

“I don’t think we need to.”

You scowl at Nardole. “What do you mean?”

“If they really are only interested in you two, then presumably, once they realise you’re no longer on the ship, they’ll just... wander off, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” Bill sounds quite convinced. “I mean, that blue guy was there for, what? Days?”

At the mention of the armed alien, you wince. You’ve been trying to distract yourself from the image of Missy’s limp body, slumped in the navigator’s chair. “Days,” you agree flatly.

“Exactly. Just try and keep calm, and I’m sure they’ll be back very-”

The doors tear open, flooding the room with the colony ship’s bright fluorescent lights.

“-soon.”

“Chair! Now!”

Any relief you might have felt is drained immediately by the sound of the Doctor’s voice, sharp and furious and full of pain. He has one arm around Missy, supporting her weight, half-dragging her alongside him as he staggers through the doors. Even from across the console you can see the smouldering burn mark on her coat. It’s bigger than your hand and still smoking.

The sight of her, astonishingly still conscious and walking, shakes loose a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding. You’ve grown to quite like Missy; her quick mind and deadpan black humour had endeared you to her when you visited the vault, and she’s proven herself a useful ally more than once with her effortless navigation of the TARDIS. In truth, despite Bill’s understandable trepidation, you’d been excited to see her at the helm of a new adventure.

Be careful what you wish for.

He drops her unceremoniously in the nearest seat and she lets out a heavy, pained noise at the impact. It makes you wince in sympathy. “Watch it! I’ve just been shot, or hadn’t you noticed?” She falls just short of her usual sardonic wit, too much strain seeping into the words.

“Shut up.” There’s no kindness in it. He works urgently at the buttons of her coat, pulling it open to expose her blouse and the wound left by the laser-barrelled weapon. He’s muttering angrily under his breath. “Missed all the vital organs.”

“Yes, well, if you want something done properly,” she mutters. Then, so sharply that you jump, “oi! What the hell are you doing, man?”

The Doctor has both hands poised over the injury on her side. At first you think it’s a trick of the light, an optical illusion triggered by stress and exhaustion, but as you watch they begin to glow in a vibrant, sickly shade of orange. Light pours from his palms and drenches her abdomen until the scene burns your eyes. It feels like staring into the sun.

“Be quiet,” he says calmly, ignoring her protests. “You’ll take weeks to heal on your own. You’re no use to anyone in this state. I’m just speeding things up a bit.”

You’ve heard of regeneration, of course, but this is the first time you’ve witnessed it. Despite the blinding intensity of it you can’t seem to look away. You move around the console as if in a trance, seeking out a better view. It is, at once, the most beautiful and most frightening thing you’ve ever seen, and you know with every fibre of your being that it is wrong, a violation of physical laws that you take for granted. What unfolds between the Time Lords in front of you spits in the face of everything you know about the universe.

Your normal Saturday has been resumed.

“Oh, for- get your hands off me!” She reaches down to knock him away but he’s already moving, stumbling slightly and bracing his hands on the back of the chair to steady himself. It’s clear that he’s expended some energy.

“Not quite good as new,” he observes. “You may actually have a scar.”

“I always fancied one of those.” She twists experimentally in her seat, testing the extent of her recovery. The only evidence of what should, by all rights, have been a mortal wound is a single low hiss through her teeth. “Consider it a touching memento of my full rehabilitation.”

“Rehabilitation?” He scoffs, cold and bitter. “Do you think this was a success?”

“I saved the humans, didn’t I? At tremendous personal cost, might I add.” She gestures to her side. “This is my favourite blouse, as well you know, and now it’s ruined.”

Provoked by her arch lack of repentance, he raises his voice. “You tried to kill a man! A frightened man, who asked us for help!”

“A stupid man, with a gun,” she bites back. Her hands are tight on the arms of the chair.

“I had the situation under control until you-”

“No you didn’t!”

You almost leap out of your skin when Bill interjects, her voice whip-thin and deafening even from across the room. All eyes turn to her. She’s a beacon of rage, practically vibrating, still fuelled by mortal peril and righteous fury.

“You had no idea what you were doing,” she seethes, pointing an accusatory finger at the Doctor. “You were just chatting away like an idiot, like you always do, thinking you’re so clever, and it nearly got us killed!”

He doesn’t take it well. “I was defusing the situation! It was a negotiation. I knew that-”

“Just shut up! You were negotiating for our lives!” At her side, one hand clenches into a tight fist. You can hear the angry tears making her voice waver as the adrenaline rush begins to fail. “D’you know what, Doctor? You made the wrong call. I never thought I’d say it but Missy was better than you today.”

She turns on her heels and heads deeper into the TARDIS, leaving her scathing words to hang heavily in the air. Shrinking in the face of conflict, you stand stock still, mouth agape, staring at the space she’s just vacated; Nardole makes an apologetic face and hurries after her. For a moment, you consider following, but think better of it. If it were you, you would want to be alone.

Face thunderous, the Doctor moves over to the console, manipulating switches and levers too forcefully until the ship dematerialises with a familiar mechanical screech.

“I think there was a compliment in there, somewhere.”

Missy stretches out in the chair, apparently unfazed, folding her arms behind her head. You don’t miss the slight flinch as the change in position tugs at her newly-healed wound. He ignores her, working his jaw in silent fury. “Oh, do try and cheer up, Doctor. I’m sorry that your softly-softly approach wasn’t up to scratch today but if you’re waiting for me to apologise for saving-”

“Don’t.” His voice is low and dangerous. “Don’t pretend to care about my friends.” His eyes dart over to you for a moment and you look away, removing your earpiece and inspecting it as if it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself. You haven’t changed at all.”

Not waiting for a response, he stalks out of the console room, brushing past you on the way. One hand skims lightly over your shoulder as if to make sure that you’re really there. You allow it. After the day’s events you’re drained, eager for peace and reconciliation that seems far out of reach. Even this gentle touch is almost enough to bring tears to your eyes.

“Well?” Missy fixes you with her gaze and you blush, setting down the earpiece you’ve been fidgeting with. “Aren’t you going to run off, too?”

“I can if you want.” You’re aiming for jovial, but the words come out small and you wince. She raises an expectant eyebrow and doesn’t speak. “Actually, I wanted to say thank you. For saving us.”

“No need. It was all part of my devious plan.” She adjusts a stray lock of hair. Despite the flippancy in her voice it’s clear that his words have wounded her. You frown.

“He’s an idiot. Time Lord or not, I know a man with a bruised ego when I see one.” She chuckles wryly, looking down at the ruins of her blouse. Her hand uselessly attempts to smooth the fabric out. You move closer. Your pulse races when you reach out to touch her; she doesn’t pull away, watching from the corner of her eye as you rest your palm gently on her forearm.

Something changes in her posture. You think of the Doctor, of Bill’s hand crushing yours as you both waited to die, of how every living thing needs to be touched sometimes and your fingers wrap around her slender arm, the slightest pressure, your thumb sweeping back and forth over the thin cotton of her sleeve. She draws a sharp breath and turns to look at you again and you see a thin mist of tears glistening in her bright eyes. For the first time it occurs to you that she must feel as weary as you do.

“Thank you,” you say again, heavy with sincerity. “I’m pretty sure we would have died if you weren’t there. He’ll come around.”

Her face hardens almost imperceptibly and she clears her throat, blinking away the vulnerability with surprising ease. “The Doctor can do what he likes. I didn’t do it for him.”

“You didn’t?” Surprised, your fingers fall still. Her free hand leaves the armrest, coming to cover your own, and she looks up at you with something so akin to hope that your throat tightens.

“No,” she says softly. “I didn’t.”

#mine #missy x reader #request #the master x reader

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ikenbar · 3 years

Text

Mr. Love: Ike’s Choice CH4 PT8

aaaand we back in the angst. Don’t worry about sitting pretty in it tho. expect those fluffy moments to hit soon B)

Warnings: Angst, heated arguments, talk of death; explosions; and harsh flashbacks, big swear for the swear jar, mad twists, Adri being an OG, the thickening of some epic plot, and a cliffhanger leaving you begging for more >:D

(Chapter Four (Victor and Gavin) Prologue, and part one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven can be found here!)

Please read the author’s note (and the beginning of the story) on chapter one part one if you’re new here :D

And an additional note in a previous part of chapter four part three here! (I promise these notes are important)

Chapter four:

Part eight:

Victor leaned back, clearly thrown off guard by my words. I sat up straight and pulled my hands from Victor’s. “I need to get back to work.” I said, moving to stand. Victor, coming to his senses, quickly stood and pushed me back down.

“No, you’re not.” He boomed, standing over me, giving me no space to try and stand again, “And we are going to the police after work.”

“No, I’m not!” I said with the same determination before. I pushed Victor roughly away from me. He stumbled back enough to give me space to get back onto my feet. I threw my plate of food onto the coffee table half-hazardly as I glared at Victor with determination, “That guy is mine! I will be the one who takes him down. So no, I’m not going to the police. And neither are you.”

“Is that a threat?” Victor growled and he walked back up to me. He towered over me, obviously trying to intimidate me. I merely looked up at him, a cocky grin slinking onto my face.

“Nope!” I chimed, folding my arms proudly, “It’s your word against mine, Victor, and all you know is what I’ve told you. Sure you can go to the police with speculation, but you have no evidence to support your claim. I’d know. I also have no evidence.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Victor rolled his eyes, “Ike, this is way over your head!! Do you have one good reason to keep this to yourself?!”

“Yes.”

“Oh really?! What is it then?!”

“… it is my business. Not your own."

"Ike-"

"Now if you'll excuse me," I moved to walk away but Victor stopped me. He grabbed my arms and held me steady in front of him, forcing me to face him. I looked up and glared at him.

"One reason, Ikamara." Victor's tone had changed dramatically. I relaxed my glare, "Tell me one reason we shouldn't go to the police and I'll drop it." I froze. Every part of me screamed to keep pushing Victor away, to protect him from getting too close and knowing too much. But, after one last look in his pleading eyes, I knew that he wouldn’t let me get away with pushing him off any longer.

I closed my eyes and sighed, "... he killed my friend.”

Victor's fingers twitched around my arms.

I twisted myself from his grip as I recalled the events of that horrible day. “... We were following a lead into a warehouse. There was a secret room… a bomb… an explosion… I had to bring him back to life… with my own bare hands." My voice cracked. That image of Gavin’s lifeless body held form in front of my eyes, "It’s only a matter of time until it happens again… and…” I paused. Then, without hesitation, I looked unfalteringly up at Victor, locking eyes with him, “It’s not going to be you. Not if I can help it.” Victor looked down at me, eyes flooded with those familiar undecipherable emotions.

Before he could say anything, my eyes flickered next to him, where they landed on a fourteen year old boy staring at his phone. My face suddenly felt like it had been set on fire. It was then that I became very aware how very not alone Victor and I were.

I jumped back from Victor and looked around the room, preparing rounds of lies and explanations in my head…

but I stopped.

No one was moving. They were all posed in one motion, all looking over at Bart, who hadn’t moved an inch from his position on the floor. Not even Lola had wavered from where I had seen her last, with her small hand posed over Bart's knee.

No one was moving. No one was breathing. Everyone was frozen.

Almost like they were stuck in time.

I looked back at Victor in disbelief. He was watching me, eyebrow arched and hands in his pants pockets. He looked as calm and stoic as ever…

… As if he knew exactly what was happening.

My disbelief sunk into curiosity was I studied him, questions posed on my tongue. Victor merely sighed as a small smirk pushed up his cheeks. “Dummy.” He muttered, moving to sit back down on the floor. I opened my mouth.

Just then the room snapped back to life. Bart groaned as he reached over and rubbed the baby Lola’s head. She giggled and fell onto his knee, slobbering on his suit pants. “Ah that’s probably how that anonymous tip got out.” Bart lamented, as if he was continuing where he had left off, “The reporters coming here is my fault.”

“Oh, Bartholomew.” Chris sighed, making me snap my head to face him, “You’ve got to learn how to keep your mouth shut! It’s gonna be the death of you! Or more, in this case, Ikie!... Ike?” Chris finally looked up at me. His perfect smile wavered slightly, “Something wrong?” I hesitated. Had they not heard a word of what Victor and I talked about? I literally said I was being targeted! Did… no one care?

I stole a quick glance at Victor. He was sitting casually at the end of the coffee table, eating his food once again as if nothing happened. I narrowed my eyes.

“... No.” I said, straightening my expression and posture, “I… Bart, what did you mean by anonymous tip?” Bart looked up at me through the gaps in his fingers.

“Hm? Oh I called our inside in the media.” Bart replied, sitting up, “She said that she got a call telling her about what happened. All the way down to the place your office was. It was because of my big mouth, Ike. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I waved Bart off limply, slightly lost in thought, “Did she say whether or not this person was male or female?”

“No. She said that they used a voice modulator.” Bart said, intrigue and blind curiosity dripping from his tongue, “One that made their voice seem lower and more mechanic. Whoever it was, they really didn’t want to be found out.” I hummed and furrowed my brows.

Who would modulate their voice for an anonymous tip?

“Evie, dear.” Maria said from behind me, making me turn to face her, "Are you sure everything is alright? You look worried.”

“Yeah.” I said slowly, “I need to get back to work. Thank you for the meal.”

“But, you’ve still got some food left!” Sam chuckled gesturing to my half empty plate.

“I’ll heat it up during my next break.” I moved past the couch and away from the group, “Besides, I have a lot I need to do before I go home today.”

“Wait, Ike!” Bart quickly scooped up Lola and stood up from the floor, “I wanted to talk to you about that. I don’t think you should take your bike home today.”

“What?” I snapped my head around.

“At least not until this whole thing blows over.” He said, throwing his free hand up defensively as he walked over to me, “I don’t want anything happening to you while on the road. That thing is a death wish as it is. Then you throw in some reckless reporters-”

“And someone will aggressively write a story about my driving? ” I arched my eyebrow, “I’ve been driving that bike for years, Bart. I’ll be alright.”

“You could still get hurt!” Maria spoke up from the couch, “You never know what these people would do to get a story.”

“Maria, I’ll be fine.” I rolled my eyes and turned back to my desk, “I can take care of myse-”

“Oh. my. GOSH!!” Adri shouted from her place on the couch, causing everyone to jump. She glared at me sinisterly. “You drive a two wheel drive that has had more accidents than the average vehicle! Not only that but you just got out of the hospital! Do you really want to go back in?!?” Everyone in the room was frozen in place, speechless because of Adri’s sudden outburst. Adri, reading the room, breathed a loaded sigh, “All they are asking you to do is get another ride.” She continued, arching her eyebrow and glaring at me, “That’s all! Is that really too much to fucking ask?”

“Swear jar.” Ashton spoke up for the first time that day. Adri whipped her head around and glared at him. I hesitated, looking around the room. Nearly everyone’s eyes were on me, waiting for my answer. I could read the same emotion on each of their faces.

It was an emotion I was tired of seeing.

I sighed. “I need to ride the bike home-but,” I said quickly before anyone could interrupt me, “I'll get someone to pick me up and drop me off at work starting tomorrow. Minor, would you-”

“I’ll take you.” A cool voice came from the coffee table, making all of us turn to face it. Victor stood up, empty plate in hand and determination on his face. I looked at him in disbelief.

