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thirsting-over-demons · 3 years

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The Lingerie Game

{An Obey Me Fic} – F!MC

Synopsis: A game is happening at the House of Lamentation— anyone who sees MC not fully clothed will get the opportunity to spend 12 hours time alone with her wearing lingerie of their choice.

<<CH2

Chapter Three: A Game of Strip Poker

warnings: mildly n.s.f.t, sexual themes, poker

Mammon cashes in on his 12-hour reward. He's decided to teach MC the ins and outs of poker, but with a twist. However, the game can't last forever.

Word Count: 5610

Sitting in wait for MC is a package carefully positioned in front of her bedroom door. A gold ribbon wraps around the box, contrasting with the plain brown paper that covers it. Attached is a note that reads:

My room! Saturday night!

…

Wear this underneath your normal clothes.

“Wow. His handwriting is worse than mine,” MC comments as she reads the note. She also remarks on the lack of signature. It’s a good thing that it’s obvious who sent this. No one else but Mammon could be so confident yet convey such bashfulness through writing.

As soon as she finishes reading, she takes the package into her room, eager to see the lingerie Mammon has picked out. Upon opening, she initially notices the color scheme—black and gold. As if she could expect anything else. She goes on to pull out the first piece, holding it in front of her to get a better look. In her hands is a short, black chemise with a sheer body. An outline of lace separates the see-through fabric from an opaque bikini. What’s more, golden dagger-shaped shards hang off the brassiere while metallic specks can be seen throughout the flowing fabric.

He expects me to be able to wear this underneath my regular clothes? The frown on her face as she thought this is replaced by an affectionate smile as she continues to stare at the chemise. She then sets it aside and lets out a sentimental breath as she does so. Reaching into the box again she pulls out a pair of black boyshorts studded with silver white diamonds on the sides. Attached to the shorts are garter straps with gold-colored clasps at the end. Stockings, however, did not come with the set.

“I wonder if that was on purpose,” she mutters to herself. “Oh well, guess we’ll find out Saturday night.” She stares at the lingerie laid out on her bed, and for a moment, thinks about all the potential activities Mammon has planned.

Whatever it is, I’m looking forward to it.

Saturday has finally arrived and after a long day of making up missed school, Mammon and MC could use some winding down.

“Why did we have to spend a whole day at school for just a couple of lousy hours?!” Mammon complains as the two walk home.

“Because he’s a sadist,” MC replies. There’s no denying that ‘he' refers to Lucifer. She’s truly contemplating whether it was, indeed, worth it after having lost eight hours of her day off to forced independent study. “At least there’s tonight.”

Mammon chuckles shyly and agrees. His confidence picks up speed as he states, “Ya know it’s gonna be fun cause The Great Mammon planned it!” A grin plasters his face while he says this.

In response, she comments on how it sounds like she’ll have to take some time to relax beforehand.

He agrees rather begrudgingly, his disappointment shining through despite having just spent the first half of the day together already.

The two eventually reach home and part ways, having agreed to meet in Mammon’s room after dinner. MC has no idea what the evening plans could be, but knowing him, she’s going to need energy. With this is mind, she decides to nap in the time before dinner, and makes her way up to her room. Once there, she manages to only take her shirt off before flopping onto bed and falling asleep. The cool fabric is refreshing compared to the hot air outside, perfect for afternoon dozing.

A knock on the door disrupts her slumber. With it, a lazy acknowledgement escapes from MC, prompting the knocker to enter the room.

“Dinner's ready, MC,” Satan calls out. In response, all he hears is mumbles coming from the body half-under the covers. Satan sighs as he steps further into the room. “It’s not good to sleep so early in the day.” He immediately goes from lecturing to tempting as he adds, “Besides, I made your favorite.”

This sparks some energy in MC. Satan’s cooking is always delicious and better yet he says it’s one of her favorites. She quickly pushes herself up and the blanket that was covering her falls to the side. Still in bed, she turns to face him and with resolve, tells him she will be right there.

He decisively ignores what she said to instead ask, “Are you not wearing a shirt?”

MC looks down to confirm that she is, in fact, shirtless. Upon realizing what this means, she looks up, stares ahead at the wall in front of her, and says flatly, “No. I am not.” She can’t believe how quick that was.

“A win-win for us both, it seems,” Satan is obviously pleased with what just happened. “I’ll let you get dressed.” He then takes his leave, closing the door behind him.

MC remains sitting in bed, her eyes lingering blankly at the space Satan just left through. That was almost embarrassingly too fast. It’s only been less than a week since the game first started and already two prizes are being rewarded. Let’s just focus on tonight, she thinks as she pushes the encounter out of her mind. But, first, food.

Dinner passes without much incident. To their displeasure, the brothers know Mammon will be getting uninterrupted time with MC tonight. But the punishment from last time is still fresh in their minds, so they tended to steer away from that topic. Only the rogue complaint here and there made it out their mouths. Not that any questions would be answered anyway; MC is unaware of the activities for the night and there’s no way Mammon would tell his brothers what he has prepared.

