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flyingkiki · 3 years

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I Do? (1/?)

NEW #TIMRAE SERIES ALERT, my lovelies!! I couldn’t help myself. This came to me and I needed to get this going. Steam up ahead! Celebrating a steamy Valentine’s Day month for our favorite little birbs!

Full chapter 1 one now up! All the chaotic goodness is below the line. As promised - multi-chaptered, multi-chaos, and multi-steamy.

Hi! @athenadione!!! hihihi.

When Tim woke up the next day, he felt like a 10-wheeler truck had run over him. His head was pounding, quite literally close to exploding, and he could barely see through the haze of pain. Blindly pushing his blanket off his naked torso, he silently groaned at the movement and willed the world to stop spinning. He silently wondered just how tired he was from last night’s mission.

Rolling to his side, Tim groaned at the movement and felt his world cant dangerously to the side. His stomach lurched and he closed his eyes in a silent prayer top stop the treacherous motions. His world seemed to take another dip again, in a soft up and down motion, before stilling as he pressed his eyes tighter together. Pressing his face into his pillow, he gathered every ounce of his willpower to pull himself up into a seated position and grab the glass of water he usually would leave next to his bedside table the night before.

With a soft groan, Tim heaved himself up and pressed his bare back against his headboard. He was mildly aware that his rather naked legs and ass easily slid against his sheets – he must have been so tired last night that he just stripped out of his clothes and tumbled into bed. Wiggling his toes to get some sense of alertness back into his body, Tim cracked open his eyes, wiped his left hand against his face, and blinked blearily at his bedroom.

He immediately noticed several things:

There was no water next to him on his bedside table.

The ugly vase that Dick gave to him as a birthday present all those years ago was broken in one corner of the room.

Clothes were strewn all over the room – some of it definitely not his own.

There was someone in his bed.

Tim’s stomach churned and he momentarily broke through his delirious haze and stared at the painfully familiar asleep face that had turned to him. His chest tightened in panic and he felt a million warning bells go off in his head as he searched for at least one memory from last night. Last night’s debrief came to mind and that was it. Tim silently panicked – what exactly happened last night?

He watched in slow motion as the woman shifted next to him, bare shoulder peeking through his comforter as she curled towards him, making Tim all too aware that she was naked. He felt her feet brush against his right leg and he heard her sigh in content.

His gaze drifted to her small hand splayed over his pillow, familiar shoulder length black hair tangled into her fingers. Tim felt his panic immediately rise to this throat as his gaze dropped to the gold ring on her ring finger. Married. His pain addled brain told him she was not married because he had reread her files before she came to Gotham for the mission. So –?

His heart felt ready to explode as his eyes flew to his left hand. Through the haze of pain and panic, he inhaled sharply and stared at the identical gold ring on his left ring finger.

Holy fucking shit.

Tim felt his stomach take another painful lurch and his mind swam through the fog of last night, trying to make sense of what exactly happened in the last – he checked his watch – 7 hours. He could hear his ears ringing and he felt his chest tighten.

Next to him, Tim felt the bed move again followed by a soft sigh. He wondered if he was going to have a heart attack as his heart beat pounded in his chest and watched familiar deep blue eyes open slowly and blink blearily into his pillow.

“Your emotions are so loud,” she croaked into his pillows.

Tim watched a little breathlessly as his bedmate sleepily pressed her face into his pillow before slowly uncurling next to him. Dark blue eyes blinked up at him and he watched as her brows slowly drew together in confusion, and probably pain, as she finally registered him next to her. In bed.

“Oh shit,” Raven breathed.

Holy fucking shit indeed, Tim thought. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Raven slowly wake up and realization dawned in her eyes. She shrank into his bed, her blue eyes catching his own. “Tim,” she whispered, drawing out his name breathlessly as she stared at his chest then back at his face. Her fingers instinctively drew around her and pulled his blankets closer to her naked chest.

“What happened last night?” she whispered harshly, pulling herself up to sit in bed next to him and she glared. She sounded exhausted, her voice rough and cracking. Raven tugged the blanket around her chest tighter as her mind caught up with her and Tim had to hold on to his end of the blanket to avoid losing it around his waist – not that it really mattered any more, since they both obviously had sex at this point. Tim mentally groaned. Dick was going to kill him. Dragging his hand across his face again, he sighed. Scratch that – Bruce was going to kill him, Tim realized as he became all too aware again of the foreign press of a ring against his cheek. Fuck.

Tim offered her a pained look as Raven stared openly at the mess in his bedroom. His chest tightened as he watched her, things definitely should not have turned out this way. “I don’t know,” he said earnestly. He watched Raven sigh in frustration, drawing her eyebrows together and run her hand through her black hair – a tick he had observed her do over the last couple of days while she and Cyborg were helping out in Gotham. She swept her long hair over her right shoulder with a frustrated sigh. He caught sight of her slender neck and suddenly felt like he was punched in the throat. Hickeys. Lots of them ran from her shoulder to her neck – a rather large one prominently stood out just at the base of her neck.

“You don’t know?” Raven asked incredulously with a frown. It was honestly a bit surprising how well she took the whole situation, waking up naked in bed with him after a long night of sex both obviously could not remember. He figured there were stranger things that had happened in their lives. But still – this was terrible. “I cannot remember anything after last night’s debrief,” she paused as she tried to recall last night’s events. “And coffee?”

Coffee. Tim blankly stared at his hands on top of his comforter as he tried to recall going out for coffee at two in the morning. Yeah – they somehow did end up getting coffee at an empty dinner. But what happened after? His mind whizzed, trying to blindly grapple through the fog when his heart stuttered to a halt as a whisper of a memory slipped through his mind – a breathy laugh, a small hand pressed into his arm, a kiss to the cheek, a soft body pressed into the corner of the booth.

Holy hell. Tim inhaled sharply and ignored the warm jolt that spread through his body. He backpedaled from the whispy memory because this was certainly not the time to get morning wood. Oh god.

“What the fuck is this?”

Raven stared at her ring finger, her hand raised in front of her face and she gapped at the gold ring. Her eyes flew to Tim, who winced at the glare she sent him. “What the fuck did we do, Tim?!” she snapped and her eyes widened at the sight of the identical ring on his finger.

It was a stupid question, Tim thought, because if by the soreness of their bodies and the visible bruising and bite-marks along the just the right places were any indication, they both knew exactly what happened last night. “I’m trying to figure that out,” he replied, a little tense.

“Did we get married?!” she asked in bewilderment. He listened to her release a string of curses as he shifted in bed. Did they get married? Maybe the wedding rings were just that – rings. Without any legal documents, they were not technically married. Tim could check. Yeah, he thought to himself, if there was no legal document they could just sweep this – whatever this was – behind them.

Ignoring Raven, Tim groaned as he rolled himself out of bed and stood up. He was vaguely aware of the soft intake of breath and her eyes boring into his naked form. At this point he could care less with propriety – they already had sex anyway. Walking across his bedroom, albeit a little wobbly, Tim picked up his boxers and pulled them back on. He groaned, bending down made his muscles ache. Fishing through the discarded (torn) clothes on the ground, he tried to find his phone to use to hack into the civil registry system to cross check their names.

“What are you doing!?” Raven hissed watching Tim walk around naked. Tim finally found his phone in his discarded jeans. As he pulled out his phone a haphazardly folded up piece of paper fell out with it. His muscles ached as he instinctively bent down to pick up the folded piece of paper. Unfolding the piece of paper, Tim felt immediate dread pool low in his stomach. Ignoring Raven as she called his name, Tim’s heart dropped and he realized it would have been much better to have been hit by a 10-wheeler truck than find himself in this current clusterfuck they were in. Oh, Dick and Bruce were going to skin him alive. Tim blinked and stared at the cheap gaudy curved script that stared back at him.

This certifies that Timothy Jackson Wayne and Rachel Roth were united in marriage on…

“Fuck.” Tim felt like he was getting lightheaded.

He barely noticed Raven shuffle towards him, heavily bundled up in his thick comforter. Under different circumstances, he would have thought she looked cute. He sighed in resignation as he held out the crumpled paper for her to read. He watched as sheer horror crossed her face.

“Elvis officiated our wedding?!”

They were infected by Ivy’s pheromone pollen. Sex pollen. A pollen that lowered inhibitions, played with their desires, and made people generally horny and stupid. Raven was not sure how exactly they missed the pollen last night but she vaguely remembered the pollen did not come up when Cyborg scanned her for any injuries last night.

Raven knew that coming to Gotham for this crazy Doctor Light manhunt with Cyborg was a terrible idea. Doctor Light was in Gotham to ransack Wayne Tech and somehow ended up teaming up with Poison Ivy and Harley. Everything was fine until last night, after they apprehended their little circus. Fuck her damn life.

Raven bounced her leg absently, another nervous tick she really was not proud of. Tim and her were in back in the Batcave, they immediately drove over after this morning’s rather surprising discovery. Seeing the hulking form of Bruce Wayne dressed in a business suit had her just a tiny bit intimidated. Bruce had returned to the manor immediately after receiving a call from Tim that morning that he was unable to report to work and they had to meet back at the Cave immediately. Code Zeta, apparently – code for probably “I had a one-night stand and I got married last night in Vegas. Help.” A look of total bewilderment and sheer disbelief crossed his face after Tim explained what happened – glossing over most parts though.

Cyborg looked just about ready to blow a fuse as he all but glowered at Tim. Tim shot him a dark look as well, patience obviously drawing thin. No one in the cave was a fan of the recent developments.

“You are what?” Bruce asked, voice raised and blue eyes blown wide. Raven shrank in her oversized t-shirt and sweatpants – both Tim’s because whatever clothes she wore last night to Tim’s place were in shreds. Both seemed very eager last night to consummate their marriage.

“Married?” Tim snapped, tired of repeating himself over and over. He sat slumped on the medbay bed, sleeve rolled up for where an amused Alfred drew a blood sample earlier. Raven watched Tim scowl darkly at Bruce, who returned the scowl with equal intensity.

“What exactly happened last night?!” Cyborg growled. He stood in the middle of the Cave and glanced at the large BatComputer screen where they had scanned and uploaded Tim and Raven’s marriage certificate (Raven’s stomach heaved) and confirmed that yes, that shit was authentic and yes, Elvis officiated their wedding. His cybernetic eye flashed dangerously and glared both at Raven and Tim, though largely at Tim.

“I’d rather not give you a blow by blow,” shot back Raven, glaring back at Cyborg. Tim winced at her poor choice of words and Cyborg returned her scowl. “Because all of us in this this shitty Cave know exactly what happened last night,”

Bruce sighed loudly, swiping his hand over his face and loosened his tie. He needed to breathe. “This is a nightmare,” he grumbled and turned towards the computer.

“You’re telling me,” Raven breathed and glared at Bruce’s back as he began typing into the computer. She just wanted to go back to the Tower and forget this entire thing happened. She wanted her single status back.

“O?” Bruce called after patching in Barbara.

“Hey, B,” Raven watched as the redhead appeared on the screen. A look of surprise crossed Barbara’s face as she saw the rest of the occupants of the Cave. “I thought you guys would be back in Jump by now, Vic?”

“Looks like someone might just stay here much longer,” Cyborg grumbled and shot Raven a dirty look who quickly glared back.

“What’s going on?” Barbara cocked her head curiously.

“We have a bit of a situation,” Bruce said with a strained voice. (“Bit?!” huffed Cyborg.) “Look,” he said and sent her the scanned marriage certificate. “Could you do something about this?”

Raven watched as Barbara’s eyes widened and a look of sheer surprise crossed her face. “What the fuck,” Barbara breathed. She stared at Tim, who had walked up to Bruce with an annoyed expression. “Tim!” she hissed, drawing out his name.

Tim sighed, “Can you do something about this? Erase the files?”

Barbara hummed, typing into her computer. She made a face and looked back up at them. “You guys are definitely legally married. You even have a marriage license – how on earth did you even get a license at 3 in the morning?”

“When you’re drugged and horny anything is possible,” Raven said sardonically. Cyborg shot her pained look. Tim released a strangled groan.

Barbara made a face and returned to her typing. After a few minutes, Barbara looked up and her look was a beautiful mix of amusement and apologetic. “So,” she breathed. “I could totally erase the files, that’s easy enough,” she said.

Raven’s eyes narrowed as she caught Barbara’s tone. She watched Tim tense and cross his arms defensively. “But?” she asked.

Despite sounding apologetic, she shot them a highly amused look. “#WayneVegasWedding is currently trending number one on Twitter worldwide,” She made a face. “I don’t think there’s a lot I can do at this point to make that go away,”

“These cuties came in and got married today! Best wishes to Tim and Rachel! <3 #WayneVegasWedding,”

Raven stared in horror as Elvis’ tweet (@HoundDogVegasBoi) flashed on the screen. His ugly Elvis hairdo took up half of the picture, but there right next to the grinning Elvis impersonator was a very clear image of Tim and Raven, pressed into her each other. Tim was grinning broadly at the camera, arm slung over Raven’s shoulder while she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Is that Tim Wayne?! #WayneVegasWedding????”

“OMG. Hottie no longer on the market! #WayneVegasWedding!”

“WHO IS SHE!? Why did she take my boi? #WayneVegasWedding”

Raven glowered and several lights exploded over their heads. “Well, fuck.”

#TimRae #Tim Drake #Raven #Teen Titans #TimRae 2021 Year of Smut and Steam #TimRae Fanfiction #I Do?

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g0dspeeed · 3 years

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Burning Love

Request from @leoncharme

What was supposed to be a relaxing day, turned into one of the strangest visits to Viktor’s clinic that V has ever had.

Hot grease sizzled deliciously in the large wok, the rich smell of savory noodles and synth meat churning V’s stomach even more. She stood near the food stall patiently, her eyes flitting through recent texts sent by practically every fixer in the city.

Ugh, I don’t need another fuckin’ car, she muttered as her eyes scoured all the vehicle offers made in the past few hours. Most were too tempting, too shiny, and V needed way too many eddies to make it happen anytime soon.

Deleting the final offer, V turned to take in the sight before her. The sun was high above the metropolis, caressing the Night City skyline in a golden light and warming the busy streets below. It was an easy heat, bearable, and a strong breeze cooled her off as it sifted through her hair.

Days like these were rare. Aside from the car offers, her inbox was light. There were no pressing contracts, no urgent phone calls from a fixer who needed a person shot, kidnapped, or rescued. No reminders to visit a drop box. No street races. No street fights to prepare for any time soon. Just a preem day for V to relax, eat a hot meal, and spend it with whomever she chose.

Which reminded her.

“Hey, double my order,” she requested.

The vendor nodded, and a smile tugged innocently at V’s lips.

When her noodles were ready, V paid the vendor and started towards her HELLA with a spring in her step.

Today’s gonna be a good one, she thought, allowing that bit of optimism to finally sink in. It’ll be-

A pause.

V barely heard it.

There.

Again, there it was.

The second time there was no mistaking the sound.

A high pitch yelp had caught her attention, followed by a low, pained moan. The source was near, but how close V couldn’t tell. She listened some more, but nothing stood out amongst the traffic.

Part of her thought to ignore it, both the sound and that damned intuition in her gut that said that something was wrong. Agony on the streets of Night City was as common as graffiti and a systemic issue far too big for V to remedy on her own, despite her impulsive need to save nearly everyone she comes across. V helped when she was able and often when she was barely so. Just her nature. Or more so a savior complex.

After lingering for a few more moments V decided to move on. Her noodles were getting cold after all.

Just as her hand pulled on the car’s handle, the sound ruptured again in a louder, more alarming pitch.

This time V quickly whipped around to scan the area with her optics. A tinted blue swept her vision, focus fleeting from object to object in view. It was there, resting against a bench that she spotted him. A clearly distressed man in a white and pink striped shirt was hunched over, sweat glistening on his forehead above a pair of violet visors. A gold chain dangled from his neck, catching a sun beam.

V stepped closer, but right before she could ask him what the hell his problem was, her voice caught in her throat.

Cupping his crotch, the man was naked from the waist down save for a pair of black tennis shoes.

V gasped.

Unfortunately, the stranger heard her. The man turned around and spotted the frozen merc, something like relief laxing his tense expression.

“Hey!” he cried.

He shuffled forward.

V shuffled back.

Her eyes tried to look at anything but what was in his hands. Anything at all.

“Hey, you!” he cried again. “I got to get to a ripper…”

The man’s whole body was trembling, and his voice was overflowing of desperation. She slowly allowed her eyes to fall upon his sweaty face as he panted, seeing his throat bob with each swallow.

Her pity outran her common sense.

“Alright,” V replied, discomfort heavy in her tone and eyes trying their best to look up towards the clouds.

“Great!” he heaved.

V’s brain was still trying to register her predicament, let alone the fact that she agreed to let this half-naked stranger into her car.

“Why’re we standing here?” the man stammered. “To the car! Now!”

A cry left him with enough volume to snap V to her senses.

Quickly, she slid into the driver’s seat. The lunch was placed in the back while her brain was trying to conjure up the fastest way to the nearest ripperdoc.

Though she knew exactly what ripperdoc was the closest, she hesitated. She hated this for him, hated that this weird-ass situation was what she was going to bring to his doorstep. V tried to think of any other clinic that was nearby, anyone at all who was available on such short notice. The reality was, however, that this was an emergency. Any moment the guy’s crotch could set her car ablaze, and ultimately her first option was the best.

When the passenger door slammed shut, dread had already started to climb up from her stomach into her tightening throat.

“Ugh,” groaned the man as their vehicle picked up speed. “Satisfaction guaranteed, they said…”

Ah, she thought. Of course.

V asked if he was referring to the Mr. Stud implant, the provocative ad flashing in her brain. When he confirmed her guess, she hummed in validation. He thanked her for her professionalism, for not being too judgey, given the circumstances. That was the most cordiality her newfound client provided, however, because for the rest of their short ride there was more screaming, moaning, and the demand that she mow down a class of children and pretty much everyone who dared cross their path. Telling him to chill the fuck out didn’t get her anywhere, nor did some scripted words of encouragement.

“Oh, it burns! It burns!” he near screamed, hurting V’s ears.

The moment they arrived at the clinic V didn’t waste any time. She quickly grabbed the bag from the backseat and directed the man to the green, neon sign on the other side of the alley.

“W-Where are you going?” he panted as she took off towards the clinic ahead of him.

“Giving the doc a heads up!” she called from over her shoulder. “Just come this way!”

Two steps at a time, V practically threw herself to the bottom of the clinic’s stairs. Stumbling, she burst inside, the metal gate grinding loudly through its shaft.

Viktor was already on his feet, no doubt startled at the commotion she was causing. Something between a smile and pure shock was spread on the ripperdoc’s face as he greeted the merc.

“Hey, V, where’s the fire-”

“I brought you lunch!”

V moved past him to toss their meal on his workbench. Some of his tools fell loudly to the floor.

“Aw, thanks, kid,” he said with a small smile, allowing himself to be touched by the gesture despite the rising chaos that was building in his clinic. “What’s going-”

“I also brought you a patient!”

Before the words registered, a harsh cry echoed in the large space. Viktor’s eyes snapped to the entrance of the clinic where a sweaty, half-naked man was leaning on the gate’s frame. The man’s hands were planted in the apex of his thighs. A sudden spark caused his body to jolt.

Like a switch, Viktor’s focus became sharp and alert.

“V, the chair,” demanded Viktor. “Stat.”

The merc grimaced as she hoisted the stranger up and led him to the operating chair. Viktor had already sanitized his hands and arms with a quick drying antiseptic by the time the man collapsed in place.

“Due to your compromised state,” began Viktor in a flat drone. V winced at how Viktor shoved his usual stimulant into his forearm, leaving behind a rounded wound that would join the other scars. “I am obligated to act on Article 23.4 of NUSA’s Good Samaritan Law to provide emergency medical care-”

“Shit,” moaned the man, his hands gripping hard at the armrests. “W-What the hell are you talking about? Just do your fuckin’ job!”