��N-no. You’ve done enough alre-”

“It wouldn’t be out of my way.” Victor said simply, walking to the trash can beside his desk to dispose of his plate, “I drive by your complex on the way home anyway.” I opened my mouth to argue more but Victor held up a hand, “If you are really concerned about the trouble, I’ll add the gas money to your investment fund.” I shut my mouth and glared at him. There it is again. The investment.

“Yes!” Bart pointed at Victor happily, “Let’s do that!”

“Bart-” I started, trying to regain control of the situation.

“It’s settled then!” Maria said, standing from the couch and clapping her hands, “Ike will ride with Victor from now on!”

“Hold on!” I tried again, but was interrupted once again.

“Wait does this mean Victor has to pick me up from school too?!” Sam asked with both excitement and worry.

“I’ll send a driver to pick you up.” Victor said, walking back to his desk.

“Sweet! My own personal driver!” Sam beamed, looking at me for approval. I arched my eyebrow. Sam’s smile plummeted. “...I-I mean,” He quickly said, throwing his hands up, “Not that you aren’t a better personal driver! I mean one outside of the family! I-I bet this driver has nothing on you, Ike!... Evie?” Sam smiled at me innocently. I rolled my eyes and looked over to Victor. He was also looking at Sam with a complacent expression. Sensing my stare, he turned to face me.

“There’s no getting out of this, is there?” I asked dully.

“No.” Victor, Bart, Maria, Adri, and Sam said at once. I sighed and turned back to my desk, where I sat in the chair and ran my face through my hands.

“I still don’t like the idea of you going out alone tonight.” Bart said uneasily. I pulled my hands down my face and looked over to him.

“I can go with her!” Adri said, raising her hand from the couch. Maria glared at her.

“You have school.” She said in her menacing motherly tone.

“Didn’t you hear?” Adri said, flashing a devious grin, “Today is a half day! I was going to hang out with friends after school but I’ll just spend the night with my favorite sister instead!” Bart and Maria glared at their newest foster daughter in silence.

“...I’m too worried for Ike’s safety to double check that.” Bart finally said, keeping his squinty eyes on Adri. Maria turned to me.

“Would you be ok with Adri spending the night?” She asked sweetly. I looked back at Adri. She grinned at me and winked. I hesitated. She obviously had something planned. But what? What could I have for her? Maybe she planned on ditching me to hang out with her friends? But then why would she be so persistent in getting me a ride home? And why was she so angry before? What caused her attitude to change so quickly like that… There really was only one way to find out.

“Sure.” I said, turning to face my computer, “but I warn you, Adri, my life at home isn’t very exciting.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Adri chimed.

“I’ll follow Ike home and be sure she is safe.” Victor said, standing from his place at his desk. He put his hands in his pockets and looked over to me. I looked away disgruntledly.

“Can I come?!” Sam asked hopefully, looking between Bart and Maria.

“You have soccer practice today, mister.” Maria scrubbed his head roughly. Sam whined but didn’t say anymore. Maria smiled and looked over to Victor. “I’ll give you a copy of the kids’ schedules. Be sure to send me the bill.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Victor waved his hand dismissively, “I’ve got it handled.” I rolled my eyes. He sure was wasting a lot of money just to prove a point.

“Then it’s settled!” Bart clapped, “Adri will go home with Evie today and Victor will follow. Then he will take her to and from work until everything is cleared up! Great! Now! Let’s finish eating in my office and let Ike and Victor get back to work. Say goodbye to Ike kids!” Bart jogged happily to the coffee table and started packing the food back into the bags. Everyone complied to his demands and scattered thank yous and goodbyes came from various voices in the room. I stood up as Sam came running up to me. He jumped up and gave me a big hug.

“Don’t worry.” He whispered in my ear, “I told Adri I called dibs on the next sleepover.”

“Noted.” I said as I ruffled his hair. Sam laughed and pulled away from me, just in time for Chris to replace him. He lifted me up in the air and rocked me back and forth, all while squeezing the life out of me.

“Be safe, Ikie!” He said in between the swings.

“You too.” I coughed, giving him a few pats on the back, for it was all I could do in that situation. Chris dropped me and walked away. I just barely had time to breathe as Adri approached me.

“Sister!” She said, holding her arms out wide. I winced slightly but that didn’t stop Adri from wrapping her arms around my neck. She pulled me close to her, letting her head rest next to my ear. I hugged her back, patting her lightly on the shoulder.

"I can't wait for tonight!” Adri whispered into my ear as she rubbed my back slightly, “Especially since you're gonna tell me all about that pretty little target on your back.”

All my blood pooled to my feet.

“H-how…” I stammered.

“What, you think your little conversation with Victor was left unheard?” Adri chimed, “‘Do you really think it will stop the man who will do anything to see me dead?!’ ‘He sent a bomb through my ceiling!’ ‘It’s my word against yours!’ Really, Ike, it’s like you’re trying not to hide it. Though it does surprise me that I was seemingly the last person to know.” I tightened my arms around Adri’s body.

“This stays between us.” I spoke seriously and coldly, “Understand? Not a word to Bart and Maria.”

“Geez, alright!” Adri gasped as she tapped my back, “I promise I won’t say anything!” I eased my grip and pulled away from Adri. She keeled over, rubbing her stomach and breathing deeply. I ignored her show as I looked over to Bart and Maria.

They were talking merrily to Victor as if there was absolutely nothing to worry about. I furrowed my eyebrows. I had said I was being targeted when I was with Victor so, why aren’t they talking about it? Why aren’t they worried? If Adri heard the conversation then shouldn’t they have as well? Just what happened when Victor and I were talking?

“Hey,” Adri patted my head, forcing my attention to her, “You can’t keep your thoughts to yourself anymore. You’ve gotta tell me what you are thinking or I will just be someone with valuable information! You wouldn’t want that just walking around willy nilly, right?” Adri grinned mischievously.

“Well” My voice fell an octave as I folded my arms and arched my brows, “there is another way I could make sure that information doesn’t leak…” Adri’s grin quickly fell from her face. I rolled my eyes. “Don’t worry, kid.” I said, patting Adri on her shoulder, “After all, I’m your favorite sister.”

“How can you make that sound so menacing and kind at the same time?” Adri chuckled nervously. I winked at her before ushering her forward, leaving room for the rest of our family to say their goodbyes.

>>>

Once everyone had left, Victor and I sat quietly at our desks. I tapped my pen on my desk, lost in thought.

“So,” Victor said without looking up from his computer, “You’re an evolver.”

My pen fell from my hand.

I tried to speak but my words had gotten lodged in my throat. How could he have known?! Was it the way I pushed him to the ground?! I didn’t use that much power. Maybe I miss judge my evol more than I’d like to admit.

“I had my assumptions but,” Victor continued in between my silence, “I wasn’t completely certain. But now, it’s quite clear why you insist on taking care of yourself.”

“H-how?” I managed to stutter, turning to look at Victor. Victor scoffed as he turned to me

“Are you that slow? You really didn’t notice anything strange during our conversation earlier?”

My eyes widened, “So I wasn’t imagining that!... That was you?” Victor gave me a look that I received far too often.

“What do you think?”

“So you’re an evolver too? Wait, so your evol is to freeze people in place?”

“Dummy.” Victor sighed as he turned back to his work, “I can control time.”

“Can people still hear us when you do that?”

“No.”

“...what?”

“Do you really think I would start that kind of a conversation in front of your parents?” Victor retorted, turning back to me, “Let alone your siblings?”

“Wait.” I shook my head and held up my hands, “You’re saying no one else could have heard our conversation?”

“No.” Victor turned back to his computer, “Not unless they were also evolvers.”

“... what?”

“They had to have been an evolver to have heard our conversation.”

My heart stopped.

Victor, noticing my change in attitude, turned back to me. “What is it?” He asked, seriousness easing back into his tone. I opened my mouth.

A knock came from the door. “Sorry, ignore me.” Adri came into the room, looking down at her phone, “Maria forgot her diaper bag so I… came… to” Adri looked up from her phone to see Victor and me staring at her, “... Unless you guys have some sort of emotional connection to it. Then I can tell her it wasn’t there-”

“N-no.” I cleared my throat and gestured to the sitting area, “Go ahead.” After a moment of confused silence, Adri did as I said and continued walking into the room. I started mindlessly tapping my pen on the desk as I watched Adri, thinking over everything Victor had just said.

“...Oh, and Adri?”

“Hm?” Adri hummed.

“I’m excited to have you over tonight.”

“Oh really?” Adri sang, picking up the bag and turning to look at me.

“Yeah.” I nodded and stopped tapping my pen, “I get the feeling we have a lot of bonding to do.”

(Next)

#ehehehhehehehheheh #you know thats right #we got twists #we got turns #we got things you probably guessed from the moment you met the character #but i bet you wont guess their evol #go on #send me an ask with your theories #ill wait #mlqc #mr love #mlqc victor #mlqc fanfiction #mr love fanfic #mr love victor #mr love ikes choice #ike n bar productions #ikamara bikira story #fanfiction

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risingsouls · 3 years

Text

Recruited: Chapter 1

[Yeah it’s for real happening because I’m weak. So here it is. I’m basically going to write out my new recruited verse because I have lost control of my life.

Shoutout to @kiealer for a mention of her OC’s healer race and the HC we have that Vegeta and co demolished most of them. :3]

Nabooru

Traveling beyond the bounds of her desert home had always been limited. Within the desert, never ending sandstorm made venturing too far from known landmarks treacherous for fear of never returning or serving as a meal for the beasts lurking beneath the sands or in caverns. Beyond the eastern border lay greater Hyrule. Lush, green, thriving.

To Nabooru, it always felt like she was stepping into an entirely different world and not simply because of the stark contrast of weather and scenery. In her younger years, the culture shock hit her harder than more recent years. Women didn't fight and served their husband's needs and desires. It was rare that they served in government, and it was almost taboo for them to talk about it. To have an opinion of matters deemed "too dirty" for the so-called fairer sex. Most resided in the home and only the men provided. They dressed modestly, and did not speak out of turn. None of which would have bothered Nabooru had the denizens not tried to hold Gerudo women to to same standards while traipsing through Castle Town or outside of the desert. The mostly matriarchal Gerudo, where women ruled and fought and drank and cursed. Where their sexuality was celebrated and not demonized (though many Hylian men and women alike had celebrated right along with them for at least one night of their lives until the sun rose and those same Gerudo became whores and heathens once more). Who cooked and cleaned and raised children. Gerudo women did everything Hylian women did and then some.

If the lesson didn't stick with Nabooru the few times she ventured out with her best friend, Aveil, against her will, it certainly did when she joined Ganondorf at court. When she spoke among the other delegates of Hyrule's court, it wasn't uncommon for her to face chortling, eye rolling, or grimacing. Ganondorf could then repeat the same point moments later, word for word, and be met with at least some modicum of agreement or a proper debate.

And that only touched on the prejudice spurred by anger and fear Hyrule harbored toward her people. The Civil War may have ended in a peaceful treaty, one promising unity and safety, a new beginning. But none forgot how avidly and proudly the Gerudo fought for their sovereignty until their second to last breath. The skills and power of the demons from the desert.

None of that mattered for Nabooru any more. Hyrule was far behind, somewhere in the vast, new realm of space that she could never possibly fathom before she boarded a ship primed for traveling such an expansive place beyond the world and reality she understood. She could only guess what other planets might offer her in terms of terrain or people. What her new life as a soldier to a galactic emperor entailed. But beneath the inorganic lighting and in the midst of technological advances even the brightest on her home planet could not begin to dream up, she hadn't found much opportunity to ask while she struggled to process her surroundings. Stars and debris whizzing by windows as they passed them. The words her new commanders spoke amongst themselves.

“Remind me your name?”

It took Nabooru several seconds to note the silence that had befallen her company, curiosity and shock holding her gaze transfixed to the door that slid open of its own accord to admit them. She tried to mask the hurried step she took over the threshold as well as she could, though her continued awestruck surveillance of her surroundings--the large screens along the walls displaying information, the flashing lights, the beeps and low, mechanical hums--displayed the mixture of her curiosity and apprehension of it all no matter the measures she took to downplay them. And, when she finally found the emperor and his generals again, their mixed bags of expressions confirmed her failure. Frieza stared at her with an increasingly amused smirk, his tail tapping against the side of his chair, one a parent gives a learning child. The wide, pink general with a layer of spikes on top of his otherwise bald head and forearms grunted, his expression squished in impatience. The taller of the two sporting a green braid and a tiara with matching earrings tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, yellow eyes half-lidded in either boredom or disbelief.

Nabooru straightened her posture, mind working overtime to replay the last few seconds and figure out what sort of answer they expected her to give to a question she hoped she heard. She chewed the inside of her cheek, and hoped the blush in her cheeks was less apparent than it felt when she came up short.

“I apologize,” she bowed her head, unsure of the proper etiquette, “did you ask me something? I’m...a little overwhelmed.”

“Yes, I suppose even just this ship is quite a marvel to you, isn’t it, coming from such a technologically barren planet as yours? It has been quite some time since we recruited someone from a planet like yours.” Nabooru released the breath she held and raised her head again, returning to her full height and her hands behind her back when Frieza didn’t berate her for her misstep. A small voice inside her whispered how it wished he hadn’t whisked her away from her home, but she tamped it down like a stubborn weed before the sentiment could reflect itself in her eyes. “You will get used to it soon enough. As for what I asked, I requested your name. I like to know what to call my more promising acquisitions.”

Another fight to keep her expression neutral, her pride festering at being referred to as some otherworldly trinket that caught his eye. She lowered her head again. “My name is Nabooru, my lord. I thank you for the opportunity to serve you.”

Bitter words on her tongue. Subjugation didn’t suit her, but laying the act on thick felt like the right move with the emperor. The whispers of his other soldiers about his temperament swirled through her mind as a constant reminder to behave if she wanted to survive. A reality that would take some adjusting to, and, once more, a role she didn’t want to play. One given without the luxury of choice.

“Splendid. Then, let’s get straight to business then.” He raised a pitch-taloned hand and the taller of the generals stepped forward. “Once we arrive at the base, Zarbon will give you the tour and enumerate your daily schedule for the time being. He will also outfit you with a proper uniform.”

Nabooru glanced between the three of them, taking the time to note that they all sported similar attire, as had the soldiers who first landed on Hyrule. She still wore the clothes she left Hyrule in: her patterned bandeau and pink pants in the typical Gerudo style along with the jewels she adorned herself in. The chest piece looked like armor of some sort, and though she never cared much for it, it didn’t look entirely uncomfortable. She wasn’t worried about the look of it either, as there seemed to be different styles and perhaps she would get lucky with one that suited her taste and figure. What did bother her was that her attire was all that she had with her to remind her of her home, her past and people, due to the instruction to pack light if anything at all. She gripped the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder; the changes of clothes she brought along felt all the more irrelevant.

She nodded as a show of understanding, sensing that resistance or questioning of the regimen set out for her would only go ignored if she was lucky. When the three returned to their own conversations about the successes of a few planetary ventures, the prospects of others to be considered in the future, Nabooru used the rest of the flight to drink in whatever information she could from them and her surroundings. What she would be expected to do. How the technology surrounding her worked or what she would needed to understand for her own purposes. The personalities of the emperor and his most trusted generals. A difficult task when, perhaps purposefully, they kept their talk clinical and impersonal. Emotionless reactions to each report, whether good news or bad.