Upon finishing her meal, MC heads upstairs to get ready for the night. First, a shower is in order. Can’t feel her best without one. She makes sure to use the scents she thinks Mammon would like best. He always seems to try to stand close to me when I use the strawberry-scented stuff.

After washing, she tosses on some throw-away clothes for the walk back to her room. She’s too wet to immediately put on the lingerie and she’s certainly not walking back in a towel. There can’t be two winners in a day.

She's eventually able to wear the lingerie and walks over to the mirror hanging on her door. Moment of truth. She looks over her reflection, quite pleased with how she looks. “Who knew Mammon could pick out something that looks so good?” Her thoughts instantly leave her mouth. “Well, I guess modeling helps.”

Still, there’s the matter of trying to wear it under her everyday clothes. It definitely wasn’t designed to do that. A larger, loose-fitting shirt will work, but the bottoms might be a bit trickier. Jeans definitely won’t work, in fact any type of pants won’t. She’ll have to go with a skirt. The two tops can easily be tucked in with that too, making it slightly more manageable.

The completed ensemble is a bit uncomfortable, but it’ll do. He can’t be planning on never seeing the lingerie. Eventually she can take off the other clothes…right? Well, either way, it’s time to head to Mammon’s room.

She announces her arrival with three sharp knocks. In return, she hears a startled Mammon telling her to come in. When she enters the room, she sees him sitting on the couch, his back to the door. She also notes the trashcan filled to the top with crumpled up paper. Seems like it took him a couple times to find the right words for the note earlier.

“You ready?” she asks.

“I’ve been ready,” he replies a little impatiently while turning to face her. His tone quickly changes, though, as he attempts to hide this anxious eagerness. “Not that I’ve just been sitting here waiting!” He swiftly decides to change the subject to avoid any further hole digging. Instead, he comments on what MC is wearing. On how little it is, in fact.

“What? You told me to wear my everyday clothes,” she says, genuinely confused by his line of reasoning. “The skirt isn’t even short. It’s mid-length.” MC lifts the ends while she states this, as if to prove the point.

This causes Mammon to look away. It takes him a slight moment to regain himself before he says, “I guess it can’t be helped.” He gets up from the couch and walks over to MC. Draping his jacket across her shoulders, he tells her, “Wear this.”

She’s completely baffled at this point. More clothes? A couple seconds are spent in wonder until she slips her arms through. She doesn’t completely mind. As the jacket settles, a scent drifts over her.

It smells like him.

MC hesitates to ask for an explanation, but the curiosity is pressing. “So, what’s the deal with the clothes, anyway?”

“Huh?” Mammon acts as though she knows what they’re going to do. “Well, with what you had on, you’d only have to lose twice.” This does nothing to clear up mystery, and its only when he sees MC's puzzled expression does he realize that. He finally reveals what the two will be doing, “I’m gonna teach ya poker!”

Of course. He has wanted to play countless times before, but MC didn’t know how nor was any interested in learning. But now she has too. On top of that, it seems like it’s going to be strip poker. How apropos.

“I see.” Good thing she took that nap. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have the mental energy to be taught anything else that day. “Alright, let’s get to it.”

Mammon gives a hum of agreement and the two make their way over to the couches where he’s set up the cards. On the table are examples of possible hands in order of ranking. As he goes over them, he makes sure to give MC enough time to properly memorize the categories. When she’s had her fill, he continues to explain the rules and mechanics of the variant his chosen in-depth.

Plainly, players will be dealt two cards, then five will be laid onto the table as community cards. Use the two cards in combination with the ones of the board to make a better hand than the other.

“I’ve decided to go easy on ya!” A huge smile can be seen on Mammon’s face. “This one’s the easiest to learn, so you should have no problem playing.” It’s obvious he’s having so much fun teaching her something he loves.

MC smiles in response. Seeing him so enthusiastic makes him so endearing. He’s quite serious about it too. No way he’s not by how thoroughly he’s explaining the game.

Soon enough the two begin playing, starting with some practice rounds. When MC decides she has the hang of it, she suggests they raise the stakes by finally betting clothes.

“Ya haven’t won yet!” Mammon rejects the idea straightaway. “Ya hafta win first,” he clarifies.

She has to wonder if he’s doing such a slow reveal on purpose. No, of course he is. First the long lesson now all the practicing. Though, she has to admit, it is more fun this way—there’s a buildup, anticipation. And there’s no point in rushing, they do have half a day. So, she's content to carry on without anteing for now.

While there’s a bit of enjoyment in trying to win against Mammon in something he excels in, MC is starting to lose interest. The lack of risk is starting to compromise the point of playing, even if she always either loses or folds. All she has to do is win once, then the real game can begin. Time to really focus.

Up to this point, she’s just been paying attention to her own cards and trying to beat Mammon’s hand. She’s been foregoing any observation of her opponent proper. Right, I’ve got to play the player as much as the game. She starts with some simple watching, noting anything that might help her: expressions, movements, comments, etc. Further scrutinizing is done by deliberately making a couple of bad moves to gauge his reactions. She’s getting nothing from him.