“Preem,” muttered the ripperdoc as he jabbed the man’s upper thigh with his medgun. The man yelped. “Pain should subside now.”

V suppressed a smile in response to the dry look that Vik shot her.

“Grab me two ‘Dorphs from that shelf,” he told her, a finger from his exoglove pointing in a general direction. “Need Beauts.”

“On it.”

As V searched his supply, Viktor gathered information from his new patient.

Despite knowing the ripperdoc for as long as she had and walking in on countless operations, seeing Viktor work in such a controlled, level manner calmed V’s nerves as well. A voice as rich as honey had that effect on people. The man made ripper work look easy, multitasking between running diagnostics, checking vitals, and laying a thin, surgical drape on the man’s exposed lap. Viktor kept the conversation flowing, delivering timely ‘mhms’ and repeating specs aloud for the recording program of his computer. He had an ease to his voice, something tranquil and trustworthy, even as Viktor pushed against the man’s chest when the guy tried to rise from the chair.

“Jesse,” warned Viktor calmly. “Easy there.”

If he wanted to put up a real fight, V doubted that Jesse had a chance against Viktor. The patient’s body squirmed under the force of one arm alone.

“Doc, doc, doc, you need to operate,” Jesse argued. “You n-need to-”

“Jesse,” Viktor snapped, and in response the man immediately stilled. Jesse’s lids seemed to then get heavier and his shoulders slumped.

“There we go,” soothed the ripperdoc with a smirk, his body stretching on his rolling stool. “Took your body a while. I gave you a little cocktail of mine, the Vektor special. Should feel nothin’ but good now.”

V set the requested meds on a metal table by his stool. Viktor grabbed one, shook it, and handed it wordlessly to his patient.

Turning on her heel, V was about to dismiss herself from the situation. Her role was fulfilled. The guy was maybe gonna be okay, and even though V interrupted several of Viktor’s appointments, she could at least attempt to respect Doctor-Patient confidentiality. The flaming crotch man seemed like a great place to start.

Just as she started to walk away, she felt a tight grip on her wrist.

“Nuh-uh,” said Viktor lowly, fingers giving a gentle squeeze. “I’ll need ya to stick around for this one, kiddo.”

“Think you got it, Vik,” she said with a grin. “Flaming dicks aren’t really my thing.”

“Oh, I know I got it,” he returned. “And flaming dicks aside, I’d rather have a second pair of hands should things head south. Normally I’d call for Misty, but she’s out today. Besides…”

Viktor rolled in closer to V, an air of confidence about him. V’s eyes narrowed.

“Would love to see you play nurse,” he purred.

A warmth stung her cheeks as she took her wrist back.

“So long as I don’t have to wear an outfit, I’ll help,” she quipped.

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

The huskiness of his voice made her blush even more.

Viktor winked up at V before he turned his full attention back to his sedated patient.

Her attention, too, travelled back to Jesse as he huffed the med. Then, they fell on the surgical drape in his lap.

“So,” she prompted. “His dick was about to explode.”

Viktor hummed in agreement.

“You don’t, uh, seem that worried about it,” she went on.

A chuckle.

Even Jesse in his laxed state, sat up a bit for an explanation.

“We’re in the clear for now,” answered Viktor. More so to the patient, he added, “Now that you’re calm, your blood pressure isn’t forcing that faulty equipment to activate. Should be smooth sailing if you stay as relaxed as possible.”

“Oh, okay,” replied Jesse dumbly, no longer looking Viktor in the eye, but instead gazing up at the dark ceiling. “Um, what are, what are you going to do exactly, doc?”

“Gonna take that shitty tech out of your junk, Jess, that’s what. Guessing you got it for a steal, right? Black market shit? Some word from the Wise: Don’t ever accept tech that’s too good to be true. Ever. Especially if it’s an implant like this. I mean, you’re lookin’ at a few potential side effects that I can talk to you about after the procedure-”

“Wait, you can’t, like, fix it?”

Viktor sighed.

“Uh, no,” he replied flatly. “Not my specialty. And I don’t plan on being held liable for whatever, eh, works and doesn’t work. I can refer you to a guy I know in Charter Hill though.”

Jesse pouted in response, but after seeing how Viktor wasn’t going to budge on the issue, he consented to the procedure.

As time went by, V kept busy by fetching Viktor whatever supply he requested, whether it be more drugs, sutures, or gauze. Which was fine and ultimately best considering the kind of operation that was taking place. Not that V became squeamish around the sight and smell of blood, no. That wasn’t it. Just the nature of it all, that Vik was repairing a poor man’s augmented penis.

So much for a relaxing, care-free day.

The only saving grace to it all was seeing Viktor in his element. The man shined. He kept Jesse talking, eyes meeting his patient’s and on the monitor in equal measure, while also sounding personable and sincere. They exchanged stories about interests, about boxing matches they’ve seen, hobbies, some boring topics, some piquing her curiosity. Viktor’s voice held the same steadiness no matter the subject, and V’s heart warmed at watching him work with such care. Though she’s been in his operating chair herself probably hundreds of times, it was something special to see him work with someone else, to witness him calm even the most panicked of souls.

A goofy laugh gushed from Jesse, no doubt feeling the effects of all the medication.

“Ah man, you’re just so sexy,” he blurted.

V blinked at the realization that the comment was directed at her.

A listless ‘Mm’ was all she offered.

Viktor kept working, attributing the outburst to the drugs.

“I mean it!” said Jesse, misreading the woman’s lack of response. “You are just so gorgeous. So, so breathtaking. And you helped me-”

“I expect to be paid,” V reminded him.

“Yes, yes, and you deserve to. Yes, you deserve to! Doesn’t she deserve to be paid?”

Viktor offered a close-lipped smile in agreement, preferring to finish the operation as soon as humanly possible with the turn the conversation had taken. Just a few more stitches-

“Do you do advertisements?” continued Jesse, nearly sounding manic. “Do you? A supermodel maybe? You know, like a side gig sorta thing?”

V snorted.

“Nope, can’t say I would even want to, Jesse.”

“Huh, well, you should think about it. You would make a shit ton of eddies if you did, probably more than merc work. Not to objectify you, but like, you totally have the bod for the job.”

Viktor glanced up at V after that comment, his blood boiling at how Jesse’s advice rendered her speechless.

Not missing an awkward beat, Jesse then asked “So are ya single? Or is dating not your thing?”

V squared her shoulders.

“Don’t think you need to know that-”

“Come on! Gimme a hint. I mean, no judgment if you don’t date.”

“Good to know.”

“Yeah, I can keep it loose. What about you?”

Viktor’s jaw started to ache from how hard it was clenched.

“Actually,” said V, her voice perking up. “I am dating someone. And I like the guy. A lot. Pretty solid, so not really looking for anything else right now-”

In a voice that Viktor could only assume was supposed to be a whisper, Jesse said, “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt ‘im-”

A clank.

Viktor had put down a pair of surgical scissors so loudly that both Jesse and V jumped.

“V?” questioned the ripperdoc in a terse tone. “Mind grabbin’ our patient here a low-dose ‘Dorph for the road? ‘Bout finished up.”

A heavy sigh of relief left the merc as she headed towards the back of the clinic.

“You’ll need to take two huffs now and two more in an hour or so, okay?” said Viktor to Jesse, annoyed at catching Jesse’s eyes trailing after V.

“That woman,” he started to say, clearly missing what Viktor had said about the meds. “For such a smart mouth, she’s got a great ass, am I right-”

Without warning, Viktor’s fingers smacked the side of Jesse’s face with enough force to make him flinch. Stunned, Jesse immediately looked at Viktor.

Eyes locked on Jesse, Viktor called out to V.

“Hey, V? See any more of that stim I use? You know, the one that I need in case my hand slips?”

Some shuffling sounded from the back.

“Um, yeah,” she shouted. “Why?”

“I just did a lot of good work here on Jesse’s dick. Would hate for something to happen to it at the finish line.”

Jesse swallowed as he could feel the outline of Viktor’s intense stare past the tinted lenses. The ripperdoc sat close to his patient and spoke in a voice so dark that it made Jesse’s hair rise on the back of his neck.

“You’re my patient now, but the moment you step out of here, you’re just any other asshole on the street that hits on V in front of my face. Difference between now and then is that I’ll kick your goddamn teeth out on the curb should I hear another word out of that mouth of yours ‘bout how hot she looks and what the fuck she does with her body. You will pay her. Don’t care if you pay me, but unless you wanna know what the Bradbury sidewalk tastes like I better hear from V by the end of the day that you paid her in full for bringing you into my clinic today or so help you God I don’t find you and get those eddies myself.”

Jesse swallowed before nodding his head.

The only sound that could be heard in the clinic was V’s footsteps. She found it odd how still the men were sitting and how Jesse didn’t acknowledge her presence once she returned to the operating chair.

“Here,” she said to the ripperdoc, but Viktor shook his head at the stimulant she brought.

“You know, I actually think I won’t need it. He’s all set and ready to go. Aren’t you, Jesse?”

The guy would have some balls to respond. As expected, Jesse remained quiet. The ripperdoc’s back popped as he rose slowly from the stool, his body stiff from operating. He continued stretching as he walked towards the locker room area of his clinic to fetch Jesse a pair of stocked sweats that he set aside for patients.

V gave Viktor a questioning look and was met only with another classic wink.

“About my payment,” she began, turning her attention back to Jesse.

Still refusing to look her in the eye, Jesse stated, “I’ll get it to you in an hour.”

The man quickly dressed, thanked Viktor for his services, and rushed out of the clinic without looking back. Based on the smugness that Viktor carried himself with as he wiped down his workspace, V caught onto what happened.

With V’s help, the clinic was cleaned and prepped for the next fortunate soul who sought out Viktor’s care.

The pair were lounging on the ripperdoc’s crusty couch in the back of the clinic, their feet propped up on a stack of boxes with lukewarm takeout in hand.

“Not a fan of Jesse’s career advice, I take it?” teased V with a grin.

Viktor glowered as he swallowed a mouthful of noodles.

“Not a fan of really any advice he gave, no,” he replied coolly.

“Might lose future business,” she mocked, but he was already shaking his head.

“It’s all good. I’m eating lunch with a supermodel. Life can’t get any sweeter.”

#viktor vektor #Victor Vector #Viktor Vector #Victor Vektor #cyberpunk 2077 #ripperdoc #whats a short fic

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idiosyncrasy-thoughts · 5 years

Text

Trust - Yvette Short Story

(a continuation of Empathy)

"The largest cell in the human body is the female egg while the smallest is the male sperm. Now, I..."

I sigh boredly, my ears automatically tuning out the professor's blabbering. I have decided to return back to medical school after the whole assassin versus demon thing. It was an interesting experience to go through and a definite wake-up call for me. Seeing Wrath and her troupe protecting people from demons reminded me of the reason why I had joined medical school; which is to save lives.

Oh please MC, the last push to go back is because of Yvette's interest in biology too.

Speaking of her, it has been more than two weeks since that fight between Wrath and her happened. Things eventually go back to the way they used to be; with no more demons to chase after me, no more powerful assassins to protect my weak ass; no more chaos. I should be happy that I don't have to live in fear anymore.

But somehow, that feeling just never comes.

Instead, I'm stuck with a longingness in my chest, for a certain green-haired girl that has probably forgotten about me. Her gorgeous features ingrained in my memory, there is never a time when her face doesn't pop up in my head.

I doubt Yvette's gonna bother you anymore after getting what she wants. You can go back to your normal life now. Wrath's previous words sink in my head, and I release another breath of defeat.

"You okay?" Serena, my classmate, asks. "You've sighed like fifty times today."

I sigh again. "I'm just...tired. The class is so dry."

"I know, but what do you expect from studying in a medical school?" Serena offers an apologetic smile. "Just hang on for a few more hours."

"Ugh, I can't wait to graduate."

"Feeling's mutual."

When the bell rings to signal the end of school, I mutter a quiet 'yes' before packing my stuff into my bag. Saying a quick 'bye' to Serena, I head back to my dorm.

Being in medical school means there's a need to understand rich content from a heap of thick textbooks, so I'm required to lock myself up in my room and revise daily. Tedious, but it will be worth it in the end.

As I inch closer to my dormitory, a dark trail of green catches my attention. Out of curiosity, I follow the path.

It leads me through a narrow and dimmed alley, taking me further and further away from the sunlit pavement. I take a right turn, stopping in my tracks when I reach a dead end. The strange trail discontinues too, with no other traces in sight.

I decide to examine the green goo, racking my brain for answers as to what has caused this. A faint memory resurfaces, causing the blood in my veins to run cold.

Could it be...?

My stomach churns sickly at the first thought that comes to my mind.

Demon's blood.

"But how?" I mumble to myself, so deep in consideration that I don't realise that I'm not alone anymore.

Heavy footsteps can be heard behind me, and I turn to be met with two strangers. They block the only pathway, leaving no available space to escape.

"Uh, can I help the both of you?" I ask, apparently talking to the walls since they refuse to reply.

A smile spread across their faces; too wide for me to feel comfortable in their presence.

They start to approach me.

"Stop right there!"

They do as I say, still wearing that abnormally large smile. Their eyelids begin to stretch out, revealing huge eyeballs that threaten to pop out. Thin, green veins emerge into sight, spreading far and wide on every inch of skin. Saliva dripping down their mouths, they let out a loud, aggressive growl.

Ah shit, here we go again.

I yell for help when one of them dashes towards me, shoving me hard. Tumbling backwards, my head hits the wall.