When the ship landed at the base, a large edifice that could pass for a castle on her home planet save for its plainness and more angular architecture, Zarbon led her away from the emperor and his fellow general, his boredom once more pervasive on his immaculate face. His tone of voice matched it as he pointed out areas of interest: the mess hall, showers and bathrooms (a mild concern to her when she only saw what she identified as male bodies entering or exiting them), and the expansive halls that held the soldiers’ quarters where she would sleep. He did not spend much time discussing any of them, their functions self-explanatory enough. So Nabooru hoped. The last thing she wanted was to find that, after a long day, her bed was some sort of complicated apparatus or had some fancy voice command that made it comfortable enough for rest.

The door to another room slid open and she followed. “This is where you will have your daily lessons considering your...under educated background,” he said, the hint of a sneer on his lips. “Mostly teaching you the basics you will need to operate the most rudimentary of our tech needed to do your job efficiently along with the expectations of your role in planetary trade.”

“Trading planets?” Nabooru couldn’t help how her eyes narrowed, the implications of such a business unpleasant at best in her mind. Not to mention what that could mean for her own home. Was their fate as secure as she thought? She hid her distaste by continuing to survey the room and commit its location to memory. It looked like a fairly ordinary, all purpose classroom. Another expansive screen replaced a chalkboard at the head of the room with a metal podium in front of it. Two rows of glass-topped desks faced the front of the room. It made her wonder if others would be joining her for her lessons.

Zarbon flipped his braid over his shoulder. “Yes. Our business is in finding planets to trade or sell and readying them for such transactions in most cases. Others are used for the empire’s purposes if they’re deemed worthwhile for some reason or another. Much like yours.”

Hyrule had been lucky, then. Avoided a likely more violent takeover, potentially thanks to her people’s warrior prowess. While she doubted Ganondorf and the rest of the Gerudo would be horribly merciful when they took over, she had a feeling they would spare far more than Frieza’s forces if the decision concerning their planet had swung the other way. She would have laughed at the irony of it had better circumstances been offered for amusement.

“I see…”

“You will learn more about that here. It isn’t my job to teach you such basics.” He moved to the door and Nabooru took her cue to follow. “You will be expected to report here first thing in the morning after the first meal and your lessons will last until the afternoon meal. The rest of your day will be spent training so you can get a better handle on your ki and utilizing it in the most efficient ways for your station.”

“I mean no disrespect and I understand the need for learning the other facets of my new job, but that sounds more up my alley than sitting in a classroom for several hours.”

“Of course. It is expected of you warrior types.” Nabooru could hear the eyeroll in his voice despite her position behind him. Along with the scrunch of his nose with his next scoffed statement: “Speaking of brainless imbeciles…”

Her curiosity outweighed the split second surge in her temper over the insult to her and her people along with whoever the general had spotted in front of him. She took a step to the side to peer around Zarbon as they continued down the corridor. Three men in the similar style of armor as the rest of the crew strode toward them, a shorter one flanked by two much larger figures, the sight reminiscent of her first exposure to Frieza and his generals. The two in the back--a bald one with a mustache and the second’s large stature the only thing keeping him from being swallowed by the mass of black spikes sprouting from the top of his head down to the top of his boots--appeared to be in high spirits, excitedly discussing their latest victories and sharing in each other’s laughter. The one in the middle paid them little mind, his dark gaze only shifting from its fixed, forward position to note the two of them approaching. His lips curled into a smirk.

“Well, well. Did Frieza let you off your leash for once?” He cast Nabooru a fleeting glance but little more. His hand rose to press a button on the side of the device fitted over his ear connected to red glass over his eye. The two behind him had stopped laughing and followed suit, exchanging a glance between them. “And for babysitting duty nonetheless. Is there a demotion in your future?”

“Remember your place, Vegeta, before I have to forcefully remind you of it,” Zarbon sniffed, his haughty air rivaling that of the shorter male. Any ounce of resentment she had sensed over the task meted out to him disappeared, replaced by what she could only describe as pride in his sense of duty to Frieza. Once more, Nabooru had to dampen the urge to, at the very least, snort at the display. “I do hope the report from your latest mission is better than the last. Frieza wasn’t particularly fond of the amount of near irreparable collateral damage you and your baboons caused in sacking it.”

“Hmpt.” Movement at Vegeta’s waist caught Nabooru’s eye. What she had mistaken for a furry belt turned out to be a tail, the end of which had loosed itself from its secure position for a moment before it tucked itself back into place. “Whatever. We got the job done when all your other units failed. It’s a sad day when Nappa here can figure out the secret of their healing abilities when none of your top picks could. How many fleets failed and crawled back to base with nothing to show for it? Three? Four?”

“It hardly matters when you can’t follow simple instructions. Two prisoners is hardly recompense for the damage. But unfortunately, your fates are not mine to decide.” Zarbon twisted around to nod to Nabooru. “Come. We’ve wasted enough time with filth.”

The two larger men stepped aside as Zarbon pushed onward, and Nabooru didn’t miss the fire in their supposed leader’s or their own eyes as she passed. The seething rage bubbling beneath the surface at such a dismissal. The kind she had grown used to on her home planet when dealing with Hyrule’s court. She bit the inside of her cheek to distract her from such empathy she couldn’t afford. While she didn’t trust Zarbon either, she had no real intent of making alliances here if she could help it. She worried enough about the welfare of her people whose fate could very well be tied to her own performance within Frieza’s ranks. Whatever the story of those three tailed warriors and the animosity they had toward Zarbon and he to them, it was of no importance to her. Squabbles between ranks and authority were bound to happen in a militaristic environment.

Another door slid open and the pair entered what Nabooru could only describe as a storage room. Arrays of what she assumed were weapons lined the walls alongside cabinets and displays for the armor she would soon don. She waited near the doorway while Zarbon considered each set. “You would do best to steer clear of those Saiyans if you want to avoid trouble. Or be successful.” He picked out a set and held the pile of clothing out to her. “Before you ask, yes, it will fit. All of it stretches to even the most extreme sizes.”

When Zarbon turned around, Nabooru took that as her cue to change into the new outfit. Setting her satchel on the floor, she picked through the garments to figure out the sequence with which she was meant to put them on before undressing. She started with what looked like the pieces that went beneath the armor: a long sleeved, high neck-lined top in a deep red several shades darker than her bright hair and a matching pair of bottoms cut to cover little more than her private areas. A single test revealed that they did stretch with incredibly little resistance and enough for her to slip them on with little trouble. Though far from what she was used to, the fabric was more breathable than expected and fit her like a second skin.

She picked up the armor next, the same cut as that she had seen on most of the other soldiers save for the wings on the shoulders and hips, and the chest portion looked more suited to a feminine form. It stretched just as easily as the singlet, and she pulled it on over her head, sliding her arms through the straps. Once more, even the armor seemed to mold to her shape without being too tight or restricting her movement.

As she tugged on the last few pieces of her new uniform--thigh high socks of the same material as her singlet and a pair of white, leather gloves and boots much like those she noted the smaller Saiyan wore--she watched Zarbon shift to another storage unit and tap in a code. A drawer popped out and, when she informed him she was decent and he faced her again, he held one of the devices they all wore over an eye in his hand. This one with orange glass.

"This is your scouter. It scans power levels and acts as a communicator, among other useful functions you will be taught in your lessons." He handed it over, and Nabooru turned it over in her hands. "I'm sure you will find it useful."

“Power levels? Like how strong another person is?”

“Indeed. No need to worry about wearing it now, but do remember to take it to your lessons.” Zarbon swept past her and back to the door, and Nabooru didn’t need any coaxing to follow. She dropped the scouter into her bag along with the rest of her belongings and shouldered it before following him back into the hall.

"We have one more stop, the medical bay," the general continued in that same bored tone, but Nabooru noted a flicker of what she assumed was excitement over the prospect of finishing the task so beneath him and returning to his proper duties. "Its use is what you would expect, of course. It is where we will part ways. You will have your translator chip installed. By the time you wake up, it will likely be dinner. After you'll have time to do as you please for now. Fill it how you wish."

She almost failed to register any other information that followed the first bit. "Translator chip?" She felt dumb asking so many seemingly obvious questions. "Installed how?"

"It is a simple and near painless procedure," he responded, his sigh just barely held back. "We all have them for ease of communication. The task of learning every language in the universe would be all too time consuming, and not everyone can speak the galactic standard."

Nabooru nodded despite the discomfort she felt over what sounded invasive and too foreign for her liking. The reason behind it made sense. She had taken the time to learn as much of the other languages of Hyrule as she could, and to describe the endeavor as time consuming put it lightly. Not to mention the imperfection of it. In the time she left her home, she had only gotten a taste of the vastness of the universe. If it took her years to get a grasp on just a handful of languages, it would take eons to manually learn all the languages of every race in the universe. Reasoning through it, deeming this chip useful, still did nothing to ease her apprehension.

The double doors to the medical bay slid to each side and admitted them into the sterilized space so unlike the healing ward back home. Several tanks lined the far wall, and more screens lined half of the one adjacent to it The doctors wore the similar armor the rest of them did, though the one who approached the pair from the rows of cots on the other end of the room wore a white robe of sorts beneath his armor. His bushy orange eyebrows and beak-like snout made him resemble a rotund, wingless bird.

The conversation he and Zarbon held between one another was clipped and short, all business and no filler about the reason for their visit--one the doctor had been made aware of and prepped for prior, he proudly noted--as well as a discussion over new recruits to the medical bay and their adjustment. From the sounds of it, they were the prisoners he had mentioned in the conversation with the Saiyans. She had to keep herself from snorting when the doctor discussed a certain reluctance to help; if she didn't fear her own rebelliousness would trickle down to the fate of her people, she might not be so compliant. Piecing together the brief tiff in the hallway with this information suggested they had little left to lose.

Zarbon turned to her once more. "This is where I take my leave. Keep to your schedule and don't cause trouble. Frieza may have chosen you specifically out of a gaggle of mediocre warriors, but that does not mean you're valuable."

With a toss of his head and one last pointed glare, the general left her alone with the doctor and a smoldering combination of helplessness and anger searing her heart and lungs. He wasn't wrong; that she had no reservations about. But hearing it, feeling it in the presence of these warriors, generals, and other help within the base, she could not deny her expandability. How her rank on her home planet meant nothing now, and she had been kicked from the top to the bottom, her life of hard work and pushing herself to fight better and harder than the next Gerudo, learn everything she could to improve her station, all she did to earn rank and respect among her people had been reduced to cinders here. She was starting over with no real idea where she was headed. Where she could head, if anywhere at all.

Survive. That's what she had been taught to do first and foremost. The costs of survival, of not endangering the deal made to ensure her people got the better life she always wanted for them, would have to be worth paying.

The doctor led her to one of the tables and instructed her to lie back, the cool metal on the few portions of skin left uncovered making her shiver. She listened for a moment to the explanation of the procedure--a gas to put her under, an incision behind the ear, and just a bit of prodding around in her brain--before she decided that her ignorance of it would keep her from bolting. He fitted a mask to her face and told her to simply breathe deep and count backward or recite some poetry. Nabooru hardly made it through a line of a Gerudo poem she did happen to memorize before the gas clouded her brain and muddled her words. Her eyes fluttered closed, the tension in her body eking out of her, her hands balled into tight relaxing as she succumbed to sleep.

#:: nabooru ☀#:: u7 recruited ☀#// vegeta ♅#fic: recruited #pre-z shit is my jam #and im glad to be writing shit in that realm

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azure7539arts · 4 years

Photo

Beacon

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Blaze + Reverse a common trope

Warning: Angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, possession, idiots

Summary: One day, perhaps people will forget that a Flame Alchemist has ever existed, but the same can never be said of his subordinates. And today is not that day anyway.

Or: 00Q but Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood AU

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble… And here we are. Again. If you find this intro familiar, thanks for reading Sword! If you have no idea what Sword is and just know my penchant for biting off more than I can chew, please refer to my previous post. Thanks!

Also, look, @solarmorrigan, pyrokinesis! And @opalescentgold, because you know the fandom and may appreciate some references. Damn, I have been dying for a FMA AU for. so. long. And now I’ve managed to somehow realize it into fruition. Jeez. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!

Q couldn’t stand. The rush of adrenaline and sheer agony were urging his heart into overdrive, as if in beating a punishing pace right then, it would somehow make up for the gaping hole wedged in his side.

He bit back a sharp cry, alchemy flaring as bright as the pulsing pain invading his system. In what was either an eternity or no time at all, the wound was cauterized in a fit of smoke and sizzling burnt flesh, effectively staunching the intolerable amount of blood loss in a matter of seconds. His head spun.

(For as long as he’d lived, Q had wished for a lot of things. Right then, though, there was only one thought that kept repeating itself in the confines of his mind—)

Footsteps were approaching. Q scrambled to get to his feet with whatever remaining strength he had left and snapped his fingers again. Vicious ropes of flames sprang forth like spiteful cobras, eliciting an intense wall of fire that stood guard between him and his would-be captor.

One steel arm shot out from among the blaze and seized him by the throat.

Q choked.

The rest of that body stepped through quickly enough, like an emerging monster materializing from the depths of hellfire.

“Ultimate shield, remember?”

Q clawed uselessly at the still squeezing hand around his throat. “L–Lieutenant—” he wheezed, bitter reluctance warring with his struggling will to survive. “Bond—”

“Hm?” The steel receded, and Bond looked back at him now, head tilting to the side. “What, the old owner of this body?” He tutted, visibly frustrated despite the good humor gleaming in those too sharp eyes. “I told you: He’s gone—he’s become one with the stone. I’m the one in charge now, and the name is Greed.”

He grinned, and Q’s guts twisted at the sight, eyes watering from the lack of oxygen. (He could still hear the sound of Bond’s screams piercing all the way down the long corridors. The way his body had writhed and bucked in violent pain as it died and regenerated again and again, rejecting the philosopher’s stone that had been wrongfully injected into it. The way he had suddenly gone lax while Q had done his best to burn through the literal living wall of obstacles out of existence to get to him.)

He gathered all his strength to curl up his legs and kick Bond in the stomach.

No, not Bond. (But that was still his face.)

Not anymore. (Still his eyes, his voice, the low gravel of his laughter, chest-deep and oh so warm.)

Just Greed.

(What if he was still in there?)

The momentum of that kick thrusted Q out of the vice-like grip as he landed onto the ground with a dull thud. A twang of stabbing pain in his side knocked the air out of his lungs, distracting him from the stings of having steel claws dug long strips into either side of his throat.

(The thing was that: if he really was still in there…)

“Damn it,” Bond—Greed—hissed, staggering back before steadying himself with an annoyed huff of breath.

Like this, Q recognized that whoever was in front of him then, despite appearing and sounding exactly like him, didn’t have the firm stance that Bond had always maintained, edged into his bones from all the arduous training he’d put himself through.

The red Ouroboros tattoo on the back of his left hand seared into Q’s vision like a brand, as though sealing a death sentence.

(... If he really was still in there, Bond wouldn’t have willingly punched a hole straight through Q.)

Once the thought sank in, Q’s stomach plummeted.

“Could you stop being such a nuisance?” Greed clicked his tongue.

When he tried to reach out again, molten fire engulfed the room at another snap of the fingers.

And in the roaring flames, Q screamed.

He wakes with a startled gasp, cold sweat breaking all over.