A couple more rounds go by, and MC has concluded that Mammon is unreadable, almost. The only time he reacted, just slightly, was when she nearly won. He seemed almost proud. That’s got to be her angle. She’s not skilled enough to read him, but she can coax him into giving away information. Just have to ask the right questions.

It takes some tries before finding the most effective line of questioning. Problem is, before, she wasn’t asking too many questions. Now, it’s like a flood gate has been lifted.

“Finally getting serious, huh?” If Mammon knew what she was up to, he wasn’t showing it. Additionally, the influx of questions hasn’t thrown him off. Rather, he’s quite excited to show off his talent in front of MC. Maybe a bit too excited. He’s letting down his guard.

Which is perfect for her. She needs this win. In fact, she might have him. The last thing she asked caused a slight stir in Mammon. “So, a pair in hand and a pair on the table is a two pair?”

“Yep! Got it!” Mammon's response showed no sign of hesitation or worry. But there was the tiniest hint of disappointment hidden within his words.

This is what tipped MC off. He thinks he has a better hand. Good thing her cards are better than what she said. And with what’s on the table, there's a good chance his cards will lose to her actual ones.

“Alright let’s show ‘em,” she says as she lays her cards into view.

Mammon almost immediately declared himself winner until she pointed at the three aces on the table, those being the two in her hand and then the community one. In addition to the pair included on the board, that makes her a hand a winner compared to Mammon’s, who only had five cards of the same suite.

“Guess we can start anteing then,” MC proclaims. She’s ready to stop being so damn uncomfortable because of the weird layers she’s wearing. She may not even try the next rounds, not that she’ll let Mammon know that. He would try to make excuses to prevent her from stripping for sure. “Actually, maybe you should explain how you’re thinking of doing that first,” she follows up after realizing he never clarified those particulars.

Mammon goes on to lay out the rules he’s devised. Simply, if both players show their hand, the loser has to remove an item of clothing. There’s no penalty to folding considering the circumstance.

Sure enough, the next round plays and she ends up losing an item of clothing. Can’t say she ended up not trying, though. She just didn’t try as hard. It was fun learning how to play against Mammon, but it’s too much now. There’s no way she can keep up steam.

She opts for the skirt first. It’s been the major cause of her discomfort, surprisingly to her. The band has been causing the two shirts to rub against her skin nonstop. She sticks her thumbs in to separate it from herself and lifts herself off the couch just enough to pull the skirt off, setting it to her side. With that she returns her gaze to Mammon.

This prompts a small fuss from him. Snapping out of a lascivious stare, he spits out, “Why'da go for that first? I gave ya the jacket!”

That’s the other reason. She doesn’t want to take his jacket off. She tells him as such, burying her head in it as she does. It’s soothing in a way.

A small amount of color rises across Mammon’s face from this. He gets up wordlessly and walks over to MC. Taking off his own sunglasses, he puts them on her, slightly brushing her cheeks as his hands slide past.

“There,” he says as he looks at her before walking back around the table. He seems satisfied with that explanation, or rather, lack thereof.

“These will literally be the next thing I take off.”

“They’re suppose'da be.” Mammon goes on to deal the next round. It was tight, coming down to who had the higher cards. Ultimately, he won by a hair.

And the glasses come right off.

The following hand plays much slower. MC takes her time to analyze everything, thinking of endless possible card combinations that’ll earn her a win as the community cards are laid down. She’s decided she can’t be the only one stripping.

It’s down to the last card on the table and she has to choose whether to show or fold. It’s a decent enough hand. She’ll show.

Mammon's the first to flip his cards, revealing a respectable hand, as well.

“Are you sure you haven’t been cheating?” She suddenly asks.

“Huh?” Mammon was taken by surprise with this. A little offended, he answers, “I may bend the rules sometimes. But this isn’t the time and place, MC. Even I know that.”

“You’re right,” she turns her cards over. “Because you would’ve won, then.” She reveals a hand that triumphs over her opponent’s.

“MC!” He exclaims both pleased and a little unsettled. “Ya had me going there. Hah! Look at ya.”

But she is just looking at him, waiting with a smile half-cocked. They showed their cards. She won. He lost.

He eventually understood why she was staring at him with such a look. And he froze. Right, by his rules, he loses an article of clothing now. For some reason, this didn’t even occur to him as a possibility—that they’d both be half-naked.

He's already lost his jacket and glasses. All that’s left are his shirt and pants. He picks the prior. Reaching over behind his head, Mammon takes his shirt and, as quickly as he can, yanks it over his head.

“You can quit lookin' at me like that, now.”

She doesn’t. Not even realizing she’s staring; she continues to admire his physique. Only when Mammon goes out of his way to get her attention does she snap out of her daze.

“Next round!” He says as if he’s uttering a decree.

The cards are dealt once again. MC, however, is getting tired. He sure can play for a long while. Having won the last round, she decides to phone it in for the rest, trying only as hard as it takes Mammon not to notice. It helps that she’s not good to begin with.