Pain penetrates my head like a bullet; darkness engulfs my vision.

~~~

I wake up to the feeling of a soft mattress underneath me. Lifting my hand to my forehead, I feel the material of gauze bandage.

Wha-what happened? Where am I?

"I told you to bring her here, not break her fucking head!" a female voice booms, the familiarity of it igniting every muscle in me.

It's her.

My body snaps up, the quick motion causing a spike of pain to pierce through my head. I gasp, my hand instinctively flying to the back of my head.

The mattress sinks as two warm, gloved hands hold my shoulders to guide me back to the bed. "You need to rest MC."

Obliging, my head rests on the soft pillow again. The tension between my brows leaves and I slowly open my eyes. Air leaves my lungs as my vision clears.

It's none other than the girl that has been running through my mind for the past two weeks.

Yvette.

Seeing her in real life sure relieves the yearning feeling in my heart, and the pain in my head slowly dissipates. I don't hold back a wide grin.

"I...thought I'd never see you again," I speak, a little out of breath.

She smiles endearingly, shrugging. "I thought so too. But here we are."

I stay silent, taking the moment to admire the view before me. The girl's healing from her encounter with Wrath, which is a good sign. A cut on her lip and a square bandage on the right side of her head are still visible, but other than that, Yvette is beautiful as ever.

A cough breaks me out of my trance, and the green-haired girl's not looking at me anymore. A hint of pink colours her tanned cheeks.

Oh my god, she's so cute. Wait, stop it MC, you're making things awkward!

"Sorry, um, It's great that you're healing well."

"Yeah. Now it's your turn." Yvette offers a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about your head. I couldn't contact you or find you at the bike shop. So I sent them to search for you."

"Well, my phone broke after the whole incident, and I've decided to go back to medical school," I explain, sputtering the next sentence unintentionally. "I thought you wouldn't need me after you got the charm."

Yvette blinks at me. "You'd think so lowly of me?"

"No! As in...I thought you would forget about me eventually."

"I would never. Especially when you've helped me immensely."

It's my turn to blink blankly. "I didn't do much though. I was like a damsel in distress."

Yvette strokes my hair out of the way, offering a lingering look that makes my heart do somersaults. "You defended me when no one else would."

"I had to! You looked close to death when you were on the gr-"

"You helped drag the time while I was catching my breath!" the girl defends her ego, in which I roll my eyes amusedly.

"Sure Yvette, whatever you say."

She lets out a laugh, one that sounds so melodic and lovely that it makes the temperature in the room warmer. It is surely a tune that I would love to hear everyday.

"Do you want anything? Water or some snacks?"

"A glass of water sounds nice."

Yvette turns her attention to the regretful-looking demon who pushed me previously. "You heard her. Get me a glass of water. Now."

The demon straightens his posture and nods his head, quickly leaving the room.

"Do demons actually have feelings?"

"Of course. Remember? I'm a demon too," Yvette reminds, a sad smile settling on her face.

Way to go MC. You just made your crush sad.

"Right, I should just keep my mouth shut. Or you could just throw me out now."

A teasing smile returns on Yvette. "I could never get rid of a cutie like you," she teases, pinching my cheek lightly.

I fluster.

"Wa-err," the demon utters, his quiet entrance startling me.

Indifferent, Yvette takes the glass and shoos him. She then aids me in sitting up as I drink my water. The domestic gesture warms my heart.

She's not that horrible person Wrath have described to me. In fact, Yvette's caring nature reminds me of a kind doctor who takes care of her patients dutifully.

"Thanks doc," I playfully comment. "I could get used to this."

"Taking advantage are we?"

I smile innocently. "Just a little."

The woman reciprocates the smile and puts away the glass once I'm done. I shift myself so that I can lean on the bedframe, and Yvette does the same as well, our shoulders brushing against each other.

"How's school so far?"

I update Yvette on the modules I'm currently taking and the upcoming tests I have, not failing to mention that much memory power is needed to survive medical school.

"If you like, I can tutor you," the girl offers.

"Really? That'll help a lot."

I hand my new phone to Yvette for her to enter her number. This reminds me of the first time I successfully asked a girl for her number; the experience both nerve-racking and exhilarating.

We then move on to more serious topics; of the reason why she needed my charm.

"That...I can't tell you. I've agreed to keep this deal with the demons strictly confidential," Yvette explains with a frown. "But I can assure you that your charm will help me greatly."

Hopefully my charm isn't some key to demon domination, or the troupe will come for my head. But Yvette said that it will benefit her, so maybe...it will get rid of the demon essence in her?

Yvette's deepening frown brings me back to reality. Her eyes are studying me, wary of any change of emotions. "Look MC, I'd love to give you an explanation, but-"

"I understand," I cut off the girl, offering a reassuring smile and daring to hold her gloved hand. "I trust you."

Silence fills the air. The girl gazes at me, her eyes a mixture of wonder and vulnerability.

At times like these, where the girl is just silent, I wish I could know what she's thinking about. What she thinks of me. Her impression of me.

"You do?" she asks, tone full of uncertainty.

I ponder.

Do I? Yvette's an intelligent person, and I trust that everything she does, is for a logical reason.

The only concern I have is the intensity of it; of how easily I let myself to trust someone I don't know well; someone with intentions that I have no clue about. It might be to my demise, or benefit; whichever rules out the other.

Returning the gaze, I see myself in Yvette's emerald eyes. The sight of white bandage around my head reminds me that the girl has been nothing but kind to me.

...I'll take my chances.

"I do."

Yvette releases a breath, as if she has been holding it for a while. She interlocks our fingers together, sparking a connection between us. A smile tugs on her lips and her eyes are bright with gratitude and hope.

"I'll make sure that it won't die down."

We spend the rest of the day bantering happily.

#yvette swm #yvette holte #yvette sin with me #greed sin with me #sin with me #lovestruck #lovestruck short story #lovestruck imagines #yES I MANAGED TO PUT READ MORE AND LINKS ON POSTS ON THE APP AFTER SO MUCH RESEARCH T-T

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litzing · 4 years

Text

The Crown of God

Do you like demons? Demons with antlers? What about morally corrupt angels? Well friend, you’ve come to the right place. The Crown of God is a short story (by me!) about what happens when the good guy turns out to be the bad guy. Hope you love it!

Title: The Crown of God

Author: @litzing

Word Count: 2213

I’m the only creature in the world that can hide from God. God’s successor, I mean. His watchful eye sees all, knows all—but with the Crown of God in my possession, I’m invisible. And He is not happy.

“Elvis, darling...”

I clutch the Crown to my chest, one hand clamped over my mouth to stifle myself, as I cower behind a pillar in His magnificent palace. A golden light passes behind me, and I hold my breath.

“Elvis!”

His booming, layered voice is earth-shattering, but the Crown keeps my eardrums from exploding. I’m not an emotional man, never was, but even I am afraid, tears pricking my eyes as I wait for Him to move on. After an eternity, the light fades as He searches further down the corridor, and when I’m sure He’s gone, I bolt.

I skid around a corner. At the end of the hall, I can see the intricate, wrought-iron gates leading to the pits of Hell, wide open, and I know what I’m going to do. I creep towards the gates, hugging the wall so I can duck behind a pillar if need be. The Crown hums in my arms, searing hot, yet it doesn’t burn my hands to the bone.

“Elllviiis...”

The voice is close. I freeze and flatten myself against a pillar, but I’m too late. A brilliant light blooms in the corridor behind me, and the pillar explodes, the blast sending me flying towards the gates in a shower of marble. I hit the ground hard, and the Crown tumbles from my arms and clatters to the floor. I groan, supporting myself on weak arms, then scramble to grab the Crown before He can get to it first. I shouldn’t, but I raise my eyes.

Lyriel—God, as He’s called these days—seems smug as His countless eyes wink at me one by one, His six wings growing still as He alights on the polished marble floor. I’m amazed that I can gaze upon His angelic form without my eyes melting. In a flash of luminous light, He looks almost human, save for having a few too many eyes and a few too many teeth. The small wings sprouting from the sides of His head flutter and flex. He’s beautiful, in the otherworldly way that angels are, with golden brown skin and long blond hair so fine it slips through His fingers when He flips it over His shoulder.

“Oh, holy, holy, holy! Elvis, dear, is that you? It’s been so long,” Lyriel says, spreading His arms wide in a grand gesture. “How have you been? Well, I hope!”

I struggle to stand, but my legs aren’t cooperating just yet. I smashed my hip on the floor when the explosion launched me down the hall.

“No greeting? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Oh, I apologize—Of course she didn’t.” He approaches, His bare feet silent on the marble. “She only taught you thievery. You stole her life just like you stole my crown.”

I’m as good as dead if I don’t get on my feet, and with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I stand. My hip throbs, but still, I stand. Lyriel stops when I do, half of His eyes flicking to the Crown while the rest watch me closely.

“That crown is mine, Elvis.”

“Fuck you.”

He’s unfazed. “You dare speak such words to the Lord, your God? My, my.”

“Why do you want it so bad, anyway?” I ask, shifting my weight to ease the pain in my hip. “You’re already God. You don’t need the Crown too, Lyriel—“

“You will no longer refer to me by that name,” He snaps. His tone is forceful.

“Struck a nerve, Ly?” I ask, inching backwards towards the gates.

He scowls. “To answer your question, I want it because it’s mine. How would you feel if I came into your house and took your things?”

“So it’s not important? Just another artifact you’re hoarding?”

“Precisely.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I...”

I raise the Crown, and I’m about to place it on my head, nestled between my antlers, when Lyriel cries out in protest, an ancient, long-dead language. I arch an eyebrow.

“Thou shalt not lie.”

“The rules of mortals do not apply to the divine, Elvis!” He’s frantic, teeth clenched, hands curled into fists as His wings shiver with rage. I’ve ruffled His feathers. Lyriel calms Himself, and He exhales. “Fine. What is it you want from me? Power? Oh, I could give you so much power. Or do you want money? It’s funny how mortals worship papers and coins these days. Or maybe...” There’s a gleam in His eyes. “... Maybe you want to be human.”

I blink and lower the Crown. Human? Could He do that?

“Poor Elvis. One foot in Heaven and the other in Hell. An ugly half-breed. What’s that like? Tough, isn’t it? Humans fear you and demons hate you. It must be so sad to be you. But I can help you! I can grant you new life.” He steps forward. I step backward, wincing when my hip strains. “Wouldn’t it be nice, Elvis? Wouldn’t you love being human? Being normal?”

It’s enticing. I’ve had dreams about waking up human, waking up normal. No more depression. Sometimes I’m even handsome—No antlers, no red eyes, no fangs. Less gangling. I hate that I can count my prominent ribs in the mirror every morning.

I avert my eyes.

“Oh, is that your weakness?” He takes a few more steps towards me, and I back up in time. “You want to be human. I can see it in your eyes, Elvis.” He taps His temple. “I see all.”

I cast a fleeting glance behind me. I’m in front of the gates, and just beyond, I can see the pits of Hell giving off a faint orange glow, fueled by fire and brimstone. Hellfire is the only thing that can destroy the Crown of God. Lyriel knows that. But does He know that I know?

Lyriel extends His hand towards me.

“Give me the Crown,” He demands, “and I’ll make you human. It’s more than a fair trade.”

I think about it. I really do. I’d give up almost anything to be human, handsome, happy. Could I give up a planet? Could I hand over the reins of the Earth to this maniac? I know Him, and I know what He’s capable of, just like I know that He’ll stop at nothing to get the Crown back. Once it’s out of my hands, He’ll smite me—

But it was out of my hands. And He knew it was.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

His smug smirk fades. “What? When?”

“I dropped the Crown when you broke the pillar. You could have killed me. Why didn’t you?”

His lip curls back in a sneer, exposing razor sharp fangs. He doesn’t speak. My eyes dart from Lyriel to the Crown and back again, and I furrow my brow. My brain is cycling through legends, tales of the Crown of God. I’ve studied the legends. I grew up with them. Is there something I’m missing? There has to be. Why wouldn’t He smite me? I had dropped the Crown. We talk about God being all powerful, but in reality, His powers are finite. Not a lot of people know that He makes up for His shortcomings with spells and artifacts like… Like the Crown.

“... Because you couldn’t.” I’m incredulous. How did I miss that? Of course He wants it back. He’s not God without it. “God can’t smite without his crown.”

Lyriel is furious, and with a banshee screech, He’s in His seraph form, with six wings and so, so many eyes. He’s bright, bright like the sun, and I’d be blinded if I didn’t have the Crown. He launches towards me, His wings beating at the air, so powerful they kick up a gust in the hallway. Fear surges through my veins, and when people are afraid, they don’t think. They act.

I put the Crown on my head.

It’s very unceremonious, becoming God. I feel warm. I feel energized. Healthy—my hip no longer aches and my mind is at ease. I look down at my hands, and as I watch electricity crackle between my spread fingers, I think... Is this what it’s like? Is this what it’s like to be God? I may not have the rest of God’s abilities like Lyriel does, but I’m still the second most powerful creature in the universe.

I’m about to be the first.

I turn my attention to Lyriel. He halts right in front of me, wings folding inward in a show of cowardice. He’s afraid. Terrified. I can sense it. He shifts into His more human form to parlay.

“Elvis, dear...”

“Don’t.”

“You wouldn’t want to live in a godless world, would you?” His voice is saccharine, like He’s coaxing someone off the ledge. “There would be chaos! Can you imagine a world without order? The humans, they’ll kill their planet. They already are. They’re facing extinction! Just give me the Crown—”

“No, I don’t think I will.” I lift my hand. “Burn in Hell, Lyriel.”

The air warps between us, churning like water. Desperate, Lyriel launches into a chant, a spell, in a tongue forgotten by time. But before He can finish—and He tries, oh, He tries—there is a burst of energy from my hand, knocking Him off His feet.

And when He hits the ground, He crumbles into dust.

I drop my hand and allow myself a moment of peace. I let myself enjoy being the most powerful creature in the entire universe for a minute, then reach up to take off the Crown. Once my fingers brush the hot metal, I hesitate. I could do great things with this power. Great things, but also horrible things. Power corrupts. Lyriel proved that through His own hubris. I don’t trust myself to not turn out the same way, so I sweep off the Crown and sigh, exhausted now that I’m no longer a god. I stare at the Crown for a second, holding it up in both hands. It’s a very simple crown. Unassuming. I was expecting something ostentatious. This is just a gold circlet.

I turn around and make my way through the gates. I stand on the edge of the pits of Hell. The pit is gargantuan in diameter, and it goes so deep I can’t see the bottom, but it glows orange with hellfire and radiates an unbearable heat. The Crown vibrates in my hands like it’s afraid, tempting me. I could do it. I could be God. But would I want to be? Could I handle that responsibility? Or would the Earth roll off my shoulders and shatter like glass? I’m no Atlas—And maybe it’s a good thing I’m realizing that now. We all think we want to rule the world, but when presented with the option... How many of us would be brave enough to carry the lives of billions? Beyond that, how many of us would be any good at it?

I need time to think. Is any mortal fit to be God? Should there be a God at all? The implications are dire. What would happen in a world without God? Would Lucifer rise? Would the world exist at all? I could be about to tear the fabric of the universe, but I can say with the utmost confidence that a world without God would be much better than a world ruled by Lyriel. Do you know what makes an angel an angel, and a demon a demon? Nothing. They’re the same. The only difference is who they serve. Lyriel may have been called an angel, but He had an evil heart.

I lower the Crown and gaze down at the hellfire. If the Crown didn’t act as a shield against divine forces, I’m certain the heat would singe my eyebrows off—and that’s because I’m part demon. A human might be dead by now. I can’t imagine how hot it must be further down.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out. It’s crazy that I have service up here. My dear friend Monica is calling because I’m a little late for our coffee date. I swipe to pick up the call and raise the phone to my ear.

“Aloha?”

“Hey Elvis! Did you go to the wrong café again?”

“Not exactly.” I watch the Crown glimmer and shine in the orange light. “Sorry I’m running late. Had to deal with some shit.”

“Is something wrong? Where are you now?”

I don’t know how to reply, so I don’t. What do I tell her? Do I tell her I killed God? Or that I might become God? There’s a lot to explain. There are layers.

After a short pause, Monica prompts, “Elvis? Hello?”

I sigh. “I’m here. I, uh—”

“You’re acting weird. For real, what’s wrong? Are you in jail? Who died?”

“No, no, Monica, it’s nothing like that. It...”

I give the Crown one long, final look. Then I toss it in the pits of Hell, and I walk away.

“... It’s kind of a funny story.”

#writeblr #writing #story #short story #writers on tumblr #elvis nash #lyriel #author #original character #oc #angel #demon

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winsister91 · 6 years

Text

Make Amends

Part Fifteen - Lucid

This series is a sequel to Breaking A Promise.

Characters: Dean x reader, Sam, Cas (mentioned), OFC Harper (mentioned), OFC Jenny (mentioned)

Warnings: Language, angst, fluff, flangst, smut, possible dub-con, grace kink, magic kink

Word Count: 2500~

A/N: What have I been smoking? FYI @sofreddie made me feel genuinely emotional with her reaction to this chapter. Thank you for beta-ing once again my beautiful wifey <3 Oh, I’m testing out the new line breaks with this chapter too, if they suck or whatever, please lemme know before I start putting them in all my fics.

Series Masterlist Full Masterlist

~ Series and forever tags are open! ~

“I got it!” Sam announces, barging in to the room and making Dean jump with a start.

“The hell, Sam!?” Dean yells, “You ever heard of knocking!?”

“Look,” Sam ignores Dean’s gripes, shoving an open book onto his lap.

Dean glances down at the pages, recognising the print and your handwriting dotting around inbetween the lines. Flicking through each page rapidly like a sticker book, he snaps the book closed. Your spellbook, the one you got from the coven. “She’d been studying it a lot recently” he mumbles, opening it again and checking every page. Each one had your hasty penmanship dotted all over it, “I didn’t realise exactly how much though...”

“A lot, evidently,” Sam sighs, shaking his head, “But check the back page.”

Dean obliges, flicking through and glancing at the paper in the question, “What the…?” he mumbles aloud. His hand traces down the page, he remembered the conversation in the car about this particular spell. The one she and Jenny worked on years ago, that was supposedly unfinished. But now a whole new bunch of stuff had been added, the writing messy and scribbled, wonky in some places like your hand had slipped while doing it.

“I thought this was unfinished?” Dean continues to mumble, his eyes wide and shaking his head as he looked at the hastily scrawn spell, “Didn’t she say this spell like...sends the user into some kind of dream world?”

“Yeah...and it makes sense right?” Sam looks at you, laid out and completely oblivious to the world around you, “She said about the dream root too, so I think she wants us to go in there.”

“Right,” Dean nods in agreement, “Any word from Cas on that front?”

“He said he was heading back now, be here within the hour.”

“Okay, as soon as he’s here, cook me some of that stuff up and I’m going in.”

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

You walk down the long corridor, your steps echoing off the polished floor and bouncing off the walls. Your hands are clenched into tight fists, not sure where you were going or what you were doing, but this place gave you the creeps.

When you cast the spell, you tried to imagine your old childhood house, yearning for somewhere safe and distant from all this chaos that was now your life. You brain seemingly had other ideas however, throwing you into some warped, deformed version of Harper’s old house. The corridor looked exactly as you remembered, but now twice as long with double the amount of rooms branching off from it. Some of the doors were completely inaccessible, you couldn’t open them, not even by throwing your entire body weight into them. Others did open, revealing memories that made your guts churn. So far, you’d seen your parents, playing with an infant you in your old living room before you all headed out to the park. You’d seen you and Jenny, shooting the shit whilst cleaning down the diner after a long shift and then heading out to a bar. You’d seen the bunker, drinking beers with the boys until stupid o’clock in the morning and then having to spend a sleepless night laying beside a nightmare ridden Dean.

“Oh yay…” you groan, trying another door handle and feeling the door click open, “C’mon brain, show me something that isn’t tainted with something fucking depressing…”

“Do we even have anything like that?” your own voice replies back in the air.

“Sure we do!” you argue, holding your hands on your hips and pouting, “Or we could just cut to the chase and you fucking show yourself to me.”

“I am you!”

“So you keep saying! Yet I don’t see a fricking ounce of me in you!”

“Ha! Yeah, okay, tell me how much you didn’t enjoy what’s behind that door then.”

“Ugh!” you scoff, pouting and throwing the door open, what met your eyes made you stop in your tracks.

“Oh boy…” you mumble, pulling at the collar of your shirt as heat rushed up your neck.

It was you and Dean, from a couple of weeks ago. A frustrating long night of dead end research, and you were both letting those frustrations out.

“Y/N, fuck,” Dean growled, he held you to him tightly, your ass just resting on the edge of the desk in your bedroom. He thrust his hips roughly, hungrily devouring your mouth while the head of his cock relentlessly pounded into your cervix.

“Dean!” you moaned, throwing your head back. A thin veil of sweat made your bodies glide against each other with a unique kind of friction. You dug your fingers into the back of his shoulder, bringing your head back and your forehead meeting with his. You could hear his heartbeat increasing and feel the energy from the waves of pleasure that were coursing through him.

“You’re close,” you mewled, biting your bottom lip as you clenched your thighs tighter around him.

“Says you,” he chuckled darkly, “You’re so fucking hot, Baby. Play with your clit, throw yourself over the edge.”