It takes a moment, but the familiar ceiling of his office finally shifts into focus once more, and Q lets out a shuddered sigh. The documents he was looking at lie strewn across the littered desk surface right where he left them, and at this very moment, the phone rings, shattering the disquiet that has settled over his foggy mind.

He doesn’t notice the long overcoat that’s, apparently, been laid over his person while he slept until he reaches over to make a grab for the handset. It slides down from over his shoulders and pools in the middle of his lap with a rustling of fabric.

Q purses his lips and picks up, free hand settling over his now healed side to ease the aching phantom pain.

“Yes.”

“Brigadier General, sir,” the operator greets. “Major General Moneypenny is on the line for you.”

“Put her through.”

The line clicks after a final ‘yes, sir,’ and instantly, Eve’s voice filters through from the other side. “Why am I not surprised that you’re still there despite the atrocious hours.” It isn’t a question, and he smiles.

“Hypocrite,” he replies without heat, thumb smoothing along the raised ridges of those scars that he can still feel even through the thick layers of his uniform. “How has Briggs been welcoming you back?”

“Oh, you know, the usual warmth and sunshine,” she says, a joking lilt to her tone, and Q winces just from imagining the howling gales of a normal Briggs snowstorm that must be sweeping through the barracks even as they speak. “Now, enough of your diversion scheme. How are things on your side?”

Q thinks he’s too tired to do much of anything else and chooses the easy way out. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Eve hums, entirely unconvinced, but doesn’t point out that his answer isn’t all that she asked. She knows him too well by now to press. “Sometimes, though, I do wonder if you should’ve just retired and gone to Rush Valley to do whatever it is that you automail enthusiasts do.”

The sentiment sends a soft snort through his nose. Not that he doesn’t wish to be a simple automail mechanic from time to time, especially when the price paid doesn’t seem equivalent to subsequent results, but in life, simple wants and actual needs are two different things.

They’ve all learnt this the hard way.

Even so, Q appreciates Eve looking out for him. Thousands of miles away, she’s still one of the few people who truly know and understand him. One of the few whom he trusts with his life. “Oh, definitely—once I find someone suitable to man the post for me, that is,” he muses, only half-serious. “No promises otherwise.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Sir.”

“Come in,” he calls and straightens up, popping the crick in his neck. “Gotta go now. Send my regards to Captain Tanner, would you? God knows the length that man’s gone to to keep up with you.”

Eve laughs, and he smiles, too, just as Bond walks in and closes the door behind him.

(There’s no Ouroboros tattoo on his hand, Q notes and subconsciously relaxes.)

(He shouldn’t feel bad for it—but he does anyway. Just the same as Bond, who didn’t mean to lose control long enough for Greed to hurt Q the way he did.

Emotions are fickle things.)

Eve has gone quiet for a long second as well, probably considering her words. In a way, Q feels he already knows what they are going to be, and grim satisfaction paints his tongue when what she says next is precisely just that, “How’s First Lieutenant Bond?”

How are things between you two, goes unsaid, but he hears it loud and clear nonetheless.

Bond is patiently waiting for him—hands tucked behind his back, perfect military posture, too proper and formal to bear—and Q squeezes the coat that remains in his lap.

(He misses the casual dynamics, easy tandem they used to have. One not laden with guilt and second-guessing.

It’s just one more hurdle for them to work through, he supposes.

Together.)

“We’re… getting there,” he replies, mildly surprised by his own honesty. “Talk to you later. Goodbye, Major General.”

He hangs up, and Bond has gotten closer, despite maintaining a minimum distance of three steps.

Q crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits, eyes expectant.

Eventually, Bond can’t but break the silence. “Was that Major General Moneypenny, sir?”

Q suppresses a sigh and nods. “Yes. Just one of her usual check-ins.” He pauses. “She did ask about you, about us, and how we were doing. And I said we were getting there—you heard.”

When Bond doesn’t reply, Q narrows his eyes, shrewd. “So, are we, Lieutenant? Getting there?” Most likely, he’s coming off much harsher than he originally planned, but Q doesn’t give a damn about that. Not right now. “You said you were following me to the top. Is this how you intend on doing it? By pretending to be a good little model soldier while keeping me at arm’s length?”

At this, Bond seems to further straighten, if that’s still physically possible. There’s steel in his eyes, but not the lost, abandoned kind given into avarice like that of Greed.

It’s all just sheer solid nerve and hardened integrity. It’s all Bond and so much more.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect and help you reach your goal—”

“Don’t you get it? You can’t protect me for damn if you’re always three steps away from me! That only means we’re no longer the team you seem to think we are.” Q’s mouth twists into a snarl. “Do you understand what I’m getting at, Bond?”

Bond turns his head away, staring out into the endless expanse of the night through the large panel of Q’s windows. Bond has never liked them, these ‘uselessly big windows that Central Command seems to prefer for their offices.’ Makes his job harder than it already is, he said.

Q tears himself away from the sudden memory.

“My only mission is to protect you,” Bond grinds out, hands that have fallen to his sides clenching into fists.

“And you have not failed.” Q’s voice has somewhat softened as he stands and clears his throat. “What happened, back then. It just means that we need to update our measures of counterattacks.”

They stare at each other now, mutual challenge shining in their eyes like a beacon to safety in the middle of a raging storm.

(“Q. I’m sorry.” Bond said, desperation ripping his voice raw and vulnerable. Q had never heard him like this. “I–I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.”

“James, there’s nothing to forgive.”)

“We can discuss that tomorrow, then.” Bond bends down to pick up Q’s coat from the floor and gives it a few perfunctory pats before handing it back over, a tentative smirk on his lips. “Are you ready to go home for the night, sir?”

Q scoffs and takes it, not hiding his own smile. “Just about.”

It’s a long road ahead, but they’re getting there all right.

Bonus art:

#00q #teambondvillains #007 fest #007 fest 2020 #my art #my writing #my drawing

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twokinkybeans · 4 years

Text

Stark On Ice Chapter 3: 7 A.M.

7 A.M.: “Seriously, another romantic song? What the fuck, Steve.”

Peter bites down his bottom lip at Tony’s snarky reply to the song reveal. It’s Monday morning, and they’re discussing their plan for the upcoming week. They’re looking at their seventh show already and from now on they’ll have to perform two choreos rather than just one. It’s safe to say that Tony is stressed. He’s tired. Tired of the intensive training for a sport he’d never done in his life. Tired of the country’s eyes on him. Of course, he’s used to being in the center of attention, but never before had his sexuality been such a hot item. Peter knows how much pressure there is on him right now, and he doesn’t really blame him for feeling on edge. However, he will not allow the man to scold their friend and coach just like that. “Tony, come on, it’s-” “Oh,” Tony waves his hand dismissively. “Shut up.”

What?

Peter scoffs and raises from his seat. Tony’s lips part and Peter can see the regret crossing his face. He feels bad for the man, but he’s not going to let himself be treated this way. He doesn’t want to practice lifts when the man is this tense. So he grabs his bag and sighs. “Alright, then. Go home, take care of yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Wha-” He hears Tony’s dumbfounded voice behind him. Peter simply ignores it and lets out a small breath when the door falls shut behind him. He almost feels guilty about walking away without saying another word. Without giving Tony a chance to speak.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they’ll discuss it properly.

He heads towards the rink downstairs and smiles at the familiar, comforting cold when he steps inside. It’s not like Tony is the only one who’s made sacrifices to participate in the contest. It’s been too long since Peter just… Skated. No choreo, no teaching, just flowing wherever the music takes him. Since it’s only 7 am the rink is still nearly empty. Peter sits down at one of the benches and slides his feet inside the skates. He doesn’t even bother taping his ankles the way he usually does to protect his skin. He won’t be on the ice too long anyways. He- “Hey, Pete.” Peter turns around and is surprised to see MJ standing on the ice and leaning on the edge of the rink. “Hey hey,” he replies, forcing a smile on his lips. He enjoys seeing her, but somehow the little incident with Tony has crept under his skin. “Trouble in paradise, huh?” “Ugh, Tony’s a genuinely nice man, but he’s awfully stressed out and taking it out on Steve and me.” “So you left?” “Mh-mh.” “Cool. That’ll do him some good. Now get your ass over here and skate with me.”

Peter smiles and gets up, letting his worries glide off his shoulders when he feels the smooth ice allowing him to slide across. This is where he belongs most. This is where he feels free. MJ grins and grabs both his hands. She too is meant for figure skating. Her grace, her passion, her- Peter frowns and tightens his grip on her hands a little. His head snaps up worriedly. Her fingers are rough and chafed. And thin. “Michelle,” he breathes quietly. The girl freezes right where she stands, and he feels the tension rising in her body. “Peter, it’s nothing I swear.” “Then how did you know what I was gonna say?”

MJ presses her lips together and pulls her hands back. She crosses her arms in an attempt to hide them. Peter takes a quick glance at her body and feels panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t been paying attention. Hadn’t seen it coming. Her thin frame is showing more bone than it usually does. He spots how she tried to use a thicker pair of leggings to cover it up, but he knows her. “It’s…” MJ sighs. She knows that he knows. “It’s not as bad as it used to be.” Her voice is small and defensive. Scared. Peter’s heart tugs at his chest and he bridges the gap between them. MJ relaxes slightly in his hold. How hadn’t he seen it earlier? “Has anyone… Said, y’ know, stuff to you?” Peter asks carefully. MJ shakes her head right away. “Not directly. It’s...” Her voice trails off, and she stares at her toe picks. “YouTube is different than national television. People have strong opinions. If they don’t like Clint, they hate me. If they love Clint, they hate me. I… My thoughts… They try to come up with a solution on how to fix that.” “Em…” “Peter, please. Don’t worry about it too much ‘kay? I’ve already told Pep. She’s getting me a referral to Dr. Banner again.”

Peter stares at her in awe and tears cloud his vision. “I am so proud of you,” he chokes out and hugs her again, more tightly this time. She’s been struggling again, but… She spoke to her coach about it. Pepper is fantastic, she’ll definitely make sure MJ gets the care she needs so much. He feels her smile against his cheek, and he sighs. It’s not the first time she’s struggled with food. It’s hard, in the ice skating world. Most skaters have… a handful of bad habits to cope with the stress of upholding their physique and nailing every performance. Peter has a bad habit of not taking good care of his blistered toes until he literally can’t walk. Sometimes, he pulls an all-nighter just to watch stupid movies on Instagram or TikTok or whatever, because the thought of laying down in the dark by himself is too much. It’s not right, but… He thinks he’s still doing reasonably well. Not aiming for the Olympics definitely helps. The thought alone has him shudder.

MJ nudges his side, and the movement has him break from his string of thought. “Wanna skate together?” MJ’s posture stills show how uncertain she feels, but her eyes light up at her mere suggestion, so Peter can’t say no. He never could. Not his skating partner and friend. “Of course, I… Did you eat this morning?” MJ presses her lips together again, but nods. “I… Yeah. I did. Not much, but enough to train. I promise.” “Good. Alright, let’s go through Watermelon Sugar?” “Ohhhh yes, I’d love that!”

Breathe me in, breathe me out, I don’t know if I could ever go without.

After an hour of training, Peter called for a break. In all honesty, he just didn’t want MJ to overtrain. He invited her into his little studio for a second breakfast instead. She’s seated at his kitchen table now while Peter preps their meal. “So about you and Tony-”

Her sentence is cut off by Peter’s phone vibrating on top of the kitchen counter. Incoming Call: Tony Stark. For a split second Peter debates whether he should ignore or pick up. He low-key wants to hear what Tony has to say. He taps the green button and brings the phone to his ear, sliding his other hand through his hair nervously. “Hi, Tony.” “Peter, hey.” Quiet. “Thank you for picking up.” “Yeah.” “I… I am sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” Tony whispers. “Or Steve, of course.”

Peter frowns a little, but a smile creeps onto his face. He honestly hadn’t thought that Tony Stark would apologize this soon. “Mmmh, apologies accepted, Tony. Thank you for calling me. I’m sorry too, I probably shouldn’t have left.” “Would… Would you be up for a cup of coffee later? My treat, of course.” Peter eyes MJ real quickly. The girl, who has already figured out what’s happening, waves her hand quickly. “Go!” she mouths. Peter grins. “Yeah, sure thing.” And feeling a little bold, he adds. “Only if you come to pick me up in one of your fancy cars personally.” Both MJ and Tony snort in unison. “Deal.”

Peter sips his mocha latte and groans quietly when a dot of whipped cream sticks to his upper lip. He sucks his lip into his mouth and sighs contently. Only then he realizes that Tony is watching him. Peter blushes, and-

Oh god. He blushed. He blushed. Nononono-

“I, eh,” he stutters and puts the mug down. He wants to say something but he has no clue what. He can’t shake the feeling that the way they’re hanging out now very much resembles a date. God, especially since MJ showed him this… fanfiction thing earlier this morning. He’s heard of the phenomenon before, but never in his whole life did he think that one day people would be writing about him. MJ told him ever so seriously that she had, in fact, read some of them, and she’d been gushing about this Superhero AU where Peter is a kid with spider powers and Tony a mechanic that built a metal suit to fight off Earth’s greatest villains. As she explained the plot, Peter had to admit it did sound rather creative. No clue why someone would give him weird insect powers, but if it works, it works, right?

It’s just that he… He never quite realized how smitten he is with Tony until MJ quoted a love scene, causing Peter to feel this stab of jealousy in his chest because fiction-Peter could have Tony, and he couldn’t. So now, with Tony watching him like that, it seems like a slight overload of his senses. It has him paralyzed. Good or bad, he hasn’t figured out yet. Thank God it’s Tony who breaks the silence between them.

“I wanted to apologize for earlier today, Peter. I’m not sure what came over me, I… I panicked.” Tony sighs and stares at the floor. Peter’s earlier worries moving to the back of his mind. He feels they’re treading on thin ice. “Y’know Peter, my dad… He was very much against homosexuality. Always warned me. Threatened me. I know he’s not here to judge me anymore but… It feels wrong that the entirety of the US knows now… It’s- I don’t-” Tony can’t seem to find the right words and he casts his eyes down. His fingers curling around the ear of the mug a bit too tightly. His knuckles white, other hand pressed into the wooden table. Peter swallows. Carefully, he reaches out for Tony’s shaky hand. “Hey,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Tony lifts his head slowly at those words. Peter’s heartbeat picks up rapidly when he sees Tony’s longing, no- yearning stare. Could this mean… It feels far too intimate and yet not close enough where their hands are touching. Peter slowly curls his fingers to drag the tips across the back of the man’s hand. Tony clears his throat. “I…” his voice sounds squeaky and tense. “It feels wrong that the entire US has seen how I fell in love with you, and I barely even registered it.”

Peter can’t seem to breathe anymore. He blinks. Once. Twice. Did Tony really just say that? He feels sweaty, hot all over. Flustered, confused. He opens his mouth only to shut it again and blows his cheeks up- a stupid nervous tick. Tony’s hand twitches underneath his own, and then the man tries to slide it back. “Peter, I’m so sorry, I thought maybe-” Peter grabs Tony’s hand more tightly. “ Yes. ” Peter rushes as he suddenly finds his voice again. “Tony... Yes. I feel the same way.”