The next clothing item she tosses is the shirt beneath Mammon’s jacket, still refusing to take it off. She somehow manages it by balancing the jacket on her shoulders as she slips out of the top worn under it. Sure, she could have just taken off the jacket then put it back on when she was done, but it’s more fun this way. Plus, Mammon can't say anything her breaking the rules, so to speak.

Now, all she’s wearing is Mammon’s jacket and the lingerie he picked out. And she wants to show off this fact. She abruptly stands up, which causes the hanging daggers of the brassier to sway as she does so. Holding her arms out while posing, she asks, “Isn’t it cute?”

Mammon takes a moment before answering, soaking in what he’s seeing.

“You’re beautiful.”

MC felt a tinge of heat reach her cheeks. She wasn’t expecting him to respond like that. But she was glad.

She sits back down and comments on how she loves what he picked out. Then, silently thinks to herself how she hopes to wear it again for him.

Mammon, meanwhile, was marveling at how MC looked. Even going so far as to praise himself for his choice of lingerie.

“By the way,” MC begins. “This does beg the question, what about the stockings?” She leans back and to the side, supporting herself with her hands as she swings her legs alternatively up and down.

“Oh, uh,” he searches for the words, a little distracted by her bare legs. Finally finding them, he says, “It seemed like too much.”

“That’s too bad. It would’ve made the outfit even cuter,” she replies minorly disappointed. Then adds with a chuckle, “Plus it would’ve gave me more things to take off. Oh well, there’s always next time.”

“I can see that now! No need to rub—” He processes the last thing MC said. “Wait, for real?!”

MC confirms what she said, ready to laugh again. Well, that confirms he's all up for seeing her like this again.

“Imma hold you to that!” Mammon ecstatically swears. It’ll be even more fun the next time around, especially since the anxieties of this time won’t overwhelm him.

The night continues and MC can’t hide her exhaustion, yawning more and more frequently. She’s been folding more frequently too. Every round, in fact. The only thing she has left to offer is the jacket she’s been cuddling all night, and she’s not going to let it go.

“One more game,” Mammon says. “Then ya can go to bed.” He stipulates, “But no folding! Both of us gotta show our cards.”

“I’m not going to bed until you are,” she replies. “You have to get your full time.” A yawn tries to escape from her mouth as she says this.

Mammon accepts this but insists on having that last round. While she looks adorable, he does want to see how she looks without the covering piece. Plus, there has to be a proper sendoff of the game—folding just won’t do.

“In that case, we can watch a movie or something,” he suggests as he lays down the cards. He puts down all five table cards without delay. There’s no need to go through the whole process. When he lays the last card, he also flips his own, then looks at MC to do the same.

Although coming down to pure luck at this point, she ends up having to finally forego the jacket she’s come to love. She pouts as she removes it, then quickly makes her way over to the couch Mammon is sitting on the far end of. Settling down at a spot where they're almost touching, she goes on to suggest they watch a horror movie.

He’s reluctant to agree to this but relents as he’s too focused on the sudden close proximity between the two.

“I’ve been wanting to watch this certain one,” MC says as she pulls the film onto the TV. She stays on the summary screen to give Mammon the chance to read it and waits for him to give the go-ahead. Mammon, however, seemed to be focusing all his attention on MC, and she has to direct him to look at the screen. After a moment, a sign of confirmation is given, though hesitantly as if he didn't even process what he just read. She starts the movie anyway.

A little ways in, MC begins to shift and leans heavily onto Mammon, holding nothing back as she puts her full weight on him.

“If ya scared, all you gotta do is say so,” he says in reaction. “The Great Mammon will protect ya!” He looks down at who appears to be his new blanket.

She responds with a tired hum. Though she’s not having Mammon’s feigned bravery, she’s too exhausted to fight it. Instead, she continues to just watch the movie through half-closed eyes, propped against his shoulder.

“Hold on a sec.” He lifts her off for a split moment and repositions, his back now being supported by the arm of the couch. He pulls her into his lap, and she ends up laying between his legs with her head on his chest. “It’s more cozy this way, yeah?”

“Makes the jacket the next-best thing,” she answers.

The two continue to watch the movie in silence. During so, Mammon’s arms have been slowly moving from the couch to around MC, getting closer and tighter every time he got scared. He soon was fully encircling her with his head hiding behind as far as he could manage, which wasn’t much considering his position, even with sliding down. This was when he noticed the smell of strawberries.

“Hey, MC,” he spoke low trying to get her attention. There was no response. “Are ya sleepin'?” Again, he was met with silence. He took this opportunity to lightly bury his head into her, absorbing the scent that he adores on her. It had a calming effect, especially after the stress caused by the horror on screen.

“Did’ya wear this for me?” He asks softly to himself. Though the movie was over, he stayed still. He wanted nothing but to continue holding her like he was. There’s a chance he might just fall asleep too.