“Is that an order?” you smirked, raising your eyebrow, “You want me to play with myself?”

“I fucking love watching you get yourself off,” he hissed through gritted teeth, rolling his hips into you.

“Okay,” you gasp a small laugh, “I’ll ‘play’ with myself.”

Your eyes flashed that familiar vibrant blue as your powers kicked in. Dean faltered slightly at the sight before realising that his hand was moving of seemingly its own will. A faint blue aura surrounded it, as his fingers trailed down your body and he could feel your soft, hot skin on his fingertips. His hand snaked down to your mound, until finding the small nub of swollen nerve endings. He pressed it, stroked circles on it, flicked his fingertip across it.

His jaw hung slightly open as you chuckled, bucking your hips forward and groaning with pleasure. You were genuinely using him...to play with yourself, prompting a lustful growl to rumble in Dean throat.

He suddenly felt his hips thrust, again out of his control, a choked moan of surprise bursting from him. They thrust again, and again, each with an increasingly fast pace.

“Y/N, fuck!!” he groaned, feeling your walls flutter and clench around him. He could feel everything building, all the pressure and tension, ripples pleasure bubbling over into an endless cacophony of tidal waves.

“That was a good night wasn’t it?” you hear Dean’s voice behind you.

“Dean!?” you shriek, turning too swiftly on your heels and nearly stumbling. The memory that was playing out suddenly melted away into small gusts of smoke, leaving an empty replica of Dean and your’s bedroom in its wake, “I-is it really you?”

“Got the dream root,” he nods, “Just like you said.”

“Holy shit…” a huge broad, smile spreads across your face before you throw yourself at him. He thankfully catches you, holding you while you swing your arms around his shoulders. Your heart swelled so big at the sight of him, it was painful. You could feel your face scrunching up as your eyes burned suddenly. Your bury your face into his chest, losing the fight against your sobs, “I’m sorry Baby, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, holding you tightly to him, resting a hand on the back of your head, “It’s okay, don’t worry. I’m here.”

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

“So yeah…” you sigh, walking back down the corridor of Harper’s house with Dean. It seemed to have got even bigger. Ridiculously. The thing stretched out before you so far you didn’t see an actual end to it, “I finished the spell in the car after we talked about it...It just hit me that I could possibly finish it. Thought it may have helped with...well...everything. An escape so shit’s easier to cope with.”

“I’m just thankful it works and you haven’t accidentally burnt your brain out or something,” Dean shakes his head. He stands on his toes briefly, like he was trying to get a better look down this endless corridor, “It’s still fricking weird though.”

“You’re telling me,” you giggle, “It’s only gonna get weirder no doubt. Other me is no doubt gonna be an absolute fucking treasure…”

“So…that’s what we’re doing?” Dean asks for clarification, “You’re going to go find and...talk to yourself?”

“I guess you could say that,” you shrug, huffing a small laugh as you drag your heels along the floor, “If they’re really me...we should be able to talk it out. Get all the feels on the table. If I’m stuck like this, gotta find a way to move on and live with it, right?”

“Most people would write in a diary or something,” Dean retorts, narrowing his eyes and smirking.

You giggle, shaking your head, “Well, the main reason I cast the spell was pretty much to knock me the fuck out,” you explain, a small sigh passing your lips, “Might as well try and sort myself out while I’m here. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Dean nods, his hands in his pocket as you both continue to walk. You didn’t know where you going, or if it was even possible to find the “Demonic you” in this place you’d created. Something was leading you though, you weren't sure if it was instincts or something luring you, but you found your legs still moving, the heels of your boots monotonously clicking on the polished wood floor.

“I...I think we’re close,” you mumble, the pace in your step quickening as you strode ahead.

“Y/N,” Dean called after you, grabbing your hand to hold you back and stay close, “Look, I-I’m sorry you’re going through all this.”

“What?” you stop and turn back to him with a furrowed brow, “It’s not like it’s your fault. If anything I’m sorry for burdening you guys with my shit again.”

“No,” Dean clenches his jaw while briefly shaking his head, “I should have known the Bar CCTV was a fucking setup. If we hadn’t have gone in there, they wouldn’t have…” His words trail off, and you squeeze his hand.

“Dean,” you say seriously, “You can’t shoulder the blame for everything. Harper’s potion has been slowly fucking with me all this time, so no doubt this day was coming. Jenny’s new concoction just...sped it up I guess.”

You move closer to him, leaning in to him and resting your head on his chest. Your eyes begin to burn as you actually take a moment to reflect on it all. It was only a few short weeks ago that things were feeling good. Everyone was moving on, you and Dean together again and a vague sense of your own special brand of normality was setting back into place. If you’d have thought that a news story about an office building bursting into blue flames would lead to all this…

Damn, your stomach churns as you realise deep down you never would have been able to let it go.

Dean holds you around your waist, pulling you tight to him, resting his head on yours and breathing deeply against your hair. You both linger, holding each other in silence.

“When’s the last time we actually had a moment alone like this?” Dean eventually speaks, looking down at you and planting a small soft kiss on your forehead, “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“You’re telling me,” you chuckle in agreement, holding him impossibly tighter, “I miss it…”

“I miss it too,” Dean mumbles. He holds his index finger up to your chin, raising your head to meet his eyes, “Just being us...no bullshit hanging or looming in the air above us.”

“Has there ever been a time like that?” you quip, nudging him with your elbow playfully, “You know, I’ve made it so when I’m here I’m just...me. No freaky shit powers or angel radio...I actually feel normal, disregarding the fact I’m using a spell to keep me locked up inside my own head.”

You shake your head with a bewildered laugh, looking up at Dean. His eyes look pained as they glance back down at you. “But…” you force yourself to continue, your heart breaking under his eyes, “It also doesn’t feel right…”

“I don’t think anything about this situation is necessarily right,” he jokes, picking up on your heartache and defaulting to quips to lighten the mood.

You do laugh lightly, your fingers bunching in to the back of his shirt while you try and bite back a sob, “I mean…” you choke slightly, ignoring the tingle in your eyes, “Y-you never even knew me when I was just some normal girl. I’d been on that potion for a long ass time before you and Sam came to the coven. For a fucking large chunk of my life I’ve been...deep down, a monster.”

“Y/N, stop it,” Dean states sternly, his fingers now digging in to your sides as held you, “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true though,” you shrug, a couple of tears breaking through, “It wasn’t always to this extent but...I-I like my power. Even after you and Sam made me promise to abandon them, I went back. Then we tried again and...look where we are now. I always come back to them, because they’re a part of me.”

“Y/N…” Dean shakes his head, “They may be a part of you, but that’s all they are. A part. They don’t make up who you are. A sweet, funny, freaking batshit, badass hunter. Someone who wants to do good, save people, looks after her family…”

“Oh yeah,” you cut him off with a sarcastic retort, “By bringing all new levels of hell and misery into their lives.”

“Um, correct me if I’m wrong,” Dean raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as he spoke matter-of-factly, “You said I can’t ‘shoulder the blame for everything’. So sounds to me like you need to listen to your own advice.”

Your slump in defeat, a smirk playing on your lips, “You’re unbelievable,” you huff, “But thank you...you’re being all sweet and I far from deserve it.”

“Y/N-” Dean starts to argue but is cut off by a loud crashing sound further down the corridor.

“Oh please! You both make me sick!” a twisted version of your voice echoes.

“Wonderful…” you sigh, pulling back from Dean and inhaling sharply. You roll your shoulders, before turning to Dean and nodding, “I’m doing this.”

“Not alone you’re not,” he grabs your hand, standing beside you.

“You sure about that?” you ask hesitantly, “I don’t know what the fuck is going to happen. It could all turn sour super fast. Probably safer for you to get out here incase I implode my own brain or something.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he answers stubbornly, “You’re not doing any more of this alone.”

You sigh shakily, nodding slowly before the two of you start to walk together.

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#dean x reader #dean winchester #dean series #dean fluff #dean angst #dean flangst #dean smut #sam winchester #sam fluff #sam angst #sam flangst #supernatur #spn #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #spn fanficti #spn fanfic

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wonderlandmind4 · 6 years

Text

Delicate Stages Chp 20

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x OFC Ana Rios

Summary: Bucky Barnes agrees to participate in Deprogramming Sessions. What he gets is not anything like he expected.

Warnings: Language, mentions of anxiety/panic attacks, mild PTSD,

Words: 2.1k+ (short af, wtf.) @justreadingfics @nerdyandproud9 @buffy-morgendorffer-01

Bucky was still reeling after his nightmare, despite the fact that him and Steve walked around for an hour. He just couldn't seem to shake the feeling in his bones, made his hands tremble. Made his skin prickle like Hydra was lurking in the woods surrounding the compound, tentacles waiting to twist around him and drag him back to icy darkness. It took Steve's reassurance, and Ana's voice in his head to fully grasp that no one was watching him.

He replayed the image of Ana's concerned, brown eyes in his brain. Counted each of the nine golden flecks laced within the warm fibers. Focused on every number in his mind until he slowly began grounding himself. Focused on how she took her time with him, patient and brave. How she gently coaxed him back to reality with the delicate touch of her hands, of her powers wrapping him in safety. How she looked a little surprised but completely calm when Bucky had shielded her.

All his apprehension had disappeared though, when he found out Ana had passed out afterwards. For a wild fearful moment, Bucky had thought he might have lashed out at her. They told him he didn't, he hadn’t harmed her physically. They could have just told him that Ana was tired and went to sleep, but Vision deemed it important enough to tell him the truth.

It made his jaw clench along with his chest. It was not the first time he essentially made Ana passed out from exhausting her abilities; on him. He has a feeling it probably won't be the last. He also has a feeling that he can't do anything about it.

He wanted to talk it out with Ana, and when she asked it was on the tip of his tongue. However, the way she looked, utterly exhausted on the couch, skin unnaturally pale, eyes fluttering, breathing slightly labored, he decided against it. When she had fallen asleep again, with the cat curled up between them, Bucky had carefully picked her up and brought her to bed. He lingered long enough to carefully run his fingers through her hair before he forced himself to leave. He didn’t deserve to steal such a soft touch for himself.

Despite how many breathing exercises Bucky does in the morning, his anxiety just doesn't seem to want to leave. He's sitting on the desk, untouched cup of coffee next to him, hands gripping the edge of the wood. His senses are beyond heightened, even more so with the serum running through his veins. It's like he can feel everyone's eyes on him, searing into him as if they know Bucky is on the verge of internal panic.

The air around him is beginning to feel hot, prickling at his skin, sweat dampening his palm. His stomach churns and he has to swallow a few times to calm the bile threatening to rise. He wrings his hands together, the metal sliding smoothly, wetly, over his flesh. He bites his bottom lip because he can feel it trembling and the last thing he wants to do is appear weak in front of Ana.

Bucky takes a peak at her, wondering if she has noticed that he's internally having a meltdown. She isn't looking at him though. Instead, she pulls a small red packet from her pant pocket, rips it open and dumps out small, colorful candies. She tosses the packet in the trash then finally looks up at him.

"Sort them by color." Ana instructs simply.

"What?" Bucky asks bemused, and he hates how shaky his voice sounds in his ears.

“The Skittles. I would like you to sort them by color.”

"Now?”

"Please.”

It's a pool of color, scattered among the surface. With one last quick glance at Ana, her expression patient and calm, he begins to sort them. He picks out the greens ones first, sliding them gently into their own little pile. Then he goes for yellow, repeating the same notion. He slides the purples together, then the oranges. Red is the last color that just needs to be set into a neat pile. He's done.

"Which colors have more?" Ana inquires him next.

He looks at the colorful piles of candy and sees that the least amount is purple. Then red, yellow, green and orange. He repeats this to Ana, using his index finger to nudge them together tighter. It turns out to be a lost cause, because Ana steals two red ones. Bucky watches her pop them in her mouth, chewing gleefully.

"Without knowing flavors of the candy," She begins around her chewing. Bucky watches her throat bob as she swallows. "Which color would you eat first?”

He considers this. "Green.”

She picks up a green one and eats it. "Green is lime. Yellow is lemon. Orange is, well, orange. Purple is grape, and red is strawberry.”

"No wonder you ate it." Bucky quips.

Ana scrunches her nose in a mocking smile. She pushes the green pile closer to his hand. "Try one."

He does. He tries all of them. He's pleasantly surprised to like the green more than the others, but the red does come as a close second. Together they share the candy, until Ana swipes her hand over them to mix them up. Bucky glares at her, then fixes them again of his own accord, ignoring her soft chuckles.

"Are you feeling better?" She questions, after they finish the candy.

"What do you mean?" Bucky frowns quizzically.

"You look like you were about to have a panic attack. Do you feel better?"

She did notice. Bucky shouldn't be surprised in the slightest. At this point, he doesn't even think it’s her ability anymore, just Ana being Ana being attentive to him. He doesn't know when it happened or when a line blurred, but suddenly, they can't seem to hide anything from each other anymore. Both open books now.

"Is that why you told me to sort them? Because you knew?" Bucky asks, feeling a small smile spread across his lips.

Ana returns it. "Yes. You've been looking a little off kilter this morning. Did you end up getting any sleep?"

Bucky shakes his head. Ana opens her mouth, but he beats her to it. "No, Annie, I wasn't going to wake you. You needed the rest.”

The pout on Ana's lips shouldn't be as endearing as it is. Bucky ducks his head down, makes it easier for her to gently tug on his hair in retaliation for the nickname. She nudges his mug over to him, and he finally picks it ups, taking a rather large gulp. It's lukewarm at best.

"Did you know," Ana starts, stretching her legs out until her boots rest next to Bucky's thigh. "The color green is associated with growth, which makes sense since, you know, earth. It's also associated with renewal and harmony. It's known among Empaths as having a healing power. It's the most relaxing color to the human eye."

Bucky tilts his head curiously. He did not know this. He remains silent, content to listen and learn the inner workings of Ana's mind. He subtly moves his thigh closer to her boots, just so when she moves them back and forth, they tap against his leg.

"Green is soothing." She continues. "It also can help alleviate anxiety while bringing a sense of hope with it."

Slowly, it dawns on him. "Are you saying that's why I chose green?"

"Possibly." She grins at him, taps her foot harder against his thigh. "Psychological colors. I'm saying you chose it because it was the most calming to you at the moment."

Bucky is silent for several moments, debating. "I can't shake that dream from my mind." He quietly admits. Her expression falls into her open, nonjudgmental one. He wonders if she even realizes she does that. "They found me. Dragged me back to their hell. I could almost feel how real that chair was, could feel it pressing against my head."

Ana's face changes, her brows furrowing and her mouth tilting down. Her eyes shine, the golden dots glittering in the sunlight streaming in. She looks as if she is feeling his own pain, feeling his terror from the night before. She pressed her foot harder into his thigh, her calf also a solid touch. It grounds him.

"When you came in the room," He continues in a whisper. "I couldn't see you for a moment, everything was so jumbled. I thought maybe-" He jerks his head. "But then you were there and everything in my mind faded away. All I saw was you."

"I'm so sorry, Bucky." Ana replies softly. She takes her legs down, leaning forward and placing her hand on his knee instead.

Bucky puts his right hand over hers, squeezing her knuckles. "I just appreciated you being there. You didn't have to do your energy thing. You never have to do that but you do, and I...thank you. Again."

"I am going to do everything I can to help you, so you don't feel like that anymore." Ana tells him, determination gleaming in her eyes.

Bucky smiles ruefully at her. "That's what I'm afraid of. That you take on what I feel, and that can be indescribably chaotic." He shakes his head like he's shaking up his thoughts. "Thing is, they're not even nightmares most of the time. I think they're memories. I don't know what's real during that time, Ana. I don't want you feeling any of that."

Ana moves her hand from his knee to the middle of his chest. There's a softness around her beautiful eyes. It's the small melancholy tilt of her lips gives away the possibility that she has already felt some form of chaos in her life. Bucky's eyes flicker down to the scars on her wrist, then back to her.

"Remember what I told you?"

"You tell me a lot of things." He states. He remembers all of them.

A glint of a laugh flashes through her eyes. "Feel with your heart. Ground yourself. You just need to take a moment to ground yourself."

"I felt you." Bucky confesses without meaning to. It's the truth though, and he wants her to know it. "I saw you standing there, through the dark, but I couldn't be sure. Until you touched my hand." He places his right hand over hers on his chest. "That's what brought me back to reality."

Ana looks a little dazed, so Bucky squeezes her hand lightly. He hopes that admission wasn't too much too soon. They've never really had a timeline of that anyway, practically just jumping into deep waters the moment they met. He is just being honest with her, despite it making him feel flushed all over his body as if the room is overheated. It's not, it's just Bucky staring at Ana as she peers back at him. He wonders if she can feel how fast his heart is beating.

Blinking twice, Ana finally stutters, "G-good. That's, uh, good."

His lips spread into a smile of their own accord. He is always baffled how Ana stumbles over herself at times, since she has always been this confident, smart, spitfire of a woman. He wants to say something else, something that might make this moment deeper, or even something that might dissipate this intriguing tension between. He doesn't get to say anything though, for a shadow shifts over Ana's shoulder, and Bucky lifts his eyes to see someone coming up to them.

He tightens his hold on her hand, ready to pull her close if need be. Instead, a file is slapped down on the desk next to Ana. She jumps, her expression immediately morphing into an irritated one, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling. It looks like she wants to rip the file thrower a new one, until she spins around realizing who it is. Ana takes her hand away from Bucky's chest, his fingers lingering a little too long.

"You suck." Ana says flatly.

"New information on that power plant." Tony tells her, sliding the file across the desk. He makes eye contact with Bucky, giving him a nod of acknowledgement.

"I already told you, Tony," She slides file back without opening it. "I'm not a field agent. I don't have that type of training."

Stark scoffs. "Sure you don't."

"I think that's a lie." Bucky pipes up, agreeing with Stark. He's one hundred percent sure she has some hidden skills.

"No one appreciates your comments, Bucky." Ana teases, poking his shin. To Tony she says, "Just have Hawkeye shoot his electrical arrows at the damn thing. Problem solved."

"C'mon, lunch is on me today." Tony states, ignoring her comment. "We'll talk about it over falafels."

When Ana spins back to face Bucky she rolls her eyes and he has to hold back a laugh. "It's not like I'm busy or anything."

"Barnes too." He calls as he begins to walk away. "Don't forget the file."

Bucky and Ana share a look, both surprised that the invite. She shrugs, grabs the file and stands. She waits for Bucky to do the same, her hand squeezing his forearm in a silent question. He flashes her a reassuring smile. They can finish talking later if need be. Apparently, they stand there for too long just smiling at each other, for Tony calls out to them.

"Today, please!"

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#bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x ofc #delicate stages #bucky bares fanfiction #my fic

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semi-imaginary-place · 3 years

Text

Name: Nacre Hallis

Role: Perspective

They catch the updraft off the windward side of their Lighthouse, rising into the sky. A constant battle against gravity, an inevitable fall. They ride from wave crest to wave crest, just a little more.

Nacre is a Gull of Selkie’s Rock. Every day they leave the lighthouse either by glider or on their nimble one-person sailboat to watch for storms and incoming ships. Nacre spent their 20’s roving from lighthouse to lighthouse before returning to Selkie’s Rock and was both comforted and disappointed to find it much the same, the same families and the same problems but new coats of paint. They stirred the lighthouse up a bit when they first got back but nothing really came of it and they eventually settled into their job as a Gull. They’re a little bitter and a little tired.

Wish/Fear: "May winds stay fair”

Issue: Torn between their loyalty to Selkie’s Rock and their desire to chase the horizon and never look back

《Bond: Old Man Zim: Facinated by Zim’s monster stories, Nacre was inspired and encouraged to go beyond Selkie’s Rock. They often meet up for drinks. Nacre goes to him for seafaring advice.

》Bond: Maeve Conmara: Nacre sees Maeve as dangerous, that she’s always looking down instead of up, looking back instead of forward.

Locations: The Bluff, The Docks

Nacre is just finishing filling out their side of the papers for the incoming vessel when they hear Cormac approach. They raise a hand in greeting, snorting at his question.“Well it certainly could be better, you’re right about that. Fair weather the whole week but the number of ships are down.”

“That Slimer’s really gone and done it this time. Who gave that idiot control of a ship? Oh right. His dearest family.” Nacre sighs but then pauses looking thoughtful, “But it can’t just be that. News wouldn’t have reached the Dallion Alliance yet, or the lighthouses farther out. And I can’t see them opening their hearts and caring all of a sudden...It might be the sea beasties, been seeing more of them. Saw one of those greater spined morays just this morning, you know, the ones with the giant head spines. “