Both men stare at each other intently. Their hands painstakingly close, yet they both press into each other a bit more. Peter’s gaze drops to Tony’s slightly parted lips. Oh, how he wants to kiss him. How he wants to feel the rough stubble against his cheeks. He wants to taste the dark, bitter espresso lingering on the man’s tongue as they breathe into each other. When Peter looks up, he can see the exact same thoughts crossing Tony’s mind and he gasps. The older man groans and pulls his hand back quickly.

“We can’t. Not… Not in here, Peter.” “Too public, I get it.” “Yeah.” “I-” Peter’s voice is cut off by the sudden loud ringtone playing from Tony’s phone. The man curses under his breath and grabs it from the table. “Shit, it’s Happy. I gotta take this one,” Tony apologizes, and Peter nods. The boy leans back in his chair and licks his lips absentmindedly as he gestures for Tony to pick up. He doesn’t quite follow what Tony says to his assistant. Chauffeur. PA. Whatever Happy’s function is. All he sees is how Tony’s expression darkens and he knows it’s not a good sign. Tony rambles on and then ends the call. Peter tilts his head. “You have to go, don’t you?” Peter sees the way Tony’s expression falters and sighs when the man nods. Confirming his suspicions. “I am so so so sorry, you have no idea how badly I want to stay here, with… With you.” Tony’s voice sounds so soft and gentle, and a downhearted smile tugs on his lips. Peter wants to bridge the gap between them and kiss him anyways. Make him stay. But he knows that Tony runs a business. If it’s important, it’s important. “Go. We have time.” “Yeah,” Tony breathes. He leans forward again and quickly squeezes Peter’s hand. “We do.”

Peter watches how Tony grabs his jacket and gives him one last dazzling smile before hurrying out of the little cafe. Peter huffs a bewildered breath now that reality crashes down on him. He smiles into the distance as he picks up his mocha latte and chuckles to himself when he realizes he’s counting down the hours until tomorrow morning, 7 am. That’s when they’ll see each other again in the rink. He smiles when he realizes that their song is, indeed, yet again, a romantic song.

I been tryna call I been on my own for long enough Maybe you can show me how to love, maybe

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Masterpost Next Chapter

#adult peter parker #starker #stark on ice #figure skating au #peter parker #tony x peter #peter x tony #tony stark #fanfiction #fan fiction #fandom #fanfic #fan fic #marvel #mcu

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timeforelfnonsense · 3 years

Text

Mistress Wit

Wyll x Criella

Rating: T

Ao3

With Patch 3 out now, I decided to make another bg3 oc to romance Wyll! Dafni will still be the main character so to speak of my bg3 writing with Criella serving as a secondary protag & member of the party in Sunshine and Starlight. She and Wyll will also be getting their own little collection with Dafni & Astarion serving a similar role! However, as my writing is pretty ship centered you wouldn't really need to read one to enjoy the other!

Prologue

Criella brought her hands above her head, fists pounding against the transparent shield that kept her snuggly trapped in the mind flayer pod. If she could just find a weak spot…

Ah-ha!

It was faint but, Criella spotted a hairline fracture in the upper right portion of the glass. Perfect. Her tail dipped into the worn leather bag strapped to her thigh seeking her tinker’s tools. If she could just find her mallet she’d be able to shatter the glass and free herself from her confines. She reached for the top of her head, pulling her goggles over her eyes. With one precise strike, the mallet made contact with the pod’s lid. What had started as a single small fracture now spread across the whole surface in a spiderweb of spits and breaks. Carefully, her fingertips traced the somatic symbol needed to cast a gust cantrip.

“Ventus!” With the command spoken a small tempest broke free of her palms sending shards of glass flying across the clearing.

Her boots hit the ground with a soft thunk, the collateral of her escape crunching beneath her feet. She scanned her surroundings nose wrinkling with repugnance. This was definitely not Waterdeep. She’d crashlanded in some sort of hinterlands located god knows where. She brought her fingertips to her temples rubbing away the tension with little circles. She needed to locate civilization and quickly. It was only a matter of time before the dangerous effects of the tadpole squirming behind her eye would manifest.

She dug around her bag until her hand found its target. A spyglass forged of brass, runes of her creation glowing across the tarnished cylinder. Pushing her googles back up, she pressed the scope to her eye looking out into the forest. Her mind tingled, the Spyglass of Clairvoyance reveling a small settlement nestled in a nearby grove. It was no city of splendor but it was a lead. The only one she had anyway. Perhaps, whoever called the grove home would be able to point her towards the nearest healer if they didn’t have one of their own. Her body ached from the top of her horns to the tip of her tail. Even if they couldn’t see to the parasite they could ease the discomfort of being crammed into a pod had caused.

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Criella sat atop a traveler’s chest, her tail flicking idle from side to side. The groves healer had just set out alongside a mercenary band just recently. Meaning her only choice was to doodled among the druids until their Master Halsin returned. She let out a huff of air, blowing away a stray strand of straight, lilac hair from her eyes. If someone were asked to rattle off a list of locations they might find Criella Wit of Waterdeep, a druid’s grove would certainly not have been among them. She’d never been one for nature’s charms. Given the choice between a bustling market or a quiet glen, Criella would have picked the crowded walkways and noisy rabble of the city to the glen every time. At least she was among kin. All around her other Tieflings mulled about weary faced as they set to packing up what little they had. Criella’s gloved fingertips tapped out an anxious rhythm on the side of the chest. Criella knew better than most that right and wrong could be terms with objective definitions. But turning out helpless refugees and children? That was wrong by every definition. She had sat in Zevlor’s quarters discussing the events that lead his people to take refuge among The Oak Father’s servants. They had come from Eturel originally- Collateral damage in the wake of post-Decent xenophobia. People who had once been treasured friends and neighbors became easy scapegoats for the suffering Elturel’s people experienced in the hells. Her grip on the chest tightened. Were it not for the black leather gloves her pointed fingernails would certainly have left a mark on its suede surface. Well, if the druids weren’t going to help she would. She pulled out a well-weathered note pad and nub of charcoal. She could adapt her design for the Protector canon with relative ease. She’d have to find a way to streamline and simplify it given her the groves appalling lack of anything metal. What she wouldn’t do for steel and iron! Perhaps their smith would have some to spare though she doubted it by the state of his forge. “What are you drawing?” a tiny sing-song voice asked. Criella glanced up from her work. A little tiefling girl of no more than 10, was staring owlishly over the edge of her notebook. Criella’s lips quirked, tuning the book so the girl could get a better look at her scribblings. “It’s a diagram of an Eldritch Canon. I’ve made hundreds of the things but today I’m working on one just for you and your friends. To keep you safe.” She explained, tapping the tip of her finger to the sketch, “It’s sort of a… a mechanical cleric! If anyone gets hurt on the road it might be able to help.” “You can make that?” The child whisperer reverently. “I can make anything.” Criella winked, “Just give time and the right tools.” “Could you teach me?” She asked, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly, “I want to be able to make anything! I want to help! I’m not good at fighting or sneaking like the others maybe I’m good at making things!” Criella let out a chime of warm laughter. The little girl’s eyes were full of wonder and optimism despite all she and her kin had endured recently. She’d too had been more interested in tomes and tinkering as a girl. While her peers were swinging sticks and imagining themselves as knights and guardsmen, little Ella would climb the tallest tree in the yard and name it Blackstaff Tower. “Well I can’t teach you how to make everything in just one day but, I can show you a few things.” Criella brought her hand to her lips, sharp teeth tugging the grove from her left hand. With a heartfelt smile she extended her hand to her would-be apprentice, “They call me Misstress Wit of Waterdeep but since we are friends, you can call me Criella.”

Wyll walked the length of the makeshift training ground. Adjusting postures and offering up every word of tender engorgement he knew. The tiefling children had been ecstatic to meet a ‘real-life hero’, bombarding him with sweet, curious questions the moment he stepped through the gate. After such a warm welcome teaching a few sparing lessons while he waited for Halsin to return, was the least he could do. These children had already witnessed more than many noble old men would in their whole lives. They should have been chasing frogs, enjoying their childhoods without fear. Not training for battles they couldn’t win. Despite the cheerless nature of his thoughts, Wyll put on his warmest, bordering on a fatherly grin. “Not bad! Not bad! Now, remember not to keep yourself so open.” He instructed demonstrating his instruction for a little boy with rusty hair, “Like this.” “Keep it up little one. You’ll be a fine warrior one day!” A lovely voice called. The gentle, golden timbre belonged to a statuesque tiefling woman. Wyll’s heart sputtered a bit when her soft silver eyes fell across his face. A dazzling smile on her rose-petal pink lips. Walking beside her was a child- Nalia, the little girl with a missing horn. He’d invited her to spar but she’d only blushed and ran off. “Wyll! I look at what I made!” Nalia shouted dragging the pretty-pink woman along behind her. When she reached the ring she pulled free a small metal gadget no bigger than her palm. The steal contraption glowed with a soft purple light. It’s slivery surface marked with an inscription: Be Brave, scrawled in infernal. “Aren’t you clever!” He said crouching down to admire her handiwork, “What is it?” “It’s an eldritch canon!” She rolled her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world The woman stifled a giggle, covering her grin with the back of her gloved hand. “Is that safe?” He asked cocking an eyebrow at the smirking beauty. “Yes! think of it as a mechanical cleric, Wyll!” Nalia said winking at her companion, “I’m going to be an artificer just like Mistress Wit!” “That’s right!” Wit nodded, “I think you’ve done enough work for today apprentice. Go on, take the rest of the day off...” As Wit trailed off a strange feeling began to unwind in Wyll's mind. The sights and smells of an unfamiliar harbor city danced across his senses. He could almost feel the sea breeze on his face. He saw a workshop so organized and meticulous it reminded him of his time with The Fist. He felt the uneven surface of cobbles stone under his feet as he tore after a thief, tears stinging at his eyes as the hooded figure mad off with the last project he and a half-drow woman had planned before she left. Lastly the memory of being confined to a pod and dragged to the hells. Wit blinked back at him dazed. Her slender nose wrinkled, her lips turned down in a worried grimace. “We should talk.”

Criella sat across from the Wyll at a shabby picnic table, poking at her gruel with a wooden spoon. The old woman had called it vegetable soup but remind her too much of the oil she used for in some of her machines to be palpable. “Not much for stew eh?” He teased taking a long sip of his bowl, “You haven’t spent much time in the wilds, have you?” “I am I that obvious?” she giggled, “I’m from Waterdeep- I’ve lived there all my life. Not much work out here in the woods for someone in my line of work.” Wyll tilted his head, bringing his chin to rest along the top of his knuckles, “Oh? And what is your line of work Wit?” He hadn’t heard of her? How strange. She was something of an arcane darling back home. If you asked someone where to inspired spellwork or magical mending. If they had any sense they would give you one answer: Wit and Wander. Well- Just Wit since Zoria had left for Neverwinter with her new wife…. “I’m many things; wizard, artificer, genius. Take your pick.” Wyll chuckled raising his tankard in approval of her assuredness, “Impressive.” “And what about you Wyll?” She said playfully, “Let me guess? You are a soldier. Mercenary? No, you are too upstanding to be a sellsword.” “They call me the Blade of the Frontiers.” He stated with a proud nod before continuing “Monster hunter. Hero. Protector of the common folk.” “The Blade of Frontiers? Now that’s a name!” She whistled, “And I thought Misstess Wit was a clever epithet! Now tell me Blade- How did you find yourself aboard the nautiloid?” Before he could respond the sound of a war horn rang out across the grove. Zevlor sprinting past them as shouting about a goblin siege at the front gate. Both adventures sprung to their feet as panic spread among the refugees. “Alright Blade.” Criella purred pulling her storm canon from the holster at her hip, “Let see if you live up to the legend.”

#bg3 oc #Wyll #elf writes #bg3 early access #Criella Wit

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absentlyabbie · 4 years

Photo

The Narrative Mechanics of Kissing

booklovers au

@storiesofimagination prompted me for this au and “first kiss” and got, well, 10 pages of... this. enjoy :)

------

Tommy hunched over the keyboard, brow furrowed and fingers flying, deep in the zone as he drafted the next scene of his current manuscript. Perhaps it was the creative influx of innovating a new corner of the genre, but he felt like a live wire, harnessed, all intensity and electric force funneled to a purpose.

He was focus distilled, passion refined, a towering inferno of zeal and concentration—

Behind him, stifled laughter exploded inelegantly against a suppressing palm, and Tommy blinked hard, sitting up with a sharp and startled breath.

Snapped abruptly out of the escalator of flowery synonyms that had been running in the back of his head, Tommy looked at the screen and frowned hard.

“Wha…? That can’t be right,” he muttered, incredulous at the three slim paragraphs gracing an otherwise blank page. He would have sworn he’d written thousands, pages of words.

Another muffled laugh ended with a snort, and Tommy rolled his eyes heavenward and swiveled his chair to direct his frown at the blonde lying on his couch. Felicity had her bare feet propped against the armrest, hair spread golden and curling across the cushion. Pink lips pressed in a bitten grin, cheeks red as she swallowed another giggle, eyes focused on the several stapled pages she held over her head.

“Okay,” he drawled dryly, “I know I’m a master of wit and all, but I know for a fact nothing that funny happens in that chapter.”

Felicity jolted like she’d forgotten about him, to his stifled annoyance, and she lifted herself on one elbow and lay the pages on her stomach. “Um.” She snuck a finger under her glasses to wipe dampness from her lashes. “Not intentionally funny, no.”

His head pulled back, brows jumping high in affront. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” Felicity winced, but there was still a smile in it. “Do you want me to lie and massage your ego?”

Tommy’s mouth worked and cheeks burned, speechless for a moment with equal parts embarrassment and wounded pride. He swallowed it manfully and cleared his throat. “Of course not. You are here as an editor, and I am a fully grown man.” He made a wheeling motion with his hand. “Spit it out. What’s so funny?”

She pushed herself up and swung her legs around to fold them on the cushions, propping her elbows on her knees and leaning forward. She lifted the pages in front of her and cleared her throat before dramatically reading out, “‘Annie melted against the hard planes of the vigilante’s leather-clad body as his lips crushed against hers. Her skin was electric under his touch, the commanding press of his mouth intoxicating. Her lips parted on a gasp, and his tongue swept into her mouth, battling her own for domination.’” She looked up at him over her glasses, one eyebrow sharply arched. “Do you need me to go on?”

Arms folding defensively, Tommy leaned back in his chair, one leg sticking out long. “What’s wrong with it? That scene is barely even starting.”

Felicity scoffed, eyes rolling and lips curved sardonically. “Oh trust me, I know, it gets worse from here.”

His shoulders hunched and he would be lying if he said that didn’t sting, a little. “I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

She sighed longsufferingly, her posture deflating and back collapsing into the couch. “It’s so…” her hand wheeled in the air, nose wrinkling as she chose her word. “Cheesy .”

Tommy’s jaw set, irritation and surprise tightening his shoulders and the fists tucked under his elbows. “You’re aware that this is romance. I know that’s not your preferred genre for personal reading, but cheesy is kind of part of the landscape. I’ve put up with plenty of condescending criticism about the lack of literary merits to my chosen field, but I have to say I didn’t expect it from you.”

Felicity’s brows raised, the look she gave him cool. “Are you done? Because that is not what I meant. This isn’t romance-genre-hallmark cheesy, it’s just… not good kissing.”

His reflexive genre-defensiveness dropped at that astounding pronouncement and he leaned forward, hands gripping his armrests, face incredulous. “What? What’s wrong with it! You usually like my kissing, you have specifically noted how hot my sexy scenes are.”