But he couldn’t. It’s too uncomfortable for that. The position is fine for cuddling yet sleeping like this will only bring pain the next day. And it can’t be much better for her. Not to mention, they don’t even have any blankets, and the pillows that were already on the couch are hardly meant for such use. He ultimately decides to sacrifice the snuggling, over much internal debating, and wakes MC up.

“Time to get up,” Mammon’s voice was loud as he shook her tenderly. He knew all too well if the first attempt didn’t work, he’d have way too much trouble with trying again. “It’s better to sleep inna bed. C'mon.”

MC grumbles at this as she sits up. Without a word, she makes her way over to the bed in his room.

“What're ya doing?” He asks a bit flustered, fully not expecting her actions.

“You said to go to bed,” she replies rather pragmatically. Then adds, “And there’s still time left in your twelve hours.” As she says this, she lifts the covers and climbs into bed. “Unless… you want me to walk all the way back to my own room?” It’s clear she has no plans to do this anyway, as she’s already quite settled in his bed.

Mammon makes no arguments, only an off-hand comment that can be taken as him denying all responsibility in having the idea. Instead, he gets into bed next to her, facing her way.

As soon as she feels his weight, she rolls over to meet him. She asks, “Can I hold you?”

He answers by holding her first. Showing no restraint, he presses his body into hers, his arms fully wrapped around her. He lets out a heavy sigh as he does so.

MC stiffens in surprise by this, but very quickly relaxes into him. Lifting her head off the shoulder she was resting on, she gives him a peck on the cheek as she tells him, “Good Night.”

Stunned by this, Mammon stares at MC, who has taken her position back onto his shoulder. Shifting his gaze to the side, a short moment passes before he says, “If ya gonna kiss me, ya gotta do it right.”

To this, she looks up again and brings her face to his, stopping just before his lips. And she waits, hesitating in front of him as she pauses for consent, her own lips somewhat parted ways in anticipation. She looks from his eyes to his lips then back again, as her way of asking.

Mammon gives his permission by impatiently pressing his lips to hers. His hand supports her head as his avarice takes over, roughly deepening the kiss more and more. To him, no matter how near their bodies, it will never be enough. There will always be some distance to close.

In return, he gets kisses that are sleepy but not effortless. Noting this, and realizing that he’s getting too excited, he pulls away. When he does, he meets MC with eyes brimmed with compassion. But only for a second as he quickly buries her head into his chest, hiding her from the complete redness that is consuming his face. He ends the night by telling her, “Go back to sleep,” as he feels her warm breath against his skin.

As for her, she falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast.

Although falling asleep later, Mammon was the first one to wake up. He wants every second awake he can get holding the woman he’s come to adore. In fact, even though they repositioned during their slumber, he’s still cradling her. As he lies on his back staring at the ceiling, MC sleeps soundly on his chest. He starts to caress her head, feeling the hair that would tickle him occasionally throughout the night on his fingertips, wishing this won’t end.

Unfortunately, this wakes her up after a while and she moves off his chest, much to his disappointment. So much so, that he pulls her back without delay, saying that he’s not done holding her yet. The Avatar of Greed, indeed.

“Mammon, I have to get up.”

But he doesn’t let go. Rather, he tightens his embrace.

“Mammon…” she sinks into him, not wanting to get up either. But she has to go grocery shopping for dinner. It’s her turn. A fact she relays to him, yet he still won’t budge.

“How ‘bout a good morning kiss?” This got his attention. “But I can’t do it from here.”

He relents to this. Eager for another kiss. His grip loosens, allowing MC to position herself in front of him. He props her chin up and runs his thumb over her bottom lip before he goes in. It’s softer this time, slower with deliberate motions. He wants the feel of her lips committed to memory.

Her kisses in answer are the same. In contrast to the tired grazes of yesterday, her touch now is very much alive.

Mammon stops first, distancing himself just enough to where their lips barely touch. Tentatively, he asks, “This… this makes up for last night, yeah?” His lips brush against hers with each word.

MC doesn't want to talk, but they're too close to just silently ask. She opts for a quick, “What do you mean?”

“I wanted our first kiss to-” he stops midsentence, a little bashful by the words. He rephrases, “I wanted to be gentler. But I couldn’t hold myself back once I felt your lips.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” she reassures as she smoothly rubs her nose on his. Afterwards, she furthers the distance for a better look at him as she says, “In fact, I like it when you’re assertive.”

“Don’t say such weird stuff all of a sudden!” An embarrassed expression appears on his face. “Geeze, it’s kinda scary when you act so sweet.” He thinks for a moment until he decides to tell her, “But, you could do more of that…you know, if ya wanted.”

MC feels as though she needs to put his mind to ease. “I like you, Mammon.” She’s sure to enunciate this, clearly saying his name so there’s no doubt about who she’s talking about.

He’s at a loss for words at this point, stunned. A smile soon creeps on his face and the words he finally comes up are filled with self-praise. “Of course ya do!” Secretly though, he’s relieved by what she said. The affirmation of her feelings fills him with confidence.

The conversation continues with MC reiterating that she, unfortunately, needs to go out for groceries. She furthers the argument by reminding him that his twelve hours are up.