Yes:

Statement that no family rules selkies rock. Precedent

No:

People will go hungry this winter

Conmaras will try to get away with more in the future.

Nacre watches the *Azure Arrow* approach, her sails taunt from the wind, "Well, we’re going to be hurting for the loss of commerce. Then we’re going to hurt when all that oil affects the harvests. If the Conmaras don’t pay it’s the regular folk that will."

Their eyes turn up to the gathering clouds, “Making ol’ Slimer pay sets the precedent. No family rules Selkie’s Rock. Not the Conmaras, not the LirBorns, you mess up, you pay for it.”

Nacre looks back at Cormac, clasps him on the shoulder and walks over to greet Old Man Zim.

“Well the council didn’t seem pleased with the proposal, but when I delivered this letter, the man immediately ran off, didn’t even close him front door. Wonder what that was about.”

“How’s your morning been?”

Nacre turns the bit of cloth in their hands. Rionna? or was this more Scrap’s doing? Part of Nacre was glad to see the foundations of the lighthouse shifting. Just, anything. Rionna, Cormac, Slider, Scrap, Maeve... yes. But also the crew cleaning up the spill, this whole leaning tower built on the families. Letting Slider slip out meant the burden would fall on those already hard hit by the poor harvest. Someone would starve regardless of how Rionna planned to use it as kindling. Disciplining the Conmaras would keep the other families in line, set a standard…

Tear down the tower or brace it, either way a storm was brewing.

Zarc Talkeen’s been a seaman for a few years now, practically jumped at the opportunity to crew The Mother of Pearls and follow in his mother’s footsteps out to sea. But then the rope snaps and tangles his legs and he is dragged along with it. Under the water, dashed against something he doesn’t have time to process, and under again; the shouts of Maeve and the workers are distant and interrupted, Zarc’s thoughts only on freeing himself, it’s the only thought his brain can process in the chaos.

And then steel cable strikes steel and there’s a spark. Zarc’s last memory is of fire on the water.

The moon hangs low on the sky closer to sunrise than sunset, its light mingling with that of the lighthouse’s. Nacre stands on the edge of the Bluff, watching the sheen of residual oil on the waves. They are exhausted, drained and numb after the events of the day. From seeing their friend go down to a blow to the head, unmoving, to holding a cloth to his head to stop the bleeding, to stepping back so Old Zim could speak, so awkwardly hovering besides their friend all the way home, Nacre had not stopped moving. Now everything was still, everything except the endless churning on the waves.

All things pass, both foul and fair. The roar of the mob… they weren’t wrong, and with that a bitterness wells up to fill the emptiness. Always a step ahead or a step behind, never in the right place at the right time. Nacre had cried out of the Rock’s crumbling foundations, the corruption of nepotism and the turf wars between the families, but their voice hadn’t reached anyone. Like an invisible wall cutting them off from the rest of the Lighthouse, no matter how loud they had shouted, no one had turned their head. Would the council try to sweep this too under the rug?

Location: at sea

A Gull must be able to read the wind, it’s the wind after all the decides how long and how far you can go in a day, go too far or stay too late and you’ll be stuck in the middle of the sea. Nacre remembers watching the others take off from the Lighthouse, still stuck on the ground as the flight instructor explains they aren’t quite ready.

This day has been clear with the strong winds that come in Autumn. Ardan and Nacre have been out several hours to the far reaches of the Gull’s range, leaving the ship registration to others for the day. Soon they will enter the danger zone for returning. Nacre is about to give the signal for the two of them to use the next gust to pivot and start heading back to Selkie’s Rock when movement catches their eye. Looking attentively, they see its not the movement of waves but a large fin sinking back into the water. Nacre and Ardan circle watch as another fin breaches the surface. The King Fishers are finally here along their annual circumpolar migration, a little late but here. Ardan lets out a whoop as the two head back.

Nacre watches with amusement as Ardan bounces around. They then survey the rebuilding of the Docks, mycelium composite beams being hauled in to replace charred wood, “We need that oil”. The hand on their glider tightens.

They back to Ardan, “Don’t get too excited now, if you wanted action you should have become a monster hunter instead of a Gull, our job’s just about done. Just some more scouting and maybe running a distraction during the hunt, but that won’t be you or me, probably Andre or Crisol or Haley, they all have excellent control. Its dangerous work, you know how every year someone comes back injured, or worse”

Ardan deflates a little and seeing that Nacre exhales, takes a breath and says, “Look, just means you have room to grow. You do it, and you slowly get better at it. Look at us. A few years ago, neither of us could fly, and in a few more years who knows how far you’ll go.”

Nacre lightly slaps Ardan on the back and starts walking towards the Lighthouse. They smile as they walk, “You know, Old Man Zim used to tell me stories of the old King Fisher hunts, the water teeming with so many of the scaly beasts that you could walk a mile on top of their backs without ever getting your toes wet. Always thought he was exaggerating that bit, certainly never seen anywhere near that many in my years as a Gull. But my gran said the same thing, that our boats would come back sitting low and fat in the water and we’d have extra for the entire next year and to sell.”

All around them word of the arrival of the King Fishers is spreading, excitement grows as people look forward to a good harvest, a little more food on the table, the security that the light won’t go out.

“Makes me wonder, where did they all go?”.

As two pairs of feet make their way up the Lighthouse. Nacre turns over the question in their head some more and rubs the back of their neck, “I might just be rambling here—I mean who here really knows—all we’ve gots are the old tales of sailors to go off of and the recent unrest has thrown off my compass so to speak but I don’t know maybe they went somewhere else I mean they’re always going somewhere aren’t they just passing by or maybe there really aren’t many left things are always changing maybe it’s us I haven’t thought this one through—Actually you know who might have a clearer picture here. Ol’ Selsei . A right old seadog she is, been watching over the fisheries ever since she retired from monster hunting. Perhaps accessing the archives or asking Diana would be a good idea as well.”.

“Just in time for the afternoon meeting.” Nacre nods at Ardan, “Ardan, they don’t need two of us there. Go ahead and write the report and leave it on my desk, I’ll read over it and file it later. When I get back you can come with to go see Selsei is you are still curious”

As Nacre nears the meeting room, they hear the rumble of conversation through the door. They knock and open the door to Lyra Conmara glaring at the Council of Selkie’s Rock. Lyra looks glances at the door before standing, setting her jaw and fiercely articulating “I dearly hope the Council remembers who are truly the foundation on Selkie’s Rock”. Nacre watched Lyra leaves the room, her heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway.

“I am here to report on the patrol of today the 23 of the 10th month, a formal report will be available on file shortly. Today a group of approximately 16 King Fishers was spotted along the eastern boundary. The hunting companies have been notified. Taking into account yesterday’s finding, it is recommended that they embark soon,”

“Rionna Lirborn hmm?”, Nacre turns their head to Rionna, face neutral.

“We all have a place here at Selkie’s Rock, but as our Lighthouse crumbles, you will find those places easily shift and fall away.”

“The council would do well to make an informed decision.”

Diana was a bit past her flying years but no one had a sharper memory or knew the archives better than her. And every afternoon she took tea with her old friend and diametric opposite Selsei. Today, Selsei and Diana sat in an alcove lit by lanterns, heads bent together, makeshift table cluttered with papers and mugs of redfan tea. At the approach of Nacre with Ardan trailing behind, Diana lifts a hand to greet her coworkers while Selsei tilts her head and chuffs at the new arrivals before taking a deep draught from her mug.

“Excuse us”, Nacre nods to the two of them, “I’m sure the buzz of the King Fishers arriving has reached you two—Me and Ardan were out there this morning actually—and I had a thought. Wasn’t there more in the past? Diana you know the recorded sightings from past years, could I take a look? And Selsei you were out there on the water, Old Man Zim told me there used to be droves of them.”

Diana lowers her eyes and takes a sip from her mug before folding her hands in her lap, mind sorting though all the reports she’d read. Selsel though leans forward, elbow on the table and says, “Nacre eh, ohhh the one always hanging onto Zim’s sleeves. Yeah, crewed a few of those with Zim and just as many on a competitor, heh, taught him a good few tricks I did. And well you’re not the only ones who’ve noticed, I may be retired but I keep up with what happens out on the sea. Them hunter still bring back a fair amount, but each year the big ones are harder to find. It used to be about testing yourself, reaching the summit of what us humans can do, taking down a god. Now its just business, feed the light, profit off other lighthouses. And the King Fishers the bring in keep getting smaller, haven’t seen a real big one in years. Oh what’d I do to hunt one again.”

Diana speaks as Selsei falls quiet, eyes on her friend. “Yes, I do believe the reports match up. Well, the early records are all a mess, I never spent much time with those, full of strange words. But ever since we’ve been keeping track of the number of King Fisher sighted and caught, yes the trend has been downward. Let me write down the ones I remember.”

Nacre frowns, “I can look up the remaining years, but would either of you two have an idea of why? I hesitate to jump to conclusions and say its us, but has anything else changed? Maybe their food or the water itself?”

“Its those damn Lirborns muscling in and trying to squeeze us dry, all for what, a lil more cash”, Selsei scoffs, “They forget about the Hunt, and what it means to kill one who fishes for kings.”

Diana glances at Selsei but looks to Nacre and responds, “Its hard to say for certain, the sightings and catch are what we have most consistently recorded, but everything else either falls outside of our jurisdiction, or its at the whims of the council. What is determined to be important enough to record cycles with who sits in the Council.”

Diana sighs, “I tried appealing for a long term plan, but we need funding for that. Securing funding for the decades that have not come, it was difficult. But data like this is no use to anyone in fragments. I can’t track any pattern.”

Nacre nods, “I guess we’ll just have to work with incomplete data. Maybe it really is us. If we killed all the big ones that’d explain when we don’t see none anymore. And the steady catch would be because every year we try harder. If that’s true then one day soon there won’t be any more King Fishers.”

So there in the belly of the archive, four huddle over a small table as they try to piece together a puzzle missing half of its pieces, but elsewhere in the Lighthouse hunters prepare their harpoons while the council argues on. Along street and houses lanterns and paper fish are being hung up to welcome the arrival of the Kingfishers, children run along the street, King Fisher kites streaming behind them. The waters are calm, no back breaks the surface.

Y1: extinction of kingfishers (maybe not immediately but eventually)

N1: public moral plummets and discontent spreads

N2: resources shortages (food, oil), so winter rationing starts or something

N1: king fishers dont go extinct

Y1: public moral increases

Y2: we make it through the winter

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kasprak · 7 years

Note

Hi! You should write! Because I’m sure you’re super amazing at it and even if you don’t think you are practice will make you feel so much better about it! But to get you started, I suggest ‘shh, c’mere’ with reddie. Love you, you’re great!

here i am and i’ll take my time (x)

→ word count: 1,497

→ teen richie and eddie, one-on-one sleepover, kisses in the dark

→ warnings: angst, swears, major character death, spoilers for part two

You’re too late, Richie, a rotting voice echoed in his mind, he’s with me now.

There was a sour smell that hung thick in the air. The whole atmosphere felt dense, claustrophobic even. It felt like how the world felt minutes before a storm struck. When grey clouds loomed heavy, electric. Tense. The scent burned in his nostrils and coated his tongue, causing him to nearly choke on his own breath. Breathing. His breathing was already labored, ragged, but why?

Where the fuck am I?

Richie’s entire body ached. He was aware of a throbbing in the soles of his feet like he’d been walking for hours on end, and of an even more subtle ache in his lower back. He felt tired and weak, and his head hurt most of all. Sharp bouts of pain pulsed through his skull, and his stomach churned in protest with every jolt. There was something else, too, a thick warmth covering his hands. It spread quickly and soaked his clothes.

He was holding something. Dead weight, his mind insisted, and when Richie looked down at this weight (dead weight) in his arms, his heart dropped like a stone.

Now the shrieking, the whimpering sobs that surrounded him made sense. He hadn’t noticed them until now. It was his friends. Beverly, mostly. She was crying, hard, and sputtering out the same name that had just died on Richie’s lips (died in Richie’s arms): Eddie. An older Eddie, sure, but still unmistakably him. Eddie lay limp in Richie’s arms. The wet warmth was his blood, dark and red, and it flowed in a steady stream from the socket where his arm was supposed to be.

“F-fuck, Eddie!” He was shaking his friend’s body, already knowing it was pointless but not having the heart to stop. “E-Eds, fuck, shit, you’re bleeding pretty bad, man. What happened to you? Oh god, Eds.” He shook even harder this time, until he felt Bill’s hand close over his shoulder. Firmly, but not unkindly.

“He’s guh-gone, R-Ruh-Richie. Let him go.” Bill was crying too.

Richie shook his head. “Fucking do something! Eds is ―”

The corpse’s eyelids suddenly flung open, exposing glazed, lifeless eyes. A hollow, dusty voice spoke from Eddie’s still-warm lips. The voice sounded like it belonged in a zombie creature feature at the Aladdin. “Don’t call me that.” Richie sputtered a string of curse words, dropping Eddie’s head into his lap like a hot plate.

Richie woke up with a strangled cry, and was plunged suddenly into the absolute darkness of his own basement. The warm wetness soaking his skin was no longer blood, but sweat and tears. His wavy hair clung to his forehead, sticky and hot. The entire back of his t-shirt was damp. Tears stung his eyes and formed a sore lump in his throat, forcing him to swallow hard. His mind reeled with disorientation. Eddie. Where’s Eddie? Why is it so fucking dark and, oh god, I need to save him, he’s bleeding. I can’t lose him.

“Eds?”

“I said don’t call me that.” Eddie’s reply came in a harsh whisper, cutting through the darkness like a knife. Richie hadn’t been asleep for long, so this whole time Eddie had been under the impression that he was having a very one-sided conversation with a very awake Richie. Richie would mumble ‘Eds’ urgently, and Eddie would shush him. It was late, and he was grumpy, and he knew that if he caved and asked ‘what?’, Richie would say some dumb shit like ‘Can’t you fall asleep a little faster? I want to spend some quality time with your mom.’ to which Eddie would reply ‘Maybe I’d be asleep if you would shut the fuck up.’ He was not falling for it. No sirree. Not this night, and not at this hour. Turns out, still unbeknownst to Eds, this was not one of those times.

Richie could hear his voice but didn’t process his words.

Eddie’s dying, he’s dying, he’s bleeding out in my arms��and I need to find him. Why can’t I see anything? He felt around in the darkness, fingers tracing over the rough carpet and onto his own sleeping bag. “Where the fuck are my glasses?” What little composure he had was failing fast.

“Richie, are you having a fucking stroke? Your prescription doesn’t give you night vision.”

“I-I just need my fucking glasses so I know ―” Richie whimpered, his voice breaking as he began to search more desperately,“so I know that you’re okay. There’s blood on me. Your arm ―”

“Woah, what? Richie what the fuck are you talki ―”

“I don’t want to lose you, Eddie, I-I… I can’t… I can’t.”

The room fell silent, save for Richie’s heavy breathing, and then a faint rustling as Eddie climbed out of his sleeping bag. His voice sounded closer the next time he spoke. “Richie, what happened? Are you okay?” The worry was painfully evident in his voice, and somehow amongst all the chaos in his brain Richie could still feel his heart skip a beat at the sound.

It was starting to make a little more sense now, but his words still tumbled out of his mouth in a jumble. “F-fuck, Eddie, I saw you and you were older and I think I was too, but you were hurt, and I couldn’t do anything. I think I-I’m covered in your blood.”

He felt Eddie rest a hand on his shoulder and then quickly retract it, as though he’d been burned. “Jesus, Richie, you’re drenched with sweat.” Realization began to dawn over the smaller boy as he knelt closer to Richie, feeling the heat radiating off of him and the sharp, short breaths he was taking in. It was an anxiety attack prompted by a really shitty, scary dream. “I’m okay! You’re okay,” he began, speaking as soothingly as he could in his own state of shock, “you’re in your own basement. We’re having a sleepover. You just had a very bad dream.” He wished he could see Richie’s face right now.

“No, no,” Richie insisted, shaking his head, “It was real. It was so real. I’m covered in your blood ―”

“It’s sweat, you’re overheating.” Without missing a beat, he began to stand. “I should get you some water and a cold washcloth ―”

“Please don’t go.”

Eddie froze, struggling to hold back tears himself now. He hadn’t heard Richie sound this broken in a long time, and he had hoped he would never have to again. Hearing him like that broke his heart. He knew Richie wouldn’t want to be seen like this. He hated his own vulnerability. He hated when he couldn’t just crack an inappropriate joke, and laugh his pain away.

“Okay,” Eddie whispered, “I’m here. I’m staying right here.”

Another silence stretched between them. Eddie silently debated whether or not to reach out. Touch him, hug him, do something. God knows he wanted to, but would it be the right thing to do?

The quiet was broken by a strangled sob. Richie had clapped a trembling hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his tears. He wheezed, choked, bit back another cry, and felt his entire body shudder with it. Stop it, Richie. Stop fucking crying, you idiot. Richie spoke coherently for the first time, and Eddie didn’t like what he heard. “F-fuck,” Richie chuckled weakly, “I’m s-stuttering like Bill.” Eddie frowned, and couldn’t help but think ‘he’s doing that thing again where he punishes himself for having real emotions’.

“Shh, c’mere.” Eddie whispered, hands searching in the darkness until they found the other. “You’re shaking.” He shuffled closer, climbing onto Richie’s sleeping bag, and held him close and tight, letting one hand wander to his hair and stroke his curls. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Tears welled in Richie’s eyes as he hugged back, suddenly and intensely. Needing to feel as close as possible. Eddie’s skin was cold to the touch. Richie craved its chill.

“I don’t care if I’m safe,” Richie laughed through the tears, “I just need you to be, Eddie.“

“I am.”

Eddie rested his forehead on Richie’s. He smiled in spite of himself.

“Stay with me,” Richie begged, his voice breathy. Their noses brushed against one another’s. Eddie’s hand lingered on the side of Richie’s head, cupping his jaw, thumb tracing along his flushed cheek. Their lips drew closer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eddie said, and sighed into the kiss. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the urge to smile so sweetly against Richie’s mouth because this was finally happening, and it was bittersweet but his heart was soaring all the same.

Richie’s eyes fluttered shut and he wished he would never have to open them, afraid that if he did it would all fall apart, and Beverly would be screaming beside him again, pleading for Eddie to wake up.

Richie wondered if Eddie knew he was lying when he said he’d never go.

#stories never change #it 2017 #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #reddie #it fanfiction #reddie fanfiction #angst

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jostenminyard · 7 years

Text

Signing on the Line - Ch. 3 & 4

Summary: When Neil Josten is offered a position as a starting striker for a professional Exy team, he feels like all of his dreams are coming true. He signs the contract, not caring about the strict morality clause that controls who he can and can't date in the public eye.

Then he meets Andrew Minyard, the top-ranked goalie of a rival team, and then Neil thinks he might just have to care after all.

A/N: Feautured in these chapters: photoshoots, flirting, and meeting up in fancy hotels - ooh, la, la.

Chapter 3 on AO3 | Chapter 4 on AO3 | Previous chapters here

It feels like Neil’s lit a torch, and now he has to run as fast as he can to make it to the Olympic cauldron before the flame burns out. Except he’s never fast enough, no matter how hard he tries.

He has to burn, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He signed a contract and put his fire in the control of somebody else’s hands.

He’s just not sure if he hates it, when his fire is up against Andrew Minyard’s ice. He thinks he might like it, actually, because it’s not a lie. Right down in his core, where he keeps his love for Exy safe and untouched, he feels the twist and burn of determination to prove Andrew wrong.

Besides the media’s exaggerations and rumours, their rivalry is real.

Which is why Neil doesn’t hate it.

Which is why he doesn’t deny his manager when they book him a deal with the official NEL monthly magazine. The magazine plans to dedicate their seasonal starter issue to the Seakings and the Nighthawks.

They want Andrew and Neil on the cover.

He tells himself he says yes for two reasons: he likes the idea of Riko fuming over losing his cover model status for the first time in two years.

The other reason is split into two halves; he might’ve said yes simply for the opportunity to provoke and spite Andrew. He might’ve also said yes simply for the opportunity to see Andrew.

He tries not to think about that last half.

There’s a new reason for the buzz in the air, a month before the season starts. An undying energy that already has the fans flocking the streets in their aqua-silver jerseys.

All the games played in the NEL from October first to November sixteenth mean almost nothing to the Exy world. What matters is November seventeenth, when San Francisco plays against New York in the most anticipated of all rematches.

It’s all anyone can talk about, all anyone cares about, and with every pair of eyes in the Exy world on him, Neil takes the pressure they give to him and turns it into motivation.

He started this feud, he asked for the world to look at him, and he doesn’t regret it. Neil was the NCAA failure who couldn’t get a team to sign him, and when he did sign with a team, his failure status changed to Kevin Day’s sidekick.

Now Neil is simply Neil; the rookie who challenged the NEL’s top-ranked goalie.