Felicity sat up again primly. “And most of the time they are, especially when you’re not falling back on outdated phrasing and boring gender tropes from the eighties and nineties.”

“Outdated…?” Tommy repeated, affronted. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose, pushing down his temper. “Okay. Break it down for me. Tell me exactly what’s so wrong about it.”

“Gladly,” Felicity chirped, raising the pages again. “I mean, firstly, the whole thing where all of a sudden Cris is super dominating and aggressive, it kinda really threw me. Especially since Annie is just, like, totally into it? Makes no sense for who you’ve been establishing them to be. It’s just totally cut-and-paste lead-couple dynamics. I’m not trying to say you phoned this one in, but I know damn well you can do better by them.”

Tommy worked his jaw back and forth, trying to mull over her points and not just be annoyed at them. “So… you think their attitudes should be different.”

“Yes ,” Felicity enthused, eyes alight. “Cris has all this trauma and these hangups about his self worth and, like, smoldering-but-wounded intensity, right? So why is he this hypermasculine dominator all of a sudden? And how is that a thing that gets Annie off? Everything you’ve done with her so far, even with you being all deliberately obscure about her personal history, I would have expected her to instantly and firmly rebuff this kind of aggression, not…” her nose wrinkled again, “melt .”

Tommy propped his chin on his interlaced fingers, squinting thoughtfully over her argument. He exhaled heavily, nodding. “Okay, I get where you’re coming from. I guess I was just trying to give the reader what I thought would excite them in a sexy-superhero-romance first kiss, and I sidelined the actual characters in that. So… I guess Cris would be less looming and more…”

He bit at his bottom lip, groping blindly in his head for the word he wanted.

“Sensual?” Felicity offered.

“Sensual,” Tommy agreed. “And maybe even kind of tentative. Not sure if she was feeling what he was feeling.”

“Right.” Felicity nodded excitedly. “Absolutely. Especially since she doesn’t even know who he is under the hood yet, and honestly I wasn’t gonna bring it up now, but it seems way too early for the first kiss to me, like the dynamic should grow more and be more push-pull for a bit?” She lifted her hands and shook her head, cutting off her runaway train of thought. “But that’s a different, plot-and-pacing conversation, and we are discussing the narrative mechanics of kissing.”

Tommy watched her flip through the pages, mentally shelving his questions about her issues with the pacing to focus on one thing at a time. “Speaking of, you said it was bad kissing. The gender dynamics and out of character stuff I get, but how is the actual kissing bad?”

The face Felicity pulled was almost pitying. “When was the last time you enjoyed someone trying to ‘battle’ your tongue for dominance?” She even made air quotes.

Tommy opened his mouth, tilted his head. Directed his eyes towards the ceiling and memory.

“Exactly,” Felicity supplied smugly. “Bad kissing. I mean, literally think about it. Are they surrendering to physical chemistry and an unspoken connection, or are they fighting over possession of a peppermint?”

Tommy grimaced. “Point taken.” Then, skeptically, “Is that all, though?”

The scrunch of her mouth was almost apologetic.

Tommy flopped back in his chair, head rolling as he released a groan. “What else?”

“Their staging is kinda weird?”

He lifted his head and squinted at her. “Staging?”

“You know, the positions they’re in.” She shifted her torso to one side, hands raised in some configuration she seemed to think was a demonstration. “Like, how they’re standing, the ways they’re touching.”

Tommy squinted more squintily, this time at the wall to his left. He tried to reconstruct the scene in question in his head. “But what’s wrong with it? It’s a classic up-against-a-wall scenario. It’s sexy and intense and it has been turning people on in books and movies and TV for...” he gestured vaguely at the air, “ever.”

“Eh,” Felicity shrugged one shoulder, instantly dismissing a staple of steamy kisses everywhere. “They’re in a chilly alley in the middle of the night, and earlier in the chapter you said it rained. And I mean, maybe a nice, plaster-and-paint indoors wall isn’t so bad, but bricks or cement or whatever? Ew, and also ow.”

“Fair,” Tommy conceded. He wheeled his hand at her. “I know you’ve got more, so hit me.”

The lip-tucked smile she shot him was attempting apology and utterly failing. “The standing thing. Like. Cris is what? Six feet tall? And how tall is Annie?”

“Like five-foot-five.”

Felicity stared at the carpet and poked the tip of her tongue out, thinking. “So roughly my height.” Her gaze pulled to the side, the purse of her lips following it. “That’s a really awkward height difference for that position, right? My neck hurts imagining it.”

Tommy frowned, humming. “I don’t know, I think it would work fine.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Is he bending at the knees or something? Is she standing on a box?”

“Okay, I think we’re getting too bogged down in the practical details nobody is reading this for.” He sighed at her arched brows. “Except you.”

“It can’t only be me,” she drawled, unconvinced. “Stuff like that totally takes me out of the story because I do end up bogged down in practical details that aren’t working. I’m trying to imagine the scene, I want to picture it in my head. Like, I should be caught up in envisioning the sexiness, right? Except I’m trying to block it on my mental stage, and all I can picture is his neck at a ninety degree angle and her head tilted straight back like a baby bird receiving a worm.”

“Gross,” Tommy belted, laughing. “Ah, god, you ruined it for me. We have to change it.”

“Well,” she offered, trying to compromise, “she could be wearing very tall heels?”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, another hum dragging out in his throat. “This feels like a trap. She was just running before this and I feel like you’ll give me hell if I make her do that in giant-ass stilettos.”

She gave him a corny wink and finger guns, at which he scoffed a laugh. “That’s an excellent point, and you thought of it all on your own.”

“I wrote before you, you know,” he warned playfully. “Whole novels. Many, many novels.”

She sighed theatrically. “It’s truly a wonder how you managed that before being graced with my genius.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and teased, “Ugh, shut up. Back on topic, genius.”

She rubbed her hands together like a cartoon villain. “Yes, the weird kissing pose. Stand up.”

“Why?” He dragged the word out suspiciously.

She stood herself, wiggling her hands at him in a “get up” motion. “Because I’m definitely right, but we should still be sure. You’re how tall?”

He slouched deeper into his chair, but reluctantly admitted, “Five-ten.”

She rolled her eyes at his petulance and waved a hand dismissively. “Close enough. Up.”

He heaved an aggrieved sigh and sat up, which was apparently signal enough for Felicity to take hold of his wrists and drag at his arms as if she could haul all 170 pounds of him out of the chair on her own. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

She grinned cheekily as he stood. “Save it for the manuscript.”

“Har,” he deadpanned, lips twitching with the smile he refused to give in to. “Har har.”

“I’ll be here all night,” she shot back in a hokey comedian style.

Tommy snapped his mouth closed at the terrible, terrible sex pun that leapt immediately to mind, keeping it on the inside of his head by sheer willpower as she turned to look at the wall.

She held her hands up as if framing a picture, then turned and put her back against it. “Okay, come here.”

“This is getting a little weird,” he muttered, but did as he was bid.

Frowning like she was trying to solve a puzzle, Felicity took his hands and put them on her waist, then looked down at the inches of carpet between their toes. “Okay, you’re gonna have to step closer.”

He sighed. Shuffled his feet until they were awkwardly close. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and she tipped her head this way and that, looking at the angles of her elbows, measuring the tilt of her chin with her hand.

“Okay, bring your head down.” She frowned up at him, but her eyes were on his neck and not at all on his face.

“This is the least sexy kiss positioning I have ever, and I mean ever, been involved in,” he complained.

“Poor baby,” she crooned mockingly, curling her hand around the back of his neck and applying pressure until he lowered his head.

He stopped when he was close enough he could have brushed noses with her if he were being careless. Her eyes were distractingly close, but still not looking at his face. “My eyes are up here.”

“Huh?” She finally met his gaze, and her mouth—wow, so close—twitched with amusement. “So sorry to make you feel objectified.”

“I do,” he insisted teasingly. “Like a literal object. You want me to have a dressmaker’s dummy delivered for you? Might be even more useful.”

“Certainly less sassy,” she laughed, and adjusted his grip on her waist.

“Sassy,” he drawled. “Yes, the adjective that has dogged me all my life.”

Felicity just shook her head, tucking away the left corner of her grin and making a dimple stand out on the right. She looked down at their feet and examined every angle of their position, ending with tipping her head back as she kept her hand on the back of his.

His breath caught as the tip of her nose bumped against his, only briefly. Butterflies erupted stupidly in his stomach.

“See, this is fine,” she murmured, making him blink. “But it’s only five inches.”

Tommy choked, jerking his head to the side and bracing one hand on the wall. Laughter strangled in his throat, sending heat into his cheeks. “Only five inches,” he wheezed.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, humor tingeing it as she let her head fall back with a thump against the wall. “You are—you are the worst, you know what I meant!”

He snickered, straightening a little and smiling down at the flush in her cheeks. “Good to know this is the optimum height difference,” he enunciated with a wink, “for up-against-a-wall kissing.”

She shrugged with her mouth, humming uncertainly. “I’m still not convinced it’s comfortable enough to not be distracting from the sexy.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to smirk at her. “It’s been plenty comfortable in my experience.”

“In your—” she narrowed her eyes. “So you’ve done this?”

He chuckled, shrugging one shoulder. “Not especially recently, but enough for a decent sample size, and with people of varying heights.”

She huffed, instantly slumping against the wall. “Why didn’t you just say that instead of going through this whole exercise with me?”

“Well,” he answered, light and airy, “I’ve never been the one against the wall. You still might be onto something. I mean, I’ve never had any complaints, but…”

His grin was half leer, and she made an exaggerated face at him. “Maybe because it’s just five inches,” she replied tartly.

“Oh,” he laughed, raising his head. “Oh, really.”

For a second, the response poised on his tongue was an offer to call Oliver for a demonstration, since he was who Tommy had physically modeled his archer vigilante on. But then the image of it, of Felicity against the wall and Oliver crowded up against her, head bent over her and hers tilted up, soured the words in his mouth. He swallowed them.

With a little cough, he straightened and pulled his hand, forgotten and warmed from the heat of her, from her waist. “So I think the results of this experiment are ambiguous enough to go ahead with nixing the wall kiss.”

Felicity blinked at him as he stepped back, hands rubbing against his jeans pockets. She pushed herself off the wall and quickly past him, back to the couch and the abandoned and much maligned pages. “Right. Yes. So something else there, I think.”

She sat down, focused back on the words he had written, flipping from one page to another. “Okay, but come here. Look at this.”

Breathing in deeply, Tommy sat on the couch beside her, leaning to see the print. “What am I looking at?”

“I mean, you did it before too on the part I read out loud, when the kiss starts, but it happens again here. The whole ‘crushing’ or ‘bruising’ kiss thing. It just doesn’t sound sexy. It sounds ow.”

“Hmm.” His eyes traced the lines til he found the words she had mentioned, and now that he read them over again, he had to admit they weren’t especially stirring. “It was supposed to be kind of a heat of the moment kiss, so it seemed like, I don’t know, the right level of intensity?”

She clicked her tongue. “I could see that for a hard, quick ‘oh my god we almost died’ kind of kiss, but it just goes on like that. And that does not read as hot to me.”

He tapped his fingers against his lips in contemplation, brow furrowed. “Sensual,” he murmured, recalling their earlier discussion about Cris’s character. “So, instead kind of a slow, steamy sort of kiss.”

Felicity hummed, but it was a very different hum from the ones before it. “You are definitely good at those,” she said under her breath. Abruptly, her head came up and she turned a defensive look on him. “Writing. At writing those.”

He exhaled a short laugh, tongue curling over his teeth in a helpless grin. “Trust me, I’m good at both.”

She cleared her throat and looked at him over her glasses. “Well, you could stand to prove it here.” She tapped a finger against the paper.

“Well, I intend to,” he responded archly. “So break it down with me. They’ve just run for their lives and swung into this alley, kind of hiding but also finally pretty sure they’re at a safe distance. She backs up against the wall, he stands close in front of her to, like, human shield or whatever—”

“Didn’t we just say no up-against-the-wall?” Felicity interrupted.

Tommy pursed his lips. “Roll with me here.” He waited til she waved her hand in a magnanimous go on gesture. “So they’re up against the wall, breathing hard, and really close. They stop looking over their shoulders and then look at each other.” He waggled his eyebrows just to make her roll her eyes and do that smile-hiding thing. “The chemistry sky rockets. Heat, sparks, bolts of lightning and tingles in their bits, etceteras, etceteras.”

She smothered a laugh with her hand.

“But,” he bit the t off sharply, “instead of a bruisy-ouch battle of the faces, he leans in, drawn in, like a magnet.”

He leaned in closer, to illustrate. Lifting a hand, he let the fingertips hover just by Felicity’s cheek, not touching, just building the suspense. “They’re close enough to feel each other’s breath on their faces, hot, hurried. The surrender is slow, torturous.”

He bent over Felicity, her breath warm on his chin, her eyes fixed—finally—on his. “This way, the first, slightest brush of their lips is so built up it is itself almost orgasmic. An ecstatic explosion when the brush becomes a press, hot and wet and soft as a promise.”

His voice had lowered to a near-whisper, his chest on fire with the thrill of the tease, the unexpected delight of crafting each word and watching them hit his audience in real time, watching her cheeks flush and eyes darken, hearing her breath catch.

They were closer now even than they had been against the wall, his body curved over her, hand hovering by her face, strands of her hair tickling his knuckles. For a second—too many seconds, both more and less than he could count—the words evaporated from his mouth like water under a scorching sun, and they just held like that, no sound replacing his voice in the absence of the room except the push and pull of their breathing.

His gaze dropped to her lips, parted and temptingly cherry-pink.

The desire to close the gap was followed by a mental bucket of water and he stiffened.

This was Felicity. His beta reader and copy editor. His friend, even. She was here as part of her job, not to be coaxed into—into—into whatever in the hell he thought he was doing here.

He swallowed hard and willed his eyes to move from her mouth. “Um.” His voice had dropped into a gravel pit, ragged on his breath. “So how does that s—”

Felicity’s hands snatched at his t-shirt collar and she surged forward, and it was, ironically, a crash as her mouth met his.

But only for a second.

Her lips softened against his immediately and his self-restraint snapped like thread, his own mouth an eager press in return.

She sighed. Her lips parted under his, inviting.

He couldn’t have written it better.

And then she was gone.

She pulled away so abruptly Tommy was left gasping, blinking stupidly with his hands raised and empty.

She scooted backwards like her ass was on wheels, eyes wide and face flushed. They stared at each other, him stunned and confused, her looking almost… guilty as she tucked her lips between her teeth.

“Sorry,” she said finally. “Um. That was just because you are a very good writer and and, um, whew, very , way too good, uh, with words and…” she trailed off, looking away and fanning herself with one hand. “It’s not nice to tease a girl who has only gotten to enjoy,” her hand waved back and forth between them now, “ that vicariously through that very, very good writing for a really, stupidly long time. So. Uh.”

Tommy dropped his hands in his lap, still speechless.

Cringing, Felicity tucked her chin and looked up at him like she was bracing for a blow. “Am I like, super extra fired?”

Sitting up slowly, Tommy swallowed thickly and groped around for his voice. “You don’t actually work for me, you know.”