A demand for one more kiss is his response, which she gladly indulges. He steadies her with his hands once more, as if it’s a need to feel her body while they kiss. It’s more fervent this time around after hearing her confession; his emotions seemingly exploding into her lips.

The first to pull away this time was MC, sensing that Mammon would never stop. She can’t leave if the kiss never ends, right? Looking at him, she can see he’s visibly disappointed with his eyes still closed.

When he opens them, it’s only slightly and he’s sure to not meet her eyes. If he sees her, it’ll only cause him to try to make her stay again. Instead, he rushes her along. “Just hurry up so you can get back, will ya?”

MC slips back on the clothes from the night before. Stopping short of the door, she turns to face him once more and pauses, pondering on whether she should express the idea on her mind. Ultimately, she chooses to tease him with the one other reason she had prepared to use against him.

“You know,” she gets his attention. “I was gonna entice you with some of my homemade ramen.” The jestful smile on her face cannot be hidden, no matter the amount of lip biting. “But looks like I don’t have to now.”

The speed at which Mammon disregards his previous determination to not look at MC is unimaginable. In fact, he completely abandons the notion to let her go. He hops out of bed almost as swiftly as his stare and bounds for the troublemaker. Reaching her before she can get away, he wraps his arms around her and brings her into a tight embrace of no escape. He’s back to preventing her from leaving. Not until she promises to make his ramen.

In between fits of giggles, MC manages to spill that she planned on doing that anyway. When she gets let go, she gives Mammon one last playful look before she sets off to buy the ingredients of his favorite dish of hers.

#obey me fic #obey me fanfic #obey me #obey me shall we date #mammon x mc #the lingerie game

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day.

a commission for @lovelycarose

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident. “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

#eliot spencer x reader #eliot spencer/reader #eliot spencer fanfiction #eliot spencer #leverage #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff

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th3okamid3monart · 4 years

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Ya no estoy aquí, another take on immigrant stories.

(This will have SPOILERS for Ya no estoy aqui, I recommend watching it first. It is very touching and heavy tale of belonging and loneliness)

Sinopsis:

Ulises takes is the leader of the cumbia loving group Terkos in Monterrey, Mexico. But when he gets involve on a gang related accident he has to leave his home so his family and him can be safe, taking up a new home in the distant city of New York.

Writing-Directing-Acting

This piece of media was one of the best made in Mexico so far. Mexico has been growing in the production and creation of different movies which resonate with a diverse of groups. This time it was the turn of one of the most negated states and music genre ever.

Ya no estoy aqui has a well done balance in the writing, expressing and pointing out different subjects that plague the world; from immigration to corruption, from cultural sub groups to violent gangs and, in the background, the injustices a society faces when they are being neglected by the government or the violence has grown into an out of control normality.

The point of view we follow is from Ulises how he works around and moves to survive, but we can also see how the people around him reacts like the ones he left behind in Monterrey, how their lives have changed so much due to him being away and how the situation in his city is changing.

We can also see the point of view of other people who are in the same situation as Ulises, although they’re not face with as much difficulty as him due to knowing the language.

It explores how the mindset changes, how the characters experience life in the new places and how those places change them. It brings up the hardships of being an immigrant and how awfully homesick they feel, and yet we can also see how those people can act so harshly between each other, respectively how 3 of the tertiary characters treated Ulises just for the way he looked. It’s very clear they are from Mexico as well, it shows how people in general can treat each other as bad if not worse than people from a different country.

Ulises is a very well made character, it shows he is a whole person with feelings, hardships and desires. The actor, Juan Daniel García Treviño, makes a great job by showing the difference between him living in his home, being happy, bright and engaging, and living in big city, where he begins to act isolated, serious and having little to nothing of humor. The change of tendencies and attitudes can be quite hard, since you’re told you need to practically change the character. You need to change who you are. That’s exactly what happens to the character and Juan Daniel does is amazingly.

The idea of being ripped away from your home, your family, your culture and being thrown into the shark tank that is, not only other country, but the most violent and cynical city in the whole country (fighting for the 1st place is Los Angeles and Texas in my inexpert opinion).

There were some odd acting moments, mostly during the group parts where Ulises is with the Terkos. And curiously, it’s not the dancing parts. It’s their interactions at times, they are a bit stiff and awkward. There are other shots where they are seen laughing and playing, and those look very natural. Maybe those shots were the first one they were doing.

The director Fernando Frias understands the importance of belonging somewhere. The whole film is about that and you can perceive it everywhere the character goes. The concept is a very important and powerful one among the sentiments of loneliness and sadness which are used as well.

Seeing the character struggle in a world that he doesn’t fit in, that he doesn’t feel its home is the main and most important thing everyone can relate to. Even if you aren’t an immigrant, you can understand how awful feeling alone and feeling an absence or emptiness in your being can feel. We can sympathize with that and maybe get a more understanding view of the people surrounding us. We only want to be understood, we only want to be seen as part of something or somewhere where one can be themselves without being a mocking or something.