And, in a way, that’s exactly who he is.

He practices with more grit than he did throughout his five years of college. He practices with Kevin, with his team, and sometimes by himself, at near four in the morning. Sleep is impossible when no matter what he does, the image of Andrew in the goal sticks in his head.

So he stands alone in the stadium and throws shot after shot until he can’t feel or think about anything but his pounding heart.

It churns out the oddest song, that continues to ring throughout Neil’s mind when he eventually does try to sleep.

Kevin gives him as much advice as he can, but whenever he says Andrew’s name a look of scorn is never far behind. Neil can hear the betrayal in his voice like it’s still fresh.

“Andrew only ever plays his best game when he has incentive,” Kevin tells him after night practice, the two of them in the lounge, watching clips of the Nighthawk’s latest open practice.

Neil frowns, twisting his hands up together. “. . . am I the incentive?”

Kevin answers that with a sharp look and a sharper shrug. “I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him play like this before.”

It settles heavy in Neil’s stomach, and adds a few more raucous beats to that neverending song in his head.

It’s nearly 6:00PM when his phone goes off, an unknown number flashing across the screen. Besides the constant phone calls from his manager and the occasional call from his coaches, his phone remains mostly silent nowadays. It strikes enough curiosity in him to answer.

“Hello?” Neil says cautiously, not wanting to give too much away to whoever’s on the other side.

“Your blood was already all over Riko’s hands. Now it’s a mess.”

“Andrew?”

It’s terrifying to hear that voice, deep and rumbling and somehow still smooth, right in his ear. It’s even more terrifying that he has no idea how Andrew could possibly be calling him right now.

“How’d you get my number?” Neil asks when Andrew says nothing to confirm it’s him.

“If that were important I’d care enough to remember,” Andrew says simply. “Moving on - Riko’s not happy about this upcoming magazine spread. Or really, he’s not happy about you. He says I need to put an end to this.”

“So Riko’s making you call?” His smile comes instantly, evident in his voice as he says, “Are you sure he doesn’t own you?”

“Riko says I have to end it. I don’t think I want to.”

“And why’s that? Are you having fun?”

Andrew says without pausing, “I like making you look incompetent.”

“But you see me as a challenge,” Neil says slowly, remembering Kevin’s words - Andrew sees Neil as incentive.

“I never said you are incompetent.”

Neil’s smile twitches into wider, bigger, brighter. Not sure what to say to that, he chews at his lip to try and tramp down his grin. “Thank you.”

“You still don’t stand a chance.”

“You wouldn’t be calling me if you thought that.”

Against his best efforts, Neil’s smile refuses to budge, even as the line falls quiet. In the background of the call on Andrew’s side, a car honks, sirens go off, a soft murmur of voices can be heard from down below. The sounds of a New York City night.

Andrew must be outside, somewhere secluded if he’s talking to Neil.

Neil thinks about finding Andrew outside in the loading docks that night of the banquet. The only other soul in that huge, huge room that needed to breathe, needed to escape the role they’ve been cast in.

It’s only fitting that their roles have woven together.

“I need to know,” Andrew says, after a comfortable moment of silence. “Are you Kevin’s clone? Or is there something else you live for outside of your contract?”

For a second, Neil’s mind splinters off into various directions, trying to figure out the path that Andrew means. He knows he can’t ask directly, or else Andrew won’t believe what he answers with, so he says what he thinks he should say.

“I don’t really know what else to live for,” Neil answers, a bit wistfully. “This is my life.”

“How sad. Let me know if that changes.”

There’s not even a chance for Neil to get a breath in; the line goes dead as soon as Andrew’s last word is said.

Neil holds his phone to his ear, then slowly lowers it, swimming in confusion. Even more confusing is the ache in his chest that he’s never felt before. It feels like the burn of a breath you take after being held down under water.

He ignores that feeling and looks at the unknown number with the New York area code. He saves it as a new contact, naming Andrew ‘03’.

He doesn’t touch his phone for the rest of the night.

He arrives at LAX just as the sun is rising, and he’s in a chair getting makeup put on an hour before morning practice would usually start.

The studio isn’t quiet by any means; the set decoration team is running around placing props and fixing backgrounds, the photographer is talking to the lighting department, the stylist is rolling a clothing rack back and forth across set.

It’s quiet to him though. There’s something even louder in his brain, a screaming chaos, shouting nerves that refuse to stop attacking his spine every time he looks over and sees Andrew.

Andrew is leaning back in a makeup chair, eyes closed and feet propped off the vanity in front of him. He hasn’t so much as glanced over at Neil since he arrived. Neil tells himself he doesn’t care.

It’s just them today, to shoot for the cover. Tomorrow the starters for the Seakings will fly in for the remainder of the photoshoot, then immediately fly back to prepare for their first preseason game, while the Nighthawks will be photographed in New York.

So that leaves Andrew and Neil. No Riko, no Kevin, no coaches. Just them.

There is no possibility for anything, because what could Neil want from Andrew? What could Andrew give him? Nothing. There’s nothing Andrew could even offer him, so there’s nothing for Neil to choose.

Still, Neil has to reach for his water bottle and take a long sip, forcing his gaze away from Andrew, pushing those thoughts away.

It’s then that he notices the camera being set up in front of a large, white NEL backdrop further back in the studio. Two chairs have been placed next to each other on the right, directly facing another chair placed to the left.

It looks like a setup for an interview, this Neil knows. What he doesn’t know is why.

Frowning over at the scene, Neil looks to his manager and asks, “What’s that for?”

Though he already has an idea.

His manager says, while staring at his phone, as if this isn’t of any importance and that Neil should have already been in the know, “For your behind-the-scenes interview with Andrew.”

And that was exactly what Neil was guessing, but all the same, his heart stops in his chest and all words fall from his mouth.

“O-oh.” He glances at his reflection then, hoping something in it will ground him. It’s to no avail; his heart decides then to start pounding. “Like - together?”

“Like together,” his manager says, one eyebrow quirking while his eyes remain on his phone. “Any problem with that?”

Neil takes a deep breath and chances a glance over at Andrew. No, there is no problem, because to have a problem would mean he has an issue with being near Andrew, and . . .

And Neil sort of wants that, for whatever reason, so -

“No, no problem.”

After a makeup artist attacks Neil’s face with a variety of brushes and sponges, and after he’s dressed in the first outfit for the day, he’s led to the interview setup, where Andrew is already sitting. He looks as relaxed as he had earlier, his legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded over his stomach and his eyes closed. He doesn’t open them when Neil settles down beside him.

A fact that Neil is thankful for, because even just sitting next to Andrew has Neil’s skin feeling hot and his lungs feeling tight. He wrings his water bottle until the sound of the plastic crackling is louder than his pulse.

But why, is what he wonders, why does he feel this way? He’s done a thousand interviews, done them with various teammates in this exact situation before, in fact. He’s even been nervous for a few of them.

Never like this. Not to the point where he can’t sit still, feeling so helpless, as if his veins are vibrating under his skin.

“Stop.”

The one word, uttered so simply, is like slamming on the brakes. Immediately, Neil stops. His hands go slack around the bottle, his shoulders slump, and he finally looks to his left.

“Stop what?” he asks, ignoring how out of breath he sounds.

Andrew opens his eyes then, and finds enough energy to turn slightly to look right at Neil. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to.

Neil uncurls his hands completely, muscles surging with relief as he does so, and lets out a deep breath.

“Sorry.”

But now that his hands aren’t busy, the franticness is building inside of him again, so Neil allows his gaze to settle fully on Andrew. Calculating everything; his eyes, his posture, his easy and calm breathing - as if he really isn’t breathing at all.

“. . . what kind of questions do you think they’ll ask us?” Neil tries, looking for any sign that Andrew is as affected as he is.

That gets a slight frown in his direction, but ultimately Andrew lets out a sigh and closes his eyes again. “All that matters is the answers you decide to give.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Mhm.”

Just as Neil’s about to start in on choking the life out of his water bottle once more, with his every bone feeling full of electricity, Andrew speaks up and says, “You don’t have to answer any question that you don’t want to, or even how they want you to.”

Neil lets out a laugh bordering on skeptical. “Oh really? Do you have some sort of secret that I should know about?”

“It’s not a secret. It’s called ‘standing your ground’.”

For whatever reason, that feels like an insult, and it sinks heavy in Neil’s stomach. He looks around the studio at the various crew members, the lighting setup and the props and everything that’s designed to make fake things look real, and sighs.

“As if I ever had any ground in the first place.”

“Mhm,” Andrew says again, and nothing else.

Neil is spared having to think of a response by the interviewer approaching them. She introduces herself and reaches out to shake Neil’s hand, but is quick to pull back when Andrew simply stares at the offering.

“Nice to meet you both,” she says, smile never flinching, and takes the seat opposite them. “Shall we begin?”

The interview is made of simple questions at first; how long have they been reading the magazine, what their favourite issue is, what team did they root for the most while in college, easy things that Neil already knows how to answer.

But easy is never how anything stays.

“Neil, now that Andrew, a top-ranked player, is sitting here beside you, how do you feel about him? Are you still optimistic about your chances?”

Neil’s instinct is to laugh a bit, and turn to face Andrew. When Neil smiles, it’s for him, and not the camera. “I feel good. I mean, yeah, you might be top-ranked, but statistics are just that - statistics. Right, Andrew?”

Slower than snow melting, Andrew turns his head to look at Neil, without an ounce of feeling in his expression. “I hate you.”

Neil’s smile crashes a few levels, but he’s quick to hide it and face the camera again. “. . . it’s going to be fun proving him wrong.”

The interviewer smiles, and looks to Andrew. “And what about you, Andrew? Hate is a pretty strong word regarding Neil, don’t you think?”

Still sounding as void as his three previous words had, Andrew shrugs and says, “Hate could mean many things.”

“So is Neil as ferocious in person as he is on the court?”

Andrew’s eyes are fire on Neil’s face. “Not at all.”

That fire burns and boils the spite in Neil’s chest, and Neil is quick to face him again and snap, “As if you’re anything special off of it.”

“Never said I was.”

“Which is a shame,” Neil says airily, dramatically shrugging his shoulders. “I sort of hoped that there was a soul in there somewhere, considering how much you bring to each game.”

“Oh, Neil,” and it’s a wonder how any person could sound so empty and yet still be condescending, “There wasn’t - until you came along.”

It’s said so viciously that it must be an insult, but it pricks and pokes up Neil’s spine until it reaches his head, and then Neil feels hot all over again.

He’s saved - or maybe, interrupted - by the interviewer when she suddenly makes a cooing noise, her eyes wide as she says, “Ooh, that sounds promising. So is it true then, Andrew, that you’ve been playing with more precision during your practices because of Neil?”

“Because of how foolish he is, perhaps.”

“And you, Neil? What’s been your incentive?”

Neil can’t look anywhere else but at Andrew’s face and those burning eyes. “Andrew.”

And he’s looking at Andrew, and Andrew is looking right back at him.

So when the next question is asked, it doesn’t surprise Neil as hard as it should, not at first.

“Now Neil, let’s chat about your past. You were unable to find recruitment with any other NEL teams because of the incident involving the news of your father. Does he have any impact on you now that you’ve made it?”

Then it sinks in, and Neil’s hot blood turns cool, as quick as it takes for his head to spin around. He faces the camera with a paled face and shocked eyes and stammers, “Uh, what? I don’t . . . I can’t answer that.”

It’s been months since he last uttered anything regarding his family and his father. He’s spent every day since then storing it away, pushing it back, leaving it in his past. Having it spoken about so blatantly feels as if his entire mind has been raked over and pulled apart.

“Surely you must feel something like pride or victory. What would you say to your father if given the chance?”

Neil’s hands curl in on themselves once again, nails biting into skin. The room is spinning and he has no clue what’s where or why. He’s back in that moment, with the reporters and the questions and the anger and the fear and being so clueless as to who he is.

“I haven’t thought - uh, are there any other questions?”

“Whatever’s the first thing to come to mind.”

“I - I guess -”

“And what about your mo-”

The interviewer’s too-enthusiastic voice is cut off abruptly by Andrew saying, “He said no.”

In a tone so solid it makes the screaming room go silent.

Neil doesn’t breathe.

“Oh, I was asking Neil, but if you have something to say on the issue . . .”

Andrew’s expression is darker than it was minutes ago. He doesn’t frown or sneer; all it takes is one look and it dims the entire world. “And Neil said no, so unless you have any other questions pertaining to what you’re really here for, I think we’re finished.”

The interviewer’s mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Her eyes flick from Neil to Andrew to someone behind the camera, as Andrew slips out from the chair, not deigning anyone with a glance as he leaves the studio.

Neil remains seated, every limb feeling heavy, his eyes unable to look away from the doors that Andrew just pushed through. His manager comes up to him, on the phone with someone, speaking angrily and looking focused for once. Neil catches his own name somewhere in the conversation - along with his father’s.

Neil tunes it all out, however, every voice and word said to him. His lungs ache, and he doesn’t notice anything until they suddenly don’t.

Because the moment he’s finally able to breathe again is the moment that Andrew walks back in through the doors and returns to set.

It’s a half hour before Neil is called to set. His nerves are still in disarray, but just like he does on the court, he pushes them away to focus on the task at hand. He does what he’s told, playing the role set out for him. He’s never done such a high scale photoshoot before, so he doesn’t hesitate in tilting his chin this way and that way when instructed, smiling when they ask him, conveying every emotion that they want him to convey. It’s clear what story they’re trying to tell.

Is it a story he actually believes in, though? Does he really hate Andrew the way the world is saying he does? Neil doesn’t think so, not even when he catches Andrew’s gaze between touch-ups and smiles, and all Andrew does is blink.

There’s just nothing to hate. Neil’s thought a lot about Andrew since first meeting him, and he can’t come up with a single reason. Rivalry doesn’t equate to hate.

Before Neil can go back to set after touch-ups, a hair stylist ties an aqua-coloured bandana around Neil’s head in a band, pushing his bangs back from his face. She says, sounding satisfied, “Now that’s more like it, hey, rookie?”

Neil itches to reach up and take it off.

When Andrew is called to set, that’s when the entire train derails. A story can’t be told when the character refuses to say their lines. Demands and requests are called out, but Andrew reacts as if they were never even said. Either on purpose, or simply because he just doesn’t care.

“Andrew, can we at least get a smile?” the photographer asks, lowering the camera from her face. “Make it grim, vicious, guarded. Anything.”

Andrew’s face stays the way it’s been all day; cold and plain, not a single emotion shuttering across it.

Neil watches without breathing, hands curled into fists and nails biting his palms. If he ever refused like that, if he ever denied what they wanted him to be . . . he wouldn’t exist.

Yet Andrew stands there, hands shoved in the pockets of his tailored pants, looking the way he always is and not what they want him to be. And he doesn’t disappear.

Neil is smiling by the end of it. If he can’t deny the rules, can’t break them, then he’ll happily watch Andrew do it.

Eventually the director yells out in frustration, turning to Andrew’s manager and demanding compliance, but Andrew’s manager simply shakes her head. The director calls for lunch, spewing obscenities as he walks away from set, talking loudly with the production team as they all voice their annoyance over Andrew.

Neil can’t stop smiling, and he finds that he doesn’t even want to.

It’s a surprise, though, when Neil turns from set and finds Andrew waiting for him. He’s staring at nothing, but once he’s sure Neil is there beside him, he heads for the door.

Neil follows without question as Andrew stops in front of his manager, holding out his hand silently until his manager produces a package of cigarettes and a lighter. Then he turns for the exit, turns down a hallway, down a staircase, and out a backdoor that leads into an alley.

Neil still asks no questions as Andrew leans against the wall of the building, designer suit be damned, and lights up. He asks no questions as Andrew takes a deep drag, then passes the cigarette off to Neil.

“That’s not a good look for you,” Andrew finally says, words slow and raspy. He points with his now-free fingers up at the bandana still fixed around Neil’s head.

“Thanks,” Neil says, mocking intent clear in is voice. “I’m choosing to wear it.”

“You are,” Andrew says in agreement, reaching back for the cigarette.

Neil frowns, eyebrows and mouth twisting up. “That was called sarcasm. Have you heard of it?”

“The definition must have changed then.”

“What do you mean?”

Andrew takes his time with answering, instead choosing to lean his head against the brick, closing his eyes, breathing up a cloud of smoke to the sky. “You have a choice. If you don’t like it, take it off.”

“After you just pissed them off like that by refusing to smile? Do you know how to, or have you never felt joy before?”

That gets one eye open. Andrew’s half glare is icy enough to freeze fire. “There’s nothing to smile about here,” he says, simply. “Though that must be news to you. If they say smile, you smile. If they say run, you’d ask where to? It’s sad.”

Neil lifts a hand to his head, feeling the soft curls of his hair tousled around the bandana, shaping a face that should be his but somebody else has made. They tied his hair back and removed the past five years of his life, turned him back into the freshman rookie at Arizona.

His hands move, as if to take the bandana off, but he can’t.

“It’s not up to me,” he says, quietly.

Andrew has both eyes open now, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. “Sad. You are far too concerned with pleasing people who only want one thing from you. It’s your face that’s going to be on the magazine. Your name being played with.”

Andrew takes another two or three drags of his smoke, time passing as slowly as he breathes. Then he turns to Neil, holding the cigarette out of the way, and says clearly, “Come here.”

As stunned as Neil is by such a sudden command, he takes the few steps separating them until he’s right in front of Andrew.

Andrew’s hand motions towards the bandana. “Do you want to be this person?”

Neil’s response is automatic; “No.”

Without hesitating, Andrew snags his fingers into the material and pulls it free from Neil’s head, tossing it over his shoulder just as quickly.

“Then don’t be this person.”

He places the mostly-gone cigarette between Neil’s fingers, then pulls open the door that leads inside, leaving Neil alone in the alley.

He finishes breathing in the rest of the cigarette, eyes never leaving the aqua-coloured material that sits on the dirty ground of a Los Angeles alleyway. Neil doesn’t pick it up.

Once inside, he goes back to his makeup chair, allowing the artist to touch up his face. It’s difficult to stay still when Andrew is only a few feet away, when Neil can’t stop thinking about him, when Neil replays the brush of Andrew’s fingers through his hair over, and over, and over.

He allows himself to spare a glance in his direction, watching as an obviously-anxious makeup artist brushes powder over Andrew’s cheeks, Andrew reclined in his chair with his feet up on the vanity again.

There’s no reason to get up and walk over, but there’s no reason not to, either, so Neil chooses what he wants to do. It’s the strangest sensation, allowing his feet to go where they want to go.

Stranger that it’s towards Andrew.

“Hey.”

The makeup artist ignores Neil’s interruption, but Andrew immediately opens his eyes.

“I wanted to say thank you, for, uh, for earlier.” His hand comes up to rest on the back of Andrew’s chair, fingers squeezing tight to stop himself from altering something he isn’t allowed to change, touching something he can’t touch. “You know . . . the only time I get to say anything that I actually think, it’s about you.”

Maybe he is being played like a puppet, but his rivalry with Andrew is real. Everything he’s said about Andrew has been the truth, regardless if the world hears it as hate.

It’s not.

The universe pauses and sits in sharp silence. Andrew sends a fierce look at the makeup artist, ushering her away, then looks back at the mirror as the universe presses play.

“So there is something outside of your contract?”

There’s intention in Andrew’s voice, intention that Neil wants to respond to. He immediately understands what Andrew was asking with that phone call, and it sinks his chest in. He can't.

“It’s not something I’m allowed to have.”

There’s somberness in Neil’s voice, sombreness that Andrew doesn’t respond to. He sits still and uncaring. “But do you want it?”

He’s never been asked that before.

Because of that fact, he can’t look up again, can’t bring himself to meet Andrew’s eyes in the reflection.

“I’ve never wanted it,” he says finally, and it’s not a yes, but it’s not a no.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Andrew says, like he expected Neil to say that. He doesn’t give Neil the chance to try though, and instead slides from his seat to stand by his manager.

It’s fifteen minutes before they’re both called back to set. The director takes one look at Neil’s restyled hair, and widens his eyes to match the rage he had yelled out at Andrew.

“What happened to your hair?” he asks, and looks around for the hair stylist. “We have a cover to shoot for, you need to be ready.”

“I’m not wearing it,” Neil says back flatly, and something real bursts and bleeds in his chest, but it doesn’t hurt.

“Don’t be difficult. It’s not for you - it’s for the picture.”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“Do you want us to continue with this photoshoot or not?” he snaps, and waves over for the hair stylist. “It’s very simple; keep the stupid thing on your head and smile when you’re told. Got it?”

Fight fills Neil’s mouth, words and curses that can only be stopped by biting down on his tongue. It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Not here.

His ‘no’ is nonexistent here, just like it’s always been and always will be.