“Well, okay, technically we kind of both work for the publisher, which I guess makes us more like colleagues, but of the two of us, one of us is very valuable and the other is a highly disposable word-weed-whacker and I am pretty sure your editor would not hesitate to feed me to actual live snakes if the alternative was losing your contract, so…” Felicity frowned at her hands, seeming to suddenly realize that she had been embroidering her nervous run-on in obscure, twisting gestures.

She tucked her hands between her knees and took a fortifying breath before meeting his gaze directly. “I would like to repeat that I am very sorry.”

Tommy blew out an explosive exhale, running a hand over his hair and down his neck, his skin feeling both too hot and too cold. “I have to say this is a first for me. I don’t think anybody has ever kissed me before and then apologized for it like it was a murder.”

Felicity’s nose crinkled. “Do murderers apologize…? Right, totally not the point.”

“Okay, so, first of all,” Tommy started, desperately trying to rally. “You are very not fired. You still don’t work for me and one very nice if very unexpected kiss is absolutely not worth the fines I would have to pay for ending my contract. Which I don’t want to, before you go running away with that one.” He summoned a smile, only slightly stiff around the edges and hung just a little awkwardly. “And you’re still the absolute best sounding board and shit-caller I’ve met in my entire writing career, so please don’t leave me.”

“Really?” Felicity asked, tentative and almost hopeful.

Tommy drove a brutal spike through his ridiculously fluttering heart and softened his smile. “Really. I’m just gonna think of it as really excellent sketch work for a problem scene. Sometimes ‘write what you know’ is bullshit, but sometimes it’s good to get a little practical foundation.”

“Okay.” Felicity released a little nervous laugh. Or maybe it was relieved. “Sketch work. We’ll go with that, then. Considering the alternative is a sexual harassment lawsuit and I don’t actually look that good in orange.”

“I don’t believe that,” Tommy countered, a finger raised, “and I’m pretty sure sexual harassment lawsuits don’t end in federal prison sentences anyway.”

“Well that’s a relief,” she joked. “So, since we solved the problem with, um, the mechanics, should we move on to arguing about pacing, or should we call it a night here?”

He glanced at his watch, more to give him another beat to recover than for any concern about the time. “It’s pretty early yet, so if you’re up for another round of callously deflating my ego, I am prepared to hold back my tears and soldier on.”

“If you’re sure.” Felicity picked up the pages that had at some point dropped to the floor and smiled shyly at him.

It was devastatingly endearing.

With a flourish, he twisted at the waist to snatch a box of Kleenex from the end table and placed it precisely in his lap. “I’m sure. Hit me.”

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and a grateful shoutout to @andyouweremine and @relevanttosomeone! for reasons ;)

#arrow #arrow fic #tommy merlyn #felicity smoak #flommy #booklovers au #kat prompted me this and then enthusiastically goaded me through all 10.2 pages #so you can thank or blame her as you like

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chemicalmagecraft · 3 years

Text

Foresight is 20/20 Chapter 11

I smiled even before we reached the gates. "It looks like we have a welcome party," I noted, then licked my lips.

"How can you tell?" Gai asked.

"Chakra sensing."

As soon as we were inside the gates of the village, I was tackled by a very energetic blonde. "Kouki!" Naruto yelled as he did his level best to crush me like a tin can.

I awkwardly patted him on the back. "Heyyy, bud. Could I please breathe?" I choked out. I gasped for my breath after he released me from his adamantium grasp. "Stupid freakish Uzumaki strength," I grumbled in between breaths.

"What was that?" Tenten angrily asked me.

I rolled my eyes. "Not directed at you."

"Hey Kouki," Naruto said, "why are you all brown?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Okay first off I think technically it's more 'bronze' than 'brown,'" I said, "and b, it's called a tan."

"How did you get so tan in only a few days?" Dad asked me. "Didn't you have a parasol?"

I sheepishly put my hand behind my head. "Well..."

~~~~ku

I sighed as I lounged on the thankfully clean floor in front of the window.

"Are you sunbathing!?" Temari asked me.

"Soooo waaaarm~" I replied.

"I swear you're a cat or something."

I grinned a catlike grin. "Meow~" She sighed and stormed off.

~~~~ku

"...I guess I get tan really easily?" Okay to be fair I do. And it stays for a while, even if I stay inside most of the time. When my brother, whose complexion is almost exactly the same as mine, got a similarly dark tan from being a lifeguard, my mom noted that it was probably due to our "gypsy blood." I wouldn't put it that way myself, mostly due to the fact that the word "gypsy" is actually kinda offensive what the heck mom, but I guess it's a plausible reason... I was thankful, though, that the sun didn't give me any more freckles. No offense to people with a lot of freckles, but I'm fine with only having like ten freckles on my face that mostly just look like a bunch of beauty marks, thank you very much.

"Welcome back, niisan," Hinata said with a smile. I couldn't help but notice that Kurama didn't at all look like he was annoyed with Hinata carrying him.

"Sup, Hina-chan. Did Kurama-chan tell you guys I'd be here?"

He huffed and turned his head away from me, the tsundere.

"Love you too, bud!"

"So what are you going to do now that you're back?" Neji asked me.

I shrugged. "First I'm going to take a bath, then I'll probably take a nap or something. I'm pooped."

"Surprising to hear that from you," Ai commented.

"Even I have my limits, Ai. Working on the seal was fun, but I'm glad it's over and done with." I yawned. "Now if you guys don't mind, I'd like to go take a nice, long bath now." I waved goodbye. "Thanks for coming to greet me!"

kukukuku~

I yawned, sat up in my bed, licked my lips, and stretched my arms. Then I fell back to sleep.

kukukuku~

"Okay, time to work now," I said after I rolled out of bed. Before doing anything, though, I checked out my window. It was nighttime. I shrugged. "Not that much of a problem to someone with twenty four-plus hour days." I licked my lips. "Right, let's get crackin'." I assumed a meditative position on the floor and reached inward, to my chakra. Mostly the red stuff, but also some of the blue. Just as a human touched by the red (I.E. me or the jinchuriki) has to have over a certain amount of red chakra in them to not die, it seemed that beings made from the red needed at least some blue in them to function. To be honest, I should've figured that out sooner, what with how the Biju Dama uses blue chakra. 'Course, I did figure it out when I sensed not only another biju, but Karura, who was a non-biju red chakra spirit. And with that revelation came some important progress on an idea that I'd had. And over the ride home, I'd honed and perfected that jutsu, one that I was now ready to use. Sure, I'd been wary of potential danger, but I felt a lot better after a message from my future self, or at least a future self... Future vision can get pretty freaky.

And so, I grabbed hold of almost all of my red chakra, just leaving a comfortable yet small amount over the minimum amount I needed to live, as well as enough blue chakra to sustain a demon of that power level. I used yin-yang release and some of the mechanics behind clone jutsus in general to mold that chakra into the proper shape. When I was done, the chakra moved on its own.

I opened my eyes to see my shadow turn pitch-black, then split off into two, one normal and one still a me-shaped abyss. The ebon shadow moved and stretched so that it was across the room from me. The shadow... rose, changing in shape and color to form what felt like an alternate-universe mirror. First off, shadow me looked even more girly than I did. Sure, that wasn't saying much what with how I was still way prepubescent and had girly hair, but she had longer hair and a skirt with leggings, so there's that. Plus she looked a little shorter than me. Second off, she had what appeared to be fox ears and a tail, likely an artifact from Kurama even though they didn't look exactly like his. Third, she was both a pallette swap and mirror image of me. While her complexion was roughly the same as mine, her eye markings were white with black dots instead of black with white dots, her clothes were dark red instead of blue, her hair was a shade of blue so dark it was almost black, and her eyes were red with slit pupils. As for the mirror part, her bangs were parted to the right instead of the left and each of her freckles were situated to be on the opposite side of her face from mine. Though she had fox ears instead of human ears, I could see she still had a rendition of the nubby nub nub thing on her right ear as opposed to my left.

"I am thou, thou art I," she said in almost my voice. Man, that was weird. "Sup, me."

"Sup," I responded, then relaxed my posture. She did the same, though she was mindful of her skirt. I was already kind of sure of the answer, but... "Hey, just to be clear here, you're supposed to be a girl, ja?"

She nodded. "Ja." She blushed. "I have more control over my form than just using the transformation jutsu and I figured I should differentiate myself as much as I can from you, so..." I feel like something could be said about me that "I" felt the need to justify that even to myself...

"I take it you picked out your own name too, right?"

"Yup." She grinned. "To counter your light-light hope-and-fortune name, I picked Chikage."

"Thousand Views?" I asked jokingly.

She facepalmed and groaned. "Okay yes, I guess that that's the traditional reading, but I meant more along the lines of Thousand Shadows. Or even Blood Shadow. Heck, Shadow of the Earth is kinda cool too."

"So does that mean I have your permission to keep 'Kouki?'" I asked.

She gave me a deadpan stare. "Dude, I literally said that I picked a name to balance out yours."

"Yeah, but if you think about it, 'Kouki' is us, not me. The guy that is us combined is Kouki."

She shrugged. "Would be pretty weird if you randomly started to go by another name. You're Kouki Prime and I'm totally at peace with that. Let's stop talking about semantics and see what this jutsu of ours does, exactly."

I nodded and clenched my fist. "I think I got weaker..." I unclenched my fist and did a few small stretches.

"Makes sense," Chikage said. "Even if you aren't using it, your red chakra still enhances you. Still, that also means you should have more control now."

"Right," I said. I held my hand out and tried to make some wind chakra. It felt a little off without my red chakra, but I got the hang of it surprisingly fast. Much faster than I'd managed the last time I'd tried it, wire-thin threads of wind chakra burst from my fingers, curling around my new double/clone/sister maybe? "Sorry, but you understand what I'm doing, right?

She snorted. Curiously, a small puff of smoke came from her nose when she did. "Dude, I'm you. Of course I know. Just make sure to ask future you first to make sure it doesn't screw us both over."

"Right, was going to do that anyway." I activated my eyes for just long enough to get a message coded to a version of myself in the exact situation I was in.

"Yup. Go ahead."

I didn't want to completely spoil every single highly-dangerous-yet-incredibly-interesting experiment I did, but I knew it'd be stupid to actually do them without using the Shoraigan to make sure I didn't end up turning Konoha into a crater. And so in my time of need, I discovered another power of the Shoraigan that was just as good as the ability to tell the future. At least, I'm assuming that's what happened in about a thousand other timelines that I never went down. Or I guess I did go down them, but just not the me that is me? Man, anything involving time travel gives people headaches, doesn't it. I could only time-warp information and yet I still got headaches.

Where was I?

Oh right. Main Shoraigan power number three. Or maybe just another version of the first main power? In addition to being able to download future information directly into my brain, I found out I could send my past self and/or selves information when I randomly got thousands of very similar chronopathic messages saying something roughly along the lines of "Holy crud we can send messages to our past selves!" and some telling me to stop sending messages back to past me, which was very hypocritical of future me, but I complied. I wonder if there's a version of me who found out about the Shoraigan by having that future message sent back by an alternate version of-

"You're getting off track," Chikage said, her eyes now a slit variant of the Shoraigan. Guess that meant she could use it too despite not having my eyes(?). "Stop telling the fans about our cool new power and kill me already."

"Right, sorry." I closed my hand into a fist, causing the Wind Release: Razor Wire to chop her into pieces. Instead of blood going everywhere, though, the cuts became red chakra which reformed back into her body with some loss.

"That hurt," she muttered. "But it seems we won't find out what happens when I die if we use that. Maybe try fire?" She was made from an aggregation of the powers of Kurama (fire/wind) and Shukaku (earth/wind), so while there was some fire in her it wasn't out of the question that fire would hurt her a lot more than wind...

I nodded and we both stood up. I guess maybe it was customary to use fire chakra from the lungs, and yes that was apparently how you got the most power, but I liked the idea of channeling it through my hands better, plus that way I could try to add lightning to it despite not knowing how to do it too well. I knew fire from the hands was possible from the flashback to the time of Ninshu, so theoretically... "Do not try this at home, kids." I made a few hand seals, then held my hand like how Kakashi does with the Chidori. An unfortunately uncoordinated ball of fire and lightning chakra emerged from my palm, as well as the slightest whiff of burning flesh.

Ow.

Chikage waved her arm in front of her torso, creating either a bullseye target or the illusion of a bullseye target. I thrust the ball of plasma right into the center of the target. Her body destabilized almost as soon as the probably-poorly-thought-out concoction of chakra touched her. While some was... ruined, I guess, by the attack, the majority of the chakra Chikage was made from was sucked back into my body. With the chakra came her memories, which was... interesting. I feel like I should note, though, that getting pyrolectrocuted hurts like the dickens.

"Is everything okay?" Uncle asked as he barged in. "I heard crackling sounds."

I casually stuck my hands in my pockets. "Yeah. I tried to use lightning release. Do you think you could ask Dad if I could get official training? That kinda hurt."

He looked concerned. "Are you hurt?"

I gave him a thumbs-up with my unburned hand. "Yeah, just a little stinging. Nothing a little healing factor won't cure. You should see the other guy."

"O...kay..." He thankfully left without much question, allowing me to take the other hand out and assess the damage. The friction from just taking it out of my pocket stung.

"Eeee..." I winced. I mean, it didn't look like it was too bad of a second degree burn, but... it was blackened. I really hoped that was just soot. I applied some red chakra to it and it thankfully just flaked off and didn't scar or anything. "Not doing that again, at least without adult supervision. Hope my pocket isn't ruined..." I tilted my head a bit. "Now before I can forget, I should probably do this." I activated my Shoraigan and sent a message coded to two certain iterations of my past self. Sure, it'd have happened anyway because of diverging timelines, but insert dead Daves joke here. "Right," I said. "Now that that's over. Chikage, out." She didn't do anything. I blinked. I could definitely feel her somewhere in me, but...

Oh.

I was Chikage. Well that was interesting. I concentrated on what I'd done before and felt a small snap in the back of my head.

"I'm back," she said in my head. Red chakra flowed from my body, forming Chikage, arms crossed and leaning back onto thin air. "Is that what it feels like to fuse?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I guess maybe with Pink Steven it was, just with less nearly dying and womanchildish giants."

She chuckled and picked me up. "C'mon, we gotta do it now."

I smiled and hugged her, laughing. She hugged me back. We started laughing and spinning each other until we just melted back together. "Ah, good times," I said. "Now we should probably get a training ground so I can see what I... you... we... can do..." I sighed. "Man, this is going to be weird..."

#fanfiction #naruto fanfiction #naruto #Foresight is 20/20 #F20 CH11

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madamhatter · 4 years

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“You’ve worked hard. You’ve earned it.”

anastasia broadway dialogue starters, pt. iii. | accepting | @serpentinewxman

Had the whispers and chattering from the small birds already traveled that far across campus?

Exhausted gaze lethargically move from the stack of ink-stained and ink-loved papers and opened grimoires on top of the desk to sharp, emerald eyes known for its glisten whenever impetuous thoughts were enacted through impulse. Such a telling sign of recklessness and not a doubt came to mind when she concurred with her assumption that whoever quietly, and rudely failed to announce themselves, into her cramped office had been no other than Night Raven College’s Ancient Curses instructor, Professor McCulloch.