Photography

Amazing shots by Damian Garcia. Another work I’ve seen from his is La vida Precoz y Breve de Sabina Rivas. Between this two you can see he tends to work with darkness, not all the time just very commonly. And he does it VERY well. People have a bad habit of underexposing their scenes, to the point of ABSOLUTE DARKNESS (I’m looking at you, fucking USA horror movies that only woRK ON FUCKING BLUES AND GRAY TONES AS WELL MY GO-). Mr. Garcia does it perfectly and balanced, you can see the silouttes in the dark, you can see the movement.

The shots are very active, by this I mean they are sequence shots. Sequence shots follow the character around, there are also zoom outs and zoom ins mostly used in the flashbacks, which makes it have a more nostalgic feeling. There’s a specific shot where Ulises is dancing with los Terkos and the camera zooms out to make the shot a perfect square, showing them in the center while the rest of the screen is in almost pitch black. That scene is perfect, it doesn’t need a slow mo, it doesn’t need music, and it only needs the energy, the laughs, and the music coming from the radio to give us what Ulises want.

The colors are balanced, not oversaturated but still bright enough. When it comes to viewing cities and towns, photographers tend to use a very cliché color scheme. For a city like New York it’s always kind of red, grey and blue tones that can also look very opaque, meanwhile for Mexican towns, they always use the yellowish, orange tones. One can get very tired of those you know? Which is why I’m very happy to observe this photography specially coming from a Mexican. There are very amazing photographers and Mr. Garcia will go even bigger soon with his amazing work.

Sound

Awesome work, capturing the essence of what the parties and dance spots sound and feel like is a complex thing to do. Not many manage to capture something that isn’t describe as only noise. It is an experience, it’s something you feel not only hear. The music is a very important part in this movie so the way it is listened from radios, the transition from being in the plane of the character and then to a type of score, while also giving us the personal taste of Ulises is a well done edited piece.

Yuri Laguna has done a lot of works, I don’t personally know many but I did get a very good experience with this movies sound, music and effects. The sound effects sounded like something for the movie and not taken from somewhere else and sounded exactly where they are intended to do so. From the foot-steps to the mumbles between characters when they are inside a store.

I really like the scene where Ulises is at a store and he is about to buy a speaker that reminds him of his home. You can hear the boss and Ulises talking and making hand signs but you can’t understand what they are saying. It’s a little detail I really enjoy. I will have to keep an open ear for any other work of Mr. Laguna

Make up, Art and Costume design

I don’t even know where to start. I’m very sure most of the places they went to are the real ones, so scouting was done very, very well and amazing to get those lovely and breathtaking shots from a high place. But the makeup?? The clothes? THE SPACES? They entire art department did so well! There are so many details that can tell you about the characters. This is what is called subtle storytelling. The scenes that stick a lot to me were the ones that took place in the home of one of Ulises friends. The whole room is dark, and her and her family are watching TV. They have anguish in their faces, and when the shot is flipped to see their backs, you can see 2 things: her phone ringing, because Ulises is trying to contact her, and the TV. Now the one thing that could caught your eye would be the phone BUT the TV has more information for you, which is how Monterrey is having not only an increase of gangs but also an increase of poverty and police violence.

The clothes are very distinguish, I don’t know much about many sub-groups. I didn’t heard of Kolombia before this movie so this is a nice look into the culture that has been popular over there. The main actor is actually from the state so maybe the costume design team got a little info from him and obviously do their own investigation. The clothing’s pop a lot, mostly due to the style (very big and long shirts and pant, and the signature white shoes of los Terkos). The hairstyle is what you would get at first sight though, it being so obviously made by the own character.

In our own modism: Se la rifaron.

I have seen very detailed works, and this one didn’t go underappreciated since the people who work in it got a nomination for an Ariel (the most prestigious Mexican film prize).

Custom design: Magdalena de la Riva y Gabriela Fernández

Make up: María Elena López y Itzel Peña García

Art design: Taísa Malouf Rodrigues y Gino Fortebuono

I didn’t found more info about this people but I’m sure they will go far if they keep up their amazing work.

Editing

I’m pretty sure the final product is what the director intended. It has clean transitions and well done jump cuts, although I think they used a lot of black ins I think the rest is fine. You don’t need to do super specific or out of the box editing when it comes to a solid story that is intended to be realistic. The pace is good and going back and forward between the flashbacks and the present gives you a more dynamic story. There are some confusing points when it comes to the dream sequences, but I think that’s mostly the point of those. The character would get into points he can’t differentiate what’s real and what’s fake. His desires are interfering with his present to the point of confusion.

Editor: Yibrán Asaud and Fernando Frias.

Conclusion

Immigration is an overused theme, a very well-known subject and a problem that has been happening for years. Problem that hasn’t been fix, if countries were at least trying to fix the problems there wouldn’t have to be so many people putting their lives in danger to travel to a safer place. Then again, people have the power and sometimes power corrupts the person (which is why I think a lot of gangs exist too). Even though it is an overused them, many writers and directors have tried to make compelling stories and characters so the subject is not only forgotten but also inspiring for the people to help others, to sympathize and to understand this people.