So Neil sighs and bows his head, and when the stylist pulls yet another bandana through his curls and ties it tight, he doesn’t take it off.

The photoshoot leads back underway, but this time Neil doesn’t smile, because it’s not asked of him.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who’s meant to be his enemy, a man he’s meant to hate when he really doesn’t, though, feels like another lie.

The world won’t know, when the magazine comes out, that they really don’t hate each other, not that way. The cover shot will most likely be the two of them staring each other down, an inch of space between their faces. The world will never know the ideas being thought in that space.

Andrew is offering something.

A decision, a choice.

Something he can say no to - something he wants to say yes to.

Something Neil hasn’t ever had before. It’s always been what he has to do, no other options.

It’s not something anyone else can decide for him. It’s not even something he can decide to feel for himself, because you can tell yourself you can't, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting to reach out and touch, be touched. He’s never wanted that before, either.

How could he say no?

It’s the first time his body and his mind have been a cohesive yes. Funny, that it goes against everything his contract states, that it’s everything he should say no to.

“Andrew.” He says it in the last second they have together, before they’re broken apart by the stylists and makeup artists. “I want it.”

Andrew considers Neil for a moment, expression unreadable, but Neil knows he isn’t truly as bored as he looks. He leaves without saying anything, and Neil knows that’s not the end of it.

He’s proven right an hour later, when his phone goes off with a text message from ‘03’. It’s a bunch of numbers that at first glance mean nothing. It doesn’t take Neil long to realize the numbers are coordinates, a time, and a room number.

34.066042, -118.410602

753

Chapter 4

His hood is pulled up over his head, a baseball cap is lowered over his face.

It’s a precaution, though he’s pretty sure the only people who might recognize him right now are the people who’ve had their TV’s turned to a sports station over the past month.

Stepping out of the cab, he leaves behind his last checkpoint of safety, and enters an entirely different world. Fancy doesn’t begin to describe this hotel, with its palm trees and marble fountain. The doormen wear sharp, fitted suits, and greet him with a small bow.

The inside is even worse; a crystal chandelier hangs above Neil’s head as soon as he steps through the revolving doors. In his baggy hoodie and hat, he suddenly feels a bit out of place. Very, very out of place.

It takes a minute to find the right elevator, an even longer minute to work up the courage to press the button, and another sixty precise seconds to step onto it when the doors open. Then there’s no going back, the only direction is up, up, up to the seventh floor.

What’s on the seventh floor is everything he cannot have. It’s everything he signed away. It’s also what he doesn’t understand.

Neil isn’t stupid. He knows the risks and the dangers. What he doesn’t know is what he feels, he just knows that he feels it, because he hasn’t ever before.

Not like this. It’s never itched up inside of him. He’s never felt the scratching of sharp curiosity, clawing at his insides in an attempt to get out.

He’s been fine without it. You can’t want something you just don’t feel. He knows, realistically, he could be fine without this, too, but the thought of never knowing, never finding out, never trying, is enough reason to get him out of the elevator.

He has to know why he feels this, what this is, where it’s coming from and how. All he knows is that it’s because of Andrew.

What is it about Andrew?

The fact that it could ruin everything, if anyone else ever found out, doesn’t scare him. If anything, it comforts him, because he signed a contract saying he wouldn’t let people see this, wouldn’t let them know.

Andrew did, too.

So who out of the two of them is going to tell?

So what could it hurt to just find out? To feed an answer to his tightening heart, and finish the rhythm that’s been stuck in his head since he first shook Andrew’s hand.

The door with the gold 753 comes into view much too quickly, but having made his decision a long time ago, Neil doesn’t hesitate this time, and raises a hand to give a steady knock on the wood. It takes a minute, but soon there’s the sound of footsteps, and then the door is swinging back open.

Andrew stands there, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He looks at Neil, then fishes his phone out of his pocket, clicks a button, and holds the screen up for Neil to see. “Eager?” he asks around the cigarette.

The time is flashing on the screen. Four minutes before ten. “Traffic wasn’t terrible,” Neil explains, and steps around Andrew to get inside.

The door closes, sealing them in, feeling almost as final as it had when they were locked in the court.

Andrew makes his way to the minibar and asks, “Did anyone see you come in?”

“I don’t think so. Hey - why’d you make this place so hard to find?”

Andrew says without looking at him, “To be sure you wanted to find it.”

He turns around and hands a bottle of something to Neil, then takes one for himself and makes his way over to the windowsill, turning the crank on the window and pushing it out as far as it will go. He lights up, completely ignorant to the placard on the wall that declares this suite as a non-smoking room.

“Not a fan of following the rules, I see,” Neil says conversationally, eyes glancing up at the placard.

“Five-hundred bucks a night. It’s a smoking room.”

Managing a grim sort of smile, Neil finds a place on the bed, facing Andrew where he sits at the window.

Settling into silence, Neil suddenly feels - awkward. Too aware of himself, from his clothes, to his thoughts, to this aching unknowing that he hates - because Andrew must know.

Neil’s been painted to look inexperienced by the media. He hates that sitting in front of Andrew, he is that painting, has no clue what to do or how. It makes him want to tear off his skin and try again, to be another picture, to know better.

Oblivious to Neil’s internal panic, or maybe because he’s all too aware of it, Andrew leans over and passes Neil his pack of smokes and a lighter. They smoke and breathe and drink in silence, and the longer each second stays quiet, the more Neil’s heart starts to settle.

He had expected go go go and now now now and desperate and quick just to get it over with. But Andrew sits there with his head tilted back, looking as if this is the only reason he invited Neil over tonight, like there’s nothing else expected.

So Neil has to ask, his cigarette nearly burnt down to a stub, “How many times have you done this?”

Andrew takes that as an insult, it seems, judging by the scowl that darkens his face.

“I mean -” He doesn’t know what he means, he can’t say it. “You signed this all away,” he tries, waving his hand around. “You don’t seem that bothered by it. Like you’ve found a way around it.”

Andrew shrugs, confirming Neil’s suspicion, acting as if signing away everything you are inside means nothing. “You could say that,” he says. “But I’m not going to let some words on a paper decide who I fuck anyway.”

That sends a sudden bolt of heat down Neil’s chest, feeling more like a punch than anything else. He ducks his head quickly to hide the flash of red that colours his cheeks. It’s dizzying to hear this - whatever this is - put into words.

“What if you get caught?”

“I can’t get caught,” Andrew says. “I’m not hiding anything, I’m just not telling. There’s a difference.”

Neil nods, though he doesn’t understand.

Andrew sips at his drink, studying Neil intently over the mouth of his bottle. “There’s a reason I never signed your team’s contract.”

“And what is that?”

“Is this sport really that important to you that you’d forfeit every cell you are?”

It’s not difficult to hold Andrew’s gaze now. He means it when he says, “It is every cell I am.”

Andrew looks as if he wants to roll his eyes, but he refrains and takes one last drag of his smoke before stubbing the end out against the pristine windowsill. “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he says, turning his body to face Neil better, letting his legs part and his shoulders relax. “I don’t believe it.”

Then it’s back to not being able to look at him. Andrew’s eyes are like a searching spotlight, so bright, exposing everything. All Neil can think about is the small distance between him and Andrew’s open legs, Andrew’s steady gaze, reading him and cracking him open.

“Or else you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Neil uses his drink as an excuse to avoid eye contact, lifting his bottle up up up until he can drain it. Andrew seems to be giving him the time he needs to answer that, so Neil takes it, studying the label of his beer with serious intent once he's finished.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here because I’ve never -” Neil starts, then stops, and finally looks up. “How am I supposed to pass up something I’ve never felt before?”

That changes something in Andrew’s structure. He’s quick to straighten himself and tower his presence over Neil. He says like it’s law, “You don’t feel anything. If this is going to be anything, it will be only physical. Do you understand?”

Neil doesn’t understand, because he most definitely does feel something. He doesn’t know what it is, and the only reason he knows it’s there is because it’s never been there.

He wants to think it’s simply because Andrew’s tied up in Neil’s love for Exy now, but then again, so is Kevin. He wants to think maybe it’s because Andrew is a means of security now, because Andrew can't tell anyone.

But that doesn’t work; Neil only wants because it’s Andrew.

Looking at him, at Andrew’s guarded gaze and venomous stance, Neil can’t pinpoint what it is about him.

The last thing it could ever be, however, is his touch. The last time Neil’s fingertips have brushed Andrew’s skin was the night they met.

It has to be something else.

Neil doesn’t mind figuring it out, but he has to say, a smirk tugging at his lips, “How could it only be physical when all we’ve done so far is shake hands?”

Andrew’s vicious expression stays where it is for a long moment, increasing in darkness, until suddenly he snaps his head around to stare out the window. “You’re a lot more difficult than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m a challenge, remember?”

Andrew lets out a slightly more raspy breath, a skeleton of a laugh. Neil feeds on it. It puts him one step closer to solving this.

Though he isn’t quite sure what he’ll do when he figures it out.

“Then where do you want to start?” Andrew asks, after another suspension of silence, surprising Neil with his voice.

For a moment there, he was expecting to be sent away. He didn’t think he’d be given another decision to make. Letting out a small laugh, Neil shrugs and admits, “I was hoping you would tell me.”

To his confusion, Andrew doesn’t answer that, and instead hops off the windowsill to walk over to the desk by the mirror, picking up a large leatherbound menu.

“We should eat,” Andrew says, tossing the book at Neil. “Order whatever you want.”

He isn’t hungry at all, his stomach too twisted up to feel anything, but he thinks maybe that’s not what Andrew is asking.

“What are you having?”

Andrew sighs at that, but lifts one dismissive shoulder and says, “Ice cream, probably.”

“Then I’ll have that.”

Whatever he had expected from tonight, sitting on a bed with Andrew Minyard and eating ice cream out of expensive serving dishes was not part of that.

The TV plays in the background, drowning out most of Neil’s attempt at conversation. Yet somehow, it’s not awkward. It’s almost as if this is how it’s supposed to go.

Andrew doesn’t talk, but he listens, even if he doesn’t lift his eyes to meet Neil’s. He stirs and picks at his dessert as Neil rattles on about this and that, topics mostly covering Exy, as that’s all he’s accustomed to talking about.

He starts off by mentioning how many of Andrew’s games he had watched throughout college - he had watched many. He mentions his days in little league, and how it was his only escape from a strange home life he wouldn’t understand for years to come. He starts to mention being recruited by Kevin, the day his coach at UOA had approached him and said ‘There’s a recruiter for the Seakings here to see you play tonight’ before he realizes, he really doesn’t want to talk about Kevin.

Or Exy.

Or anything about the game.

But what else to say?

He wants to find the reason why he feels so high about Andrew and uncaring about everything else; his whole career sits right outside the locked hotel door and Neil doesn’t think once about it when he’s talking to Andrew.

After a few moments of silence, stirring at melted ice cream, Neil thinks off the top of his head and tells Andrew about the weird dream he had last night, something he wouldn’t think to tell anyone else, because who else would listen?

The abrupt change in topics seems to shock Andrew, because there’s a quirk to his eyebrow and a twitch at his lips.

“So what about you?” Neil asks, giving his spoon a lick. “What kind of messed up dreams have you had?”

Andrew graces him with a cold look. “I’m living one,” he says, but after a minute, he surprises Neil by elaborating. “It’s pointless to wonder about them. They’re always going to be unrealistic, and I don’t approve of false hope.”

“I get that,” Neil says, nodding, though he isn’t sure he does get that. “Whenever I dream about flying, I wake up disappointed that I can’t. It always feels so real.”

“It never is.”

“Thanks, I’ll try to remember that next time I’m unconscious.”

Andrew looks at him again, and this time, he doesn’t look away.

Once they’re done their ice cream, they set the bowls down on the ground, as if they aren’t worth the rent of a house. Not having anything to keep his mouth and hands busy now, Neil glances at Andrew’s lips, and wonders too much about them.

“How am I doing?” He has to ask, half joke, half panic.

“Terrible,” Andrew answers, but it sounds half mocking, half bite. “But I’m not grading you, and I don’t plan on telling anyone else.”

“I know.” Neil shrugs a bit. “That’s what convinced me to come.”

Knowing Andrew would keep it a secret isn’t the reason he’s here, but it is the reassuring force that had him take those last few steps towards the door.

He’s here because -

And then he thinks he gets it.

Andrew’s been giving him chance after chance all night to turn around and walk away. The click of the lock wasn’t as final as the lock on the court had been; that had been somebody else’s decision, that neither could escape from. Being in here with Andrew, all Neil has to do to leave is leave.

Andrew is the opposite of Neil’s contract - he’s freedom.

Neil’s never had freedom. He’s never had freedom want him in return.

So uncaring about the rights or the wrongs because neither affect him, Andrew does things because and only if he wants to, despite all the rules and regulations.

For Neil, a man whose entire life has been rules and regulations, self-imposed and forced, it’s invigorating.

It’s freeing. It’s having the option of leaving if he wants to, staying if he wants that more. It’s whatever Neil wants to do, as long as he really wants to do it. No forcing, no pushing, no pressure.

Just a question, with so many answers.

That’s the reason he’s here. That’s the reason he wants Andrew.

Focusing on the TV after coming to that realization is difficult, and it shows in Neil’s bouncing legs, anxious fingers, in his eyes that keep averting from the screen to look at Andrew, waiting for Andrew, wanting Andrew to look at him.

The program cuts to commercial, and Andrew remains still as stone, a safe distance away from Neil’s jittering body.

And -

He’s slower than Andrew, clearly, because it seems Andrew had already come to Neil’s realization long ago. Andrew sits still and away from Neil because he’s waiting for Neil, not the other way around.

And here it is again, the reason he wants this; having a decision. Andrew’s given him space to draw out his lines, figure out his boundaries, and now Neil has to decide if he wants Andrew across them.

His name is attached to a contract that binds up his entire life, lining his body, keeping him contained. Now that he’s outside of it, playing within his own lines, he doesn’t know where to start.

But he does want to start, and that’s a first.

So he tries to make that first move, of his own volition, sitting up on the bed to face Andrew, who keeps his attention pinned to the TV. His apparent disinterest doesn’t deter Neil, not when Andrew is straightening out his legs on either side of Neil and slowly uncrossing his arms.

Then they’re face to face, nearly skin to skin, but not quite eye to eye; Neil is looking entirely at Andrew’s lips.

“Can I?” Neil asks, still staring at Andrew’s mouth, and his heart thrums up alive at how much he wants an answer.

Andrew lifts an eyebrow, and asks back, “Can you?”

It can’t be all that difficult, Neil thinks, and leans forward to reach for Andrew. His hands instinctively come up to cup Andrew’s jaw, because that’s what feels right.

Wrong.

His hands are stopped abruptly just inches from Andrew’s face. Andrew wraps his fingers tight around Neil’s wrists and holds him there, not pushing him away but not allowing him closer.

Once he’s sure Neil is contained in his hands, Andrew closes the distance between their lips and kisses him.

Neil didn't know it could feel like that.

It’s - odd. He never understood the point of it, and he doesn’t understand it now, but it’s just that with Andrew’s lips against his, he almost never wants to breathe again if it means he can keep kissing him.

The drag of curiosity, of knowing I want this, whatever this is, pulls him forward for more. He gives in completely to Andrew’s hands around his wrists, sagging his body forward and letting Andrew hold him up.

Being touched by Andrew feels like being told a million words at once. Like secrets being shared, no one else around to hear, only them and this and whatever comes next.

The kissing lasts for another minute, maybe two, maybe a hundred. Neil’s sense of time gets warped when he feels Andrew’s tongue against his, so really it could be the next day and he would be none the wiser.

Until Andrew flexes his grip around Neil, slowly ushering him back but not letting go. He says, firm and certain, “There are rules. Can you follow them?”

But how could Neil answer that when he can’t even remember his name, the English language so vague to him now? He blinks away the fog from his eyes, pushes through the daze, and only comes through to the other side when Andrew gives his wrists a squeeze.

Ever since Neil met him, and likely long before that, Andrew hasn’t followed a single rule that’s been put in his path. Laws and guidelines never mean anything to him. He’s his own person, player, game.

If Andrew comes with rules, then they must mean something. Neil nods his confirmation, then realizes a second later when Andrew doesn’t let go that it needs to be a vocal one. “Yes.”

He hardly recognizes his voice.

Andrew drops his wrists and puts a foot of space between them, but keeps one finger jabbed under Neil’s chin.

“I need to know that you really want it. If you need to stop, you say stop. If you need time, tell me you need time. Yes is yes and no is no.”

Neil looks at Andrew and meets the challenge in his eyes straight on. It settles weird in his stomach, twisting it up, because that challenge isn’t vicious or harmful. It’s as if Andrew’s waiting for Neil to say no, but even more than that, it’s as if he’s afraid he’ll say yes.

“I understand,” Neil says, holding himself very still as Andrew takes his hand away, in case such a simple word invokes a serious reaction. It’s risky to look away from Andrew’s eyes, but he needs to see where his hands are now; clenched up tight in the blanket, far away from Neil. “Where can I touch you?”

He asks without thinking it through, because he has to, confused by all these lines being drawn. So far it seems as if none of them lead to Andrew, but rather create a barrier around him.

“That’s the second rule,” Andrew says calmly, keeping his eyes on Neil’s face. “You can’t.”

Somewhere in the distance of Neil’s mind, there’s the sound of tires coming to a screeching halt. He snaps his head up quickly, unable to mask his continued confusion, but it quickly dies where it’s spread out across his face once he looks at Andrew’s.

It wouldn’t be a rule if Andrew didn’t need it. So instead of asking why, Neil says, “Okay.”

For whatever reason, that knocks the ice off Andrew’s features and shows what’s hidden underneath - shock.

It makes Neil wonder if anyone’s ever wanted to follow Andrew’s rules before. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t follow anyone else’s.

Andrew blinks and the ice comes back, sharpening and freezing everything from his eyes to his lips. “Do you have any rules?”

Neil shrugs and shakes his head. “Not yet. I’ve never done this before.”

Andrew’s response is silence, but he seems to hear whatever it is he needs to hear, because he doesn’t push it.

And oddly enough, it doesn’t fall back into more kissing, though Andrew does look between Neil and the windowsill for a considerable amount of time. He makes whatever decision he needs to and indicates with a jerk of his head to follow. Then they sit at the windowsill together, legs bent up and toes nearly touching, exchanging a lighter between them to light two separate cigarettes.

Andrew looks contemplative, remnants of challenge still in his eyes, looking almost angry with something. With himself.

Neil has to ask, “Is it usually like this?”

Whatever this is or is supposed to be or can be - Neil has a suspicion this isn't how it usually goes.

Andrew looks out at their view, breathing out a cloud of smoke into the gap of the open window, and shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s rare for someone to get past the second rule.”

Neil’s mouth wants to drop open to form another question, but he keeps it closed and fills in the blanks for himself. It’s clear now why Andrew looks that way; he doesn’t know what to do.

Has anyone ever said yes to him?

No, that’s not it, Neil thinks.

Has anyone ever asked him for a yes?

Content to wait it out, even if it never happens, Neil moves from the windowsill to sit on the bed, only to be stopped by a hand on his wrist.

Neil pauses immediately, and looks over his shoulder to where Andrew is, still sitting, taking one last drag of his cigarette. He never lets go of Neil’s wrist.

As soon as it’s stubbed out, grey ashes smearing into white wood, Neil is being hauled closer and downwards, just enough for Andrew to grab the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

A hand on his neck and a hand around his wrist, Neil feels contained in a way that makes him feel free. He’s safe here. His no means no here.

He says yes here.

Somehow, someway, through quick pecks and violent nips of teeth against lips, they end up on the bed. The pillow feels like concrete when Neil’s head hits it, or maybe that shock of impact is from having Andrew’s entire body weight over top of him.

His hands instinctively come up to touch. Andrew is a hot, heavy, real thing above him and Neil wants to know every inch, so it doesn’t seem so foreign, but he can’t. Like a flashing red warning, blaring loud through his ears, he reminds himself to kill the need to solve things.

Andrew will show him whatever he wants him to know.

Andrew keeps his body raised in certain places, carefully arranging his knees and his arms to hold himself where he wants to be. Neil responds by pressing his own body further into the mattress, as if telling Andrew he gets it, he’ll give him his space.

All he can’t control, all he doesn’t want to, is the way that he’s breathing. One kiss and it’s heavy, two kisses and it’s desperate, three kisses and Neil thinks he’s suffocating, whining low in his throat and gasping in the half second that their lips aren’t touching.

He thinks maybe Andrew wants to smother him breathless, because his kisses quicken, raining down relentless.

A bite on his lower lip abruptly stops them, however, and Andrew asks right against Neil’s mouth, “Do you want this?”