Scarred right hand flattens out into the air, a gentle whisk of her wrist, and the floating books and papers enclosing and circling her desk, working with its own mechanism and purpose, instanteously cease. All remained levitated in the air, hovering up and down, as if time itself ceased. As for the left hand, the librarian rests down the quill from her hand into the ink pot, unwilling to risk blotting. Both hands lay to rest above her lap, her body shifts from the creaking chair, and she stands to address the guest.

“To what do I owe the privilege for such an esteemed member of your faculty to remove herself from her busy schedule to visit the lights of me?” A routine inquiry was hard to shake herself from, but she knowingly smiles with her head slowly tilting to the side, silver locks with traces of white mimicing the movement. Professor McCulloch, not one to fashion herself to pleasantries, responds with a nonchalant response, the realistic answer as to why she navigated through the labyrinth of a library to find her.

“No matter if you’re here some minutes or some hours,” she hums, “take a seat.” Within seconds, and much to the professor’s surprise, one of the armrest chairs shoved into the corner of the office taps against the back of her knees. “And, ah,” her eyes faintly glance down, spotting a thin teal box,one whose top has to slide off from the top, “I see now.”

( ... )

Shuffle, shuffle. The steps of active footsteps approaching the reception desk centered in the library. Not an uncommon sight, yet not unexpected, was an eager student. Seated behind the desk, she’ll soon see them approaching closer, sauntering.

Warmly greeting the other, she raises her chin, sweetly smiling with as musing as an old woman like herself could. “Good morrow, how may I be of assistance today?”

Unruly posture, unable to keep still, one could only implore if this student wasn’t only here out of self-interest, but fueled by the anxiety of procrastionation.”Are you here in preparation for Professor Divel’s work due later on this week? It’d be of no problem to find what you’re ---”

“I know what you are.”

She didn’t want to hear that. Not the persona who occupied the seat, but the one existing in mind didn’t want to. Little she recalls, little she understands, and she knows what it means to ‘know.’ She knows what it was like to stare back at the stranger in the mirror, recognizing it as you without ‘knowing’ the you. It was horrifying.

“Pardon?”

Slam. Two hands now on the tabletop, the man leaning in, repeating what he said before.

“Sir, I don’t understand.” I do understand. Please stop, please stop, please stop.

“Yes, you do. And I need you, I need something of yours--” And that was when his form lunged forward, aiming at her throat.

( ... )

An incident on the first-floor of the library was an isolated incident between a Pomefiore first-year and the Head Librarian. A ruckus it made, the screaming drowned any peace left in the morning before it muffled and gagged. Two Savanaclaw students rushed in, immediately on the alert. In the end, the situation was resolved. The head librarian unharmed and the student restrained. By what or whom? By nothing and by no one. As if it was told to stay down and he did so willlingly. The only damages reported was a fractured jaw.

“The outcome of that situation is only natural. It is what I must do as a faculty member, Shanice.” She sighs. “It was only natural for me to return back to work after a small mishap with one of the students. It wouldn’t be proper for me to abandon station for something as unimportant as shaken nerves.” Far from the truth when she was cooped up in her private office, a strange thought to pursue, but it felt so natural to do, so easy to follow through. “It isn’t the first time at the College that rumors have gotten remarkably out-of-hand.”

This time, I was a chimera. A creation of grafted materials from other living, or once living, species of a variety that was built together to make new life. A scientific marvel, it was, but it was a product. And people were as selfish to take claim that a product has things to provide like blood, skin samples, hair, and other materials. And the student had needed blood, Gorgon blood to be precise, for a forbidden spell and it was then that the rumors clouded his better judgment.

Last time, I’d been a fae of a dying species, long since unrecorded as the Land of Thorns’ greatest sorcercess, a fae herself, rid of them for their insolence over petty matters.

What will I be considered next?

"You mustn’t spoil me, Shanice,” the formalities dropped, “all I was doing was continuing with my day. It isn’t something to be called ‘hardwork’ for doing extra leg-work. And even if I did mitigate a situation, again, that’s what we’re supposed to be. Our students are our priority, our pride, our future.”

“However--.

And underneath the rim of her hat reveals a wide-eyed stare, the physicality of the Head Librarian vanishing. The true girl behind the curse was revealing, her expression of placidity shifting to helplessness.

“...Can you stay for a while? Please? We can enjoy those macarons together.”

#( checkbooks inquiries and much ; answered asks )#( verse: twisted to dance in a wonderfully wicked wonderland | plenilunium )#serpentinewxman #[ as much as NRC is rad ; the school has opportunists and exploiters ]#long post tw #long post

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planetsam · 5 years

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can you write something angsty where alex doesnt come home during the show or he comes home much later in the episodes which changes everything? if youre still writing of course!

Isobel approaches brandishing the gun and Max realizes he is going to die.

He cannot hurt her. Her eyes are dead and he just prays that Michael will cover this up too. Spare her from this. It’s the first moment that Max is glad Michael hates him, he won’t be mad at Isobel. This isn’t her fault. He won’t think that for a moment. Max doesn’t know if Michael would feel the same if the positions were reversed but he guesses it doesn’t matter. Isobel stalks towards him and Max tries to make peace.

“Drop your weapon!”

Jenna comes towards her, gun drawn and gets off a few warning shots. Max wants to tell her to stop but he can’t. Isobel—or the thing controlling her—makes a calculated decision and turns around to run.

She doesn’t get far.

Alex Manes is suddenly behind her. He looks so different, Max almost doesn’t recognize him. He’s seen Alex as a goth kid and a man who looks like his father, but this is an amalgamation of those things. Alex moves fast and before Isobel knows what’s happening she’s on the ground with her hands pinned behind her. Max scrambles up with Jenna’s help, running over as Isobel’s eyes close. If she tries to do something to Alex, it doesn’t work. He doesn’t look surprised and Max feels something cold slip down his spine.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says at the same time Jenna does. Alex nods at Jenna and looks at him, not like a friend but guarded. Max looks at the bonds on Isobel’s wrists and the syringe Alex is slipping into his pocket, “what did you give her?”

“Something that will make her sleep,” Alex says, getting to his feet. Max nods and Alex looks surprised, “I know it wasn’t her.”

“You do?” Max says.

Alex nods.

“Isobel!”

Alex’s head snaps past Max. Max turns as Michael and Maria come running. The moment that Alex and Michael see each other, the world stops. As dumb and cheesy as that sounds, they both go completely silent. They even have the same stunned expression. Max gets it, honestly. He really does. Liz was in her pom pom antennae and he couldn’t breathe. Alex is standing there in an immaculately tailored black suit. Michael’s in a flannel and jeans but Alex stares at him like he’s the most stunning thing he’s ever seen. It’s like being at prom on acetone. Alex breaks first, shifting his posture and Michael follows, clenching his jaw and walking over to them.

“Alex,” he says, “what did you do to her?”

“I stopped her from running,” he says. Michael snorts and Alex glares.

“That’s ironic,” he says and moves forward even more so he and Alex are right in front of her, “i’ll take her from here.”

“No,” Alex says.

“No?” Michael repeats, “that’s my sister.”

Alex softens just enough that Max understands what that means to Michael. That flies over Michael’s head but Max sees it and the intimacy shocks him. Alex looks regretful but he doesn’t move. Michael looks at the cuffs and his face changes, his entire posture becoming much more aggressive.

“What’s your dad want with her, Alex?” He asks.

“It’s not about her,” Alex says.

“Right,” Michael smirks, “so you’re not here being a good little soldier,” he looks around, “air force must be giving you guys one hell of a budget. Who’d you have to fuck to get that?”

The tension is already at a high level but it gets cranked up to about a billion and isn’t helped when Alex’s eye glance to Maria and then back to Michael. Maria‘s eyes narrow as Michael scoffs like Alex has no right. Maybe neither do, but that doesn’t change the way they’re looking at each other. On the ground Isobel groans and wakes up. Whatever strange spell has taken over them seems to break as everyone focuses on her.

But Michael and Alex keep glancing at each other, as if they can’t help themselves.

Michael drives back to his trailer, fighting not to be badly shaken as he does. Was it really a few hours ago that he thought everything was so much brighter? He and Maria had fully hooked up, she looked gorgeous and wasn’t as defensive as she usually was around him. The door was open. Just a crack, but open none the less. And Isobel was back. God, she was back and she was alright. He and Max were talking. He should have know the proverbial hammer would come down and shatter that happiness. Again. He pulls up to the air stream and gets out.

He’s not surprised Alex is behind him.

Of course the super spy has no issue driving in the dark. The black car is sleek and as achingly beautiful as the rest of him. Alex keeps his eyes on him the entire time, as he turns the car off and slides out and walks over. His eyes never leave him. Michael wants. In its purest form, he just looks at Alex and he wants. Answers, explanations, why why is he back now? The door is open, Michael is ready to leave this behind. Or so he thought. But Alex is back again and the string that’s bound them together has gone taut and he can’t move. Alex looks at the truck and softens.

“Nostalgia’s a bitch, huh?” Michael says.

“I figured you would be long gone by the time I got back,” Alex says, though they both know damn well Michael’s not going anywhere.

“To where?” Michael asks, “somewhere good?”

“Home,” Alex says, “I figured if anyone could find their way off this place, it’d be you.”

Michael can’t breath.

Alex knows.

Fuck him, Alex knows. Alex knows and is still looking at him like that. Like he’s not the monster he always worried Alex would think he was. Of course Alex has lived with monsters his entire life, but Michael never wanted to be one of them. He hates Alex for a single moment, but that hate churns with his own guilt. He always wanted to have his shit together when he saw Alex again. Instead he’s a liar and sleeping with Maria, living in a trailer. None of this is how he wanted it to go. And that hurts a lot more than he wishes it did.

“Is that what you want?” He asks, stepping forward.

“We’re not kids anymore,” Alex says, moving closer, “What I want doesn’t matter.”

“So why are you here?” Michael challenges, trying to ignore the anticipation humming through him.

Alex doesn’t answer in words.

Michael gasps into the kiss roughly, shoving back against him even as Alex pushes him into the side of the car. Of all his grown up fantasies, being kissed against the side of a sports car by a tuxedo wearing super spy version of Alex Manes ranks, well, pretty fucking high. Then Alex licks into his mouth and Michael doesn’t think about fantasies or anything much at all. His world narrows to Alex as he pulls him closer, desperate to have him as close as possible. Alex stumbles and Michael pauses but Alex chases him when he pulls back, pushing his fingers through Michael’s curls.

Alex pulls away to look to the trailer and Michael nods back, following Alex in.

They barely get inside before they’re on each other again. In the warm darkness, everything narrows to shadow and sensation as they do their best not to trip. Michael smiles until he feels the tension in Alex. Super spy doesn’t seem to like the territory. Alex doesn’t like being teased either and Michael doesn’t want to risk him leaving, so he pulls him towards the bed.

“Hang on,” Alex says.

“I got you,” Michael tells him, “its right over here,” he gets Alex over to the bed and is surprised at the tension ramping up instead of dissipating, “Alex?”

Alex kisses him but there’s something desperate in it, like he’s trying to commit this to memory. Like every kiss they’ve exchanged before his deployments. Those aching, desperate presses of lips as they try to memorize each other. Knowing that this might be the last one. Alex pulls back and rests his forehead against Michael’s. Michael fights the sick feeling as Alex cups his cheeks.

“What is it?” He asks, “Alex?”

“I have to show you something,” Alex says, “i don’t want to stop.”

“Nothing’s gonna stop this,” Michael tells him, shocked by the fear rolling off of him, “you know what I am, nothing could be worse than that.” Alex laughs and Michael hears something far too close to a sob, “Alex, what—“

He trails off as Alex pulls him close, fitting their bodies together. Everything lines up. On the side of Michael’s leg, he feels it. Something hard and metal and not Alex. And if he focuses he feels the seam of where Alex ends and the metal begins. The trailer is warm and dark but suddenly there’s no air. Alex shudders and tries to pull away but Michael only holds him tighter. Alex’s breath catches, but it’s Michael who has to fight his emotions. He usually gets some sign from Alex he’s alive. Post cards or glimpses or occasionally emails from addresses he doesn’t recognize. This is the longest they’ve gone and Michael was sure they were done. Not that Alex was dying. Almost died.

“Alex—“ He doesn’t have the right to ask why Alex didn’t say something. Alex found out he was an alien, neither of them have been honest.

“Please don’t,” Alex says, “just tell me to stop.”

“Never,” Michael vows and kisses him again.

The desperation magnifies as the jack and tie and shirt hit the ground leaving Alex in a dark t-shirt and his slacks. Michael pushes him onto the bed and Alex stares up at him as he pulls off his shirt. They can barely see each other in the darkness but they don’t need to. He only needs the outline of Alex easing himself back and fumbling with his pants to move forward and join him on the bed.

In the darkness it’s an exploration of a different kind. Alex knows that losing sight doesn’t make your other senses magnify, but he’s always been good at hyper-focusing. Michael has always demanded his attention. His hands are careful and calloused and warm as he touches as much of Alex’s skin as he can, until Alex tugs on his curls and demands that he stop treating him so delicately. Which Michael does, until he gets to the leg. Alex wants to sit up and put on the air of nonchalance that’s been his coping mechanism. But Michael silences everything when he kiss the seam of skin and sleeve. Alex feels his curls and his stubble on a part that he doesn’t even like to touch and the emotion of it makes it hard to breathe. He sits up and guides Michael’s fingers to the mechanism that lets him take the leg off. Michael does and the sleeve follows, but before he can give more attention to his scars, Alex is dragging him up and pulling Michael on top of him, his hips already chasing whatever friction he can get.

“Later, later,” he swears, “right now—“

Michael swears and kisses him, sliding a hand under his lower back and pushing his hips forward so they’re grinding against each other. It’s delicious and woefully inadequate and they both need so much more. Michael sucks the skin of his collar bone and in the darkness, Alex sees several drawers open and stuff fly and land on the bed within arms reach. Michael pulls from his skin with a wet pop and looks at his face. For the first time, Alex laughs. Michael almost looks wounded, Alex cups his face and kisses him.

“Of all the ways I thought about seeing you use those, getting sex supplies wasn’t one of them,” he says and feels Michael grin against his lips.

“Pretty handy, huh?” Michael says and the smugness in his voice makes all the blood rush south even before his hand cups Alex though his underwear.

Alex pulls him down again.

By the time they’re done it’s early, early morning and they’re laying together on the twin bed, no longer exploring each other but just touching. Michael strokes his hipbone under the sheet as Alex winds his curls around his fingers. They don’t fit on the bed properly and Alex thanks the god he’s always had a mixed relationship with for the fact that they have no choice but to lie all tangled up together. Michael nuzzles against his chest and Alex exhales tension that’s ruled him for the past years they’ve been apart. There’s so much to do and talk about, but for the moment everything feels right in the world.

For the first time in years, they sleep through the night.

In the morning, he wakes Michael up by softly pressing his lips to whatever exposed skin he can find above the sheet. Michael opens his eyes slowly and stretches out, his muscles flexing under Alex’s attention. He turns towards him, cupping his arm.

“You stayed,” He says and Alex hears the surprise around the sleepiness in his voice. He leans forward and kisses him softly.

“Yeah,” He says, “I stayed.”

Michael relaxes against him and Alex pulls him closer, sinking into the warmth.

“Get the curtains,” he mumbles and Michael smiles before they fall, cutting off the direct light.

They both fall back asleep.

#michael guerin #alex manes #malex #malex fic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm fanfic #malex fanfic #prompts #michael x alex

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