Ulises is not a 100% good person, nor a bad person, he is a kid who just wants to spend time with his friends and have fun while doing listening to something he loves and feels a connection with.

Another story of immigration that I really enjoy is Guten Tag, Ramon but that story is way to idealistic, while Ya no estoy aqui is more realistic. There’s also La jaula de Oro but that has a very, very dark ending, realistic non the less but still with a more pessimistic and hopeless ending. This movie kind of stands in a middle ground, where the character just comes back to a changed home.

I’ve read some people saying this movie doesn’t have a resolution, but I think that’s the point. The resolution is that life doesn’t stop. A movie with an anticlimactic ending is not a bad movie (at least not all the time), it just makes you think.

Ulises returns to his home which has changed. He didn’t had the opportunity to see it change and change with it. He will have to start from 0, it’s like going to New York all over again. Life is about change and sometimes that change can come from us or others. Things will impact you one way or another, and sometimes life goes on without you.

You have to decide what to do when you are faced with harshness. Although this movie is mostly about belonging somewhere, the ending teaches you about decisions and choosing.

Ulises chooses to return home, he chooses home even when his friends have move on from him, even if his family has turned their back on him, he chooses to come back because he missed it there and not all is bad. There’s a lot of bad going, but at least he is home now. At least he is here. (Al menos el está aquí)

Sincerely moved, TOD.

#writing #movie #2019 #movie 2019 #festival internacional de cine de morelia #ficmorelia #ficmorelia2019 #nominada al ariel 2020 #ganadora fic morelia #ganadora fic el cairo #piramide de oro #ya no estoy aqui #mexicana #mexican movie #pelicula #critic #critic?#criticism?#criticism

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imtryingmyfuckingbe · 4 years

Text

Werewolf of Portland

Pairing: Dean x FBI!Reader

Word count: 10K

I’m not good a summaries, but I drew inspiration from anytime the boys give actual FBI Agents the “talk”, as well as that episode where Jody calls them out for using Bobby as their “supervisor”. This is a repost because I accidentally deleted the original, but it gave me time to edit it better. I’m thinking of doing a second part if I get enough feedback or requests for it, so please, please, please tell me what you think. I’m hungry for feedback haha. Also I know nothing about Portland or official FBI Badges so please keep that in mind as you read.

Warnings: Canon violence, profanity, and a plot twist I didn’t even see coming

Werewolf of Portland

The repugnant, putrid scent overcomes the clearing, spread by the gentle breeze. Despite the green grass littered with wild flowers, the unforgiving scent of rotten eggs clings to the workers’ hazmat suits. Flies buzz incessantly around the body, like that of an opaque blanket if adorned with beady eyes and veiny wings.

While the forensic cleaners work to gather the corpse’s remains for transportation, Agent Y/L/N stands at the edge of the control zone. Her day started at 4:39 in the morning, wherein she spent the next five hours scouring the field alongside her team. Even with her duties tended to, she refuses to leave the scene. The sparse clues yielded in the first examination plague her mind.

No fingerprints, no shoe prints, no footprints, no DNA; the list of what they don’t have extends further than what they do.

The body itself— what little the attacker left of it, at least— covered the majority of the scene. Torn to pieces, heart removed; remains scattered. She hopes the coroner can get something from her examination. The lacking evidence in addition to this being the fourth body found places an insurmountable weight on Y/N’s shoulders.

The public’s outrage cries for the FBI to put the criminal behind bars, but they’re no closer to identifying witnesses, let alone a culprit. Y/N signs, running her hand through her hair. No matter the amount of cases she faces, no matter how gruesome, she never lets it desensitize her. If she becomes numb to the pain of blood and guts, she fails to invest herself in solving the case.

Turning from the scene, she instead takes in the myriad official vans and workers putting about. Her partner speaks with forensics, gathering whatever helpful information they can provide. A small side glance her way and the lift of his hand by his side, he beckons Y/N over. However, her lead feet refuse to move. Still engulfed in the horror show behind her, she takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

Y/N struggles to keep her emotions in check. Rage courses through her veins at the heinous acts humans commit, to fulfill sadistic pleasure or cure one’s demons. Unfortunately, in the FBI, she must swallow her anger and sadness, replacing it with a monotone voice and calculated expressions. Taking a breath, she departs from the border and heads towards Agent Colt.

He finishes speaking with the worker, who leaves the partners in peace.

“They’ve got nothing. We’ve got nothing. Not for this one, not for the past three.”

She already knows this. A thought tickles the back of her mind, but she cannot name it. “All right. Maybe they got sloppy; maybe this time the coroner will get something. Anything.” Elijah rolls his eyes, pursing his lips and rubbing his chin. Y/N knows he’s saying We can’t base our investigation on maybe. Another sigh. “Fine, let’s run through this again.”

Elijah leads the way to their company car. “So, the heart. That’s the main focus. It’s missing.”

“Yes. This points to it being personal. It takes a lot of passion and