And suddenly it all seems so very simple: this is not a contract. There are no false pretenses here, no mask he has to wear. It’s not you must do this or you won’t have anything. It’s do you want this? If you do, we can. If you don’t, we won’t.

“Yes,” Neil gasps out, and his voice is quickly swallowed up by Andrew’s lips and tongue and hands again.

Some people search for people. Some people wait. Neil was neither, not caring about being alone because he always had a game to play, a team to lead, a dream to make. But if he wasn’t searching and wasn’t waiting, then why is he reacting like this, like every touch of Andrew’s fingertips adds missing pieces to him?

His legs part without him thinking it, his throat twists out Andrew’s name, his heart beats somehow steady as Andrew’s hands skim lower and lower, as Andrew shoves Neil’s hoodie further up his chest and exposes all his skin.

“Tell me to stop,” Andrew says, between kisses planted to Neil’s neck and collarbone.

Neil throws his head back and grits out, “I don’t want you to stop.”

It was a question concealed as a statement, Neil realizes, and Andrew hears whatever he needed to hear in Neil’s answer. His kisses follow the path that his hands had made.

In the back of Neil’s mind, forced there because what Andrew’s lips and hands are doing right now takes priority, he thinks about the dangers. If anyone ever realized, saw, told, then Neil’s dream would be finished, his life would be over.

Then why does it feel like it’s just now beginning?

Andrew yanks Neil’s hoodie down from where it was bunched under his armpits, but it’s Neil who reaches out to rip it off.

That gets something - not a smile, not even a smirk - but a something in his direction. It also gives him a brief pause, enough to realize Andrew’s eyes are hazel, and not dark hateful things.

The world thinks he hates him, and Neil will live just fine with that, as long as they never know how willingly and easily he submits to Andrew’s hands. They push and pull and pinch and part and Neil says yes to it all, so desperate for Andrew to start.

Andrew kisses places that nobody else ever has, places that nobody else has ever touched, even with hands. Neil’s pulse races underneath Andrew’s lips, and his heart stops completely when Andrew’s cool breath blows over the mark of a wet kiss, and it scares Neil.

It scares Neil that he wasn’t searching but now he can’t imagine anyone else but Andrew.

He reminds himself of the reason; Andrew is safety that nobody else can give him, a set of rules just for them, a decision, an underlying trust that neither will give the other away because then they’ll both lose. The offer of yes or no.

That’s it.

There can’t be any other reason Neil is only thinking, and has only ever thought, Andrew.

As the kisses, bites, licks and marks continue, the need to grab something deepens and engraves itself like a scar across Neil. “Andrew,” he says, or tries to say but ends up gasping. He doesn’t want to ask for it, not wanting to force Andrew to give it, but he needs - he doesn’t know what he needs. “I -”

There’s a blur of blonde hair above Neil, a slick swell of heat from Andrew’s mouth around Neil��s neck. Andrew pulls back the very instant he hears his name, leaving Neil cold all over.

At Neil’s silence, his non-vocal no, Andrew looks like he’s about to sit up and forget about all of this, and Neil’s heart beats hard in sudden protest.

“No, never - nevermind,” he stammers, and closes his legs dangerously close around Andrew, but still not enough to touch. “Keep going.”

Andrew must be starving, and just as cold as Neil was, because he doesn’t waste a second and continues painting Neil’s neck with spit and kisses.

And Neil, watching how Andrew grips and grabs him, settles for clutching at the blanket underneath them. Leaving claw marks against the silken material is worlds safer than leaving claw marks down Andrew.

Neil’s about to tear holes through the blanket when, without looking or taking his mouth off Neil, Andrew reaches up with one hand and grabs hard at Neil’s wrist. Another anchor, another pinpoint of safety.

Unlike every other hold, this one doesn’t seem to be to keep Neil in place. This ones to give him something to feel.

Neil’s been throughout various variations of breathless, but never like this. The very proximity of Andrew is like a body check on the court, but it doesn’t hurt, it just leaves him gasping for air that can’t be breathed.

And suddenly, Neil wants more, in a way that he has never wanted more before.

But Andrew is pulling back.

Neil doesn’t mean to, truly, but he whines and whimpers the barest minimum of Andrew’s name.

As quiet as that one word is, it echoes and fades until silence consumes it.

“That’s enough,” Andrew says, the sound of his voice so strange now - so strange, but exactly what Neil needed to hear. He looks down at Neil, nothing about him heaving and shaking in the way that Neil is falling apart, and wipes at his mouth.

Andrew’s cheeks are red, his lips are redder, his eyes don’t look hazel anymore but rather something sparkling, so Neil lays there until he’s sure he’s not hallucinating any of it.

Sometime later, perhaps five seconds or five minutes, Andrew offers a hand and pulls Neil upright. His eyes and lips and cheeks are still surreal colours, which makes Neil think that Andrew just isn’t real - because Neil has never wanted anyone’s touch so much.

Then, as if he were reading Neil’s mind, Andrew reaches out and touches the pad of his thumb to Neil’s bottom lip, swiping across it in a way that could read as gentle if you weren’t Andrew, weren’t Neil.

It feels like he’s being asked a question; silent but as vital as air. Neil meets Andrew’s surreal eyes and nods, and it’s only then that Andrew removes his thumb to trace over his own lip, looking thoughtful and utterly at odds.

It must be common to be this breathless. Feeling weightless and drowsy, Neil can’t imagine having it, but the burn of wanting more more more scorches his insides. He says that to Andrew with his eyes.

It can’t be common, however, for Andrew to give one furious wipe to his mouth and push away from the bed to sit at the windowsill. Like more is wrong, like more can’t be done, like more is what he wants too much, like more really is something that Neil just doesn’t understand.

Neil watches him, and doesn’t ask why, because there are rules for a reason.

And, being honest, Neil doesn’t care about the more entirely - he cares about the Andrew of it all. So he keeps his mouth shut, because he knows Andrew wouldn’t want to hear it.

And, being honest, Neil isn’t going to tell him because right now, as he furiously puffs at a cigarette, Andrew looks the way Neil feels - like it’s more than just more for him, too.

Instead he tugs on his hoodie, and joins Andrew at the window. He hesitates before taking the offered cigarette, not wanting to burn away Andrew’s taste, but the scent of smoke always helps him reset his breathing.

But he really doesn’t mind never breathing again.

Even though the sky is dark, the lights of Los Angeles refuse to go down without a fight. Looking out at some strange version of night, the concept of time becomes even more confusing for Neil.

He doesn’t want it to become day.

And, as if he were reading Neil’s thoughts, counting down their seconds - as if he just wants Neil and nothing else - Andrew leans over and plucks the cigarette away from Neil and holds it out of the way, then grabs Neil with his free hand and pulls him to his lips.

This kiss is sour and ashy.

This kiss pauses time.

Neil figures this isn’t common at all, for either of them, or anybody.

But the last thing he could ever say is no.

#andreil #andrew minyard #neil josten #aftg #tfc #lp fic

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ninja-bears-being-ninjas · 6 years

Text

Fallen Gods: Chapter 4

For the second time that week, Ylo was drowning.

He could no longer hear Yrdia’s voice nor feel her presence; there was nothing left but the churning earth. It filled his mouth and nose and ears and there was nothing he could do. His powers weren’t strong enough to control the loose dirt and even if he could the tree roots bound his wrists so he couldn’t guide the earth’s movement with his hands.

A voice shredded through the darkness, low and gravelly.

“There’s no use in fighting,” it said. “Even in a thousand pieces I am more powerful than you will ever know.”

Ylo strained anyway, found that he could flex his fingers just enough. There were small stones lodged in the ground all around him.

“You will die. And I will destroy everything once again!”

Ylo didn’t know how deep he was. He could feel the blood pounding in his head, his limbs stretched to breaking by the roots. He spread his fingers.

His hands clenched into fists and the stones sliced themselves into sharp blades as they tore up through the earth. They cut through the roots that bound him, but the weight of the dirt was still crushing his chest.

Ylo only had a moment to act before the roots would lash out again. He had to save himself fast.

With all of his strength, Ylo snared a large rock slab beneath him with his magic and thrust it up towards the sky. He crumpled against it as it pushed him up and out of the ground. Then one end of the slab stayed stuck in the dirt while the other kept rising, flinging Ylo through the air like a catapult.

The steep descent of the mountain face allowed him to soar, flailing, for a short while, and then he came crashing down. He slammed into the rocky slope hard and tumbled all the way past the tree line. The tree trunks knocked him around like a pinball machine and finally slowed him to a stop.

Ylo sat up and held his pounding head in between his knees. He was a little battered, but there were no broken bones or even scrapes. That meant he still had his impenetrable skin.

He needed to get away from the mountain. Chaos had somehow broken into his communication with Yrdia and used that magical energy to attack him. He could always strike again.

Ylo still couldn’t believe he had heard Chaos speak to him--Chaos himself, not just one of his agents. If he had enough power to do that, Earth was in more trouble that Ylo had thought.

He allowed himself time to catch his breath and then started running down the mountain. The sun was setting and he almost tripped a couple times in the dimming light, but made it back to the motel in one piece.

Ylo took a shower and rinsed out his mouth. Dirt still clung to his smooth black hair despite the shampoo.

He sat down on the bed and spread all of the printed material out around himself. Did anyone mention something that could be a piece of the Earth Godess’s soul? And what had she meant when she told him to remember those who had worshipped them? Those humans were long dead.

Slowly, his eyes started to droop. He found himself reading the same sentence over and over and still not grasping the words.

Ylo slumped over onto his papers and fell asleep.

Panic seized him as the morning sun hit his eyes. The blackness that consumed the past ten hours of his memory left him disoriented and anxious.

What had happened? Had someone knocked him out? Was he dying?

Ylo paced around the motel room in a flurry for a good eight minutes before realizing he had merely been asleep. He sat back down heavily, running his hands through his hair.

That was what sleep was like? It felt like a black hole. Ylo had to admit he felt refreshed, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it again. He may have lived for two billion years but every second counted. Sleep had stolen so many from him.

Another wave of panic passed over him when he looked at the clock. Ylo only had twenty minutes until his date.

He shot out of bed and into some clean clothes. In the bathroom he brushed his teeth and tried to tame his hair. Ylo noticed patches of stubby hair trying to take over his jaw and used the motel-provided razor to shave. The impenetrable skin came in handy since he didn’t have any experience.

When Ylo’s hair refused to cooperate by usual means, he turned to magic. Gods who had visited earth on their own accord could change their form at will; he wondered if he could do the same.

Staring down his reflection, Ylo made his hair shrink and grow and shift into a neat undercut. He then examined his face, his narrow eyes with their monolids. He wondered if he was handsome by human standards. He couldn’t be so bad, after all, if Katy was asking him out.

Ylo stuck what little money he had into his pocket and headed for the cafe.

The butterflies were back in his stomach, which, he told himself, was ridiculous. He was a God. He should not be nervous to go on a date with a mortal.

Nonetheless, his heart leapt when Katy waved at him as he walked inside. She was holding her coat in her hand and wearing a coral dress with little cap sleeves that covered the knob of her shoulder where her left arm had once been. A flash of metal caught Ylo’s eye; she wore a little silver cross around her neck.

That was interesting.

“Are you just home for winter break?” Katy asked as they sat down. “Or are you visiting or something?”

The hot chocolate was scalding; Ylo fanned his mouth. “Um, I--” he began, trying to compose himself. “Sorry, I just burnt my tongue. But yeah, I’m just visiting.”

Katy nodded. “What do you do? Besides shovel driveways.”

“I’m studying geoscience,” Ylo replied. It was much easier to lie now that he had an established story.

Katy’s eyes went wide. “No way, me too! Where at?”

That’s where Ylo’s established story ended. He fished for words, trying to remember any college names. “University of...Oregon?”

That was nearby, wasn’t it? It had to be.

“Oh! So you’re a duck. I love ducks!” Katy said. Ylo didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t get over those dimples.

They talked about college and winter and all the different amazing kinds of rocks. Katy’s eyes lit up when she talked about her major and Ylo felt that passion tug at his heart. Ylo could hardly keep up with everything she was saying--he didn’t know anything about going to college or living a normal human life--but the love of rocks he could relate to.

Just as the baristas were going through a shift change, Zeke walked in. Ylo waved to him but he pretended not to see.

“You know him?” Katy asked.

“Only a little. I don’t think I made a very good impression,” Ylo responded, trying not to look too disappointed at being ignored.

Katy gave a noise of agreement. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Ylo suddenly felt a little cold. He tugged on his sweater, but it didn’t go away. The cafe seemed eerily empty; Zeke was leaning against a counter and looking out the window as he sipped his drink and the baristas--they were looking right at Ylo.

Something about their eyes wasn’t right, they were too dark or too dilated or--Ylo couldn’t put his finger on it. Dread filled his stomach. Or maybe that was nausea. His hands felt clammy.

“We have to leave,” he said, standing abruptly. Ylo’s brain turned to mush.

Katy’s eyes darted around as she grabbed her purse and coat. “What? Why?” she asked.

“We have to--”

A gunshot cut Ylo off. Katy screamed and grabbed his arm but the bullet glanced right off his chest. Zeke was already running for the door. Ylo ran after him, pushing Katy in front to shield her with his body. The baristas leapt over the counters and showered them with bullets.

“Guns aren’t doing anything!” the one who’d made Ylo’s drink growled in frustration.

“Come on! Get the girl, too!” another shouted. He ran after them with superhuman speed and in a second was knocking Ylo to the ground. Ylo didn’t even move to catch himself and bright colors filled his vision as his head smacked the sidewalk.

Why couldn’t he think straight? Why was his stomach trying to force its way out of his mouth? What had been in his drink?

The baristas had been Agents of Chaos, that much he was sure of. The one who was pinning him to the ground now was Fury, the quickest of them. Ylo writhed in his grasp but made little progress towards escape. Vaguely, he saw Zeke tugging Katy to the relative safety of his dad’s truck. Ylo expected them to drive away, but Katy seemed unwilling to abandon him.

The two other baristas, Fear and Disaster, went after her, and Ylo finally came to his senses. His hands were pinned behind his back, but there were other ways to tell the rocks where to go.

Ylo jerked his head back and a jagged lump of concrete ripped out of the sidewalk and slammed into Fury’s face. The hunter clutched at his bleeding cheeks and Ylo leapt to his feet.

Disaster tore the passenger-side door off of Zeke’s car and pulled Katy out kicking and screaming. Ylo lunged for them, but Fear cut him off. It was far too easy for the hunter to knock Ylo down; a few quick jabs to knock him off balance and a swipe to the legs brought him onto the asphalt of the parking lot.

In that moment of vulnerability, sprawled on the ground, Fear took control of his body. The hunter held his hands above his head, fingers splayed like a puppetmaster’s, and forced Ylo to sit up. Ylo’s arms seemed to move of their own accord, pinning themselves behind his back as his legs folded neatly across each other.

In the meantime, Zeke was taking action. He charged at Disaster, brandishing a pocket knife, but before he could even touch her, the hunter pushed a hand out towards him and snapped one of the bones in his legs. Zeke crumpled with an anguished cry and Ylo could only watch helplessly, trying to push Fear out of his mind.

Disaster dragged Katy over to where Fear stood over Ylo and was soon joined by Fury, whose injuries were healing much faster than Ylo would have liked.

“Shouldn’t he be dead by now?” Disaster asked, her voice strained by the effort of holding Katy.

“The poison may be working slower than expected, but it won’t be long before it takes him,” Fury responded sharply. Ylo could feel himself fading, but that was only an undercurrent to the panic running through him. His lungs pumped air in and out, too shallow, too quickly.

Suddenly, Disaster slumped to her knees, letting Katy go, and behind her stood Zeke on one leg, his pocket knife bloodied in his hand and his teeth gritting from pain.

It was the only distraction they needed. In his shock, Fear loosened his control on Ylo, who broke free with a flurry. He tore the asphalt apart, pummeling Fear to the ground and the punching even deeper, burying Fear in the parking lot. Then Fury was on him. The punches were too quick to defend, bruising his face and stomach.

Ylo pushed upwards and a narrow column of stone rose beneath him, leaving Fury behind. From above, Ylo picked up a slab of concrete and smashed it over Fury’s head.

Katy was helping Zeke hobble back to the car as Ylo dropped back to the ground. He lost his balance, fell to his hands, pushed himself back up--they needed to get out of there.

“Katy, can you drive?” Ylo asked. The question paralyzed her, wide eyes fixed unseeingly on him. Ylo grasped her arm firmly, staring her down until she seemed to recognize him again. “Katy,” he said, more gently this time, “can you drive?”

She shook her head, lips trembling. “I--I know how, I just--please don’t make me.”

“Okay. You don’t have to,” Ylo said, though he didn’t know what other options they had. He certainly didn’t know how to drive and even if he did, everything was just flashing lights and the rolling nausea in his stomach. He needed to get the poison out of his system, but first they needed to get away from the hunters.

“Zeke,” Ylo said, feeling fainter by the second. “Please--get us out of here.”

Zeke only had one leg in commision but that was all he needed. He tore out of town as fast as the truck allowed, ignoring all lane lines as he weaved through traffic. They were driving down the forest road in a matter of minutes, the trees flashing by in bursts of light and dark.

Ylo and Katy sat in the back seat since the passenger-side door was gone. Ylo pressed his head against the cool glass of the window and tried to stay awake.

“We need to get to a hospital,” Katy said.

“The closest one is back in town,” Zeke replied.

“No.” Ylo’s voice was weak. “We can’t go back. They’ll find us.”

“Ylo, those people who attacked us...they’re probably dead. And if they aren’t, they won’t be coming after you any time soon,” Katy told him. He felt warmth glide over his back and realized it was Katy, tracing gentle shapes over his shoulders.

“They’ll heal,” he said. “They always do.”

“I think the poison’s messing with his head.” She was talking to Zeke now. “We should turn back.”

“But what if he’s right? I mean, that lady just broke my leg with her mind,” Zeke pointed out. “They could have healing magic too.”

“Magic?’ Katy scoffed.

“How else would you explain it?”

Katy couldn’t come up with an answer, so instead she pulled out her phone and started searching. “There’s a hospital about 30 miles away. If we drive fast enough I think we’ll make it. At least he hasn’t lost consciousness yet.”

Sixteen minutes later Katy was rushing into the ER and several medics brought Ylo and Zeke inside. Zeke disappeared to have his leg set and Katy stuck with Ylo to answer the doctors’ questions.

Ylo’s case baffled them. They couldn’t get a blood test because their needles kept mysteriously breaking against his skin and the urine sample only showed that they didn’t know what the poison was. Based on the components they did recognize, they determined it was safe to induce vomiting and then used activated charcoal to keep his body from absorbing any more of the poison.

It hadn’t been the most fun day of Ylo’s life.

“Are you feeling better?” Katy asked, sitting by his hospital bed. Before he could answer, Zeke rolled into the room in a wheelchair, one leg in a massive cast.

“What the hell was that back there?” he asked. Ylo supposed they deserved an explanation.

“Remember what I told you when I hitchhiked with you?” he said. “I’m the God of Mountains and Stone. I wasn’t joking.”

Katy shook her head. “That isn’t possible. There’s only one God and you are not Him.”

“I’m sorry,” Ylo said, and didn’t know why his first instinct was to apologize, “but you’re wrong. There are many Gods. We live in a sort of heaven--a realm beyond this one. The people who attacked us are almost Gods, Agents of Chaos, who’s one of the two Original Gods. It’s all very complicated.”

Katy’s head just kept shaking. “The poison’s still messing with your head.”

With that, she stood and walked out. Ylo knew she would need time to process things. Zeke, on the other hand, was looking somber and trusting.

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? You really are a God?” It wasn’t really a question; the words made him stagger as if saying them made it true. He ran his hands through his hair and pushed the air out of his lungs heavily.

“Why are these Agents of Chaos trying to kill you?”

“My cohort of Gods--the children of Earth--nearly killed each other long ago. The Origin of All Things cast a spell on me that forces us to cooperate. If I die, Earth will crumble, and Chaos will gain power,” Ylo explained.

Zeke nodded as if it was nothing, but his lips were pursed in thought. “But what do they want with...the girl? I can’t believe I don’t know her name after all that.”

“Her name is Katy,” Ylo said. “And I have no idea what they want with her. As far as I know, she’s just an average mortal.”

“So what are you going to do?” Zeke asked.

“I have to find a way back home and try not to get killed along the way,” Ylo replied. “I hope Katy will come with me. If the hunters are after her...she won’t be safe.”

Ylo had been looking at his hands, folded in his lap, but he looked up at Zeke then. He was staring at his cast, worry hidden behind his eyes.

“Thanks for helping us get away,” Ylo said. “I hope your dad doesn’t get too angry about the car.”

Zeke’s snort of laughter was cynical. “Are you kidding? He’ll kill me,” he said. His eyes grew wide with realization. “I can’t go home.”

“Will he actually kill you?” Ylo asked, horrified.

“God, no, of course not!” Zeke said, seeming equally horrified that Ylo would suspect it. “I just meant I’d get in a lot of trouble. But--look, I need to get out of that town. Even just for a while. And you guys need my help.”

Ylo knew it would be dangerous. He knew Zeke had no idea what he was really getting into. But looking at Zeke’s earnest, warm eyes, he couldn’t say no.

#story time #longer stuff #fallen gods #chapter 4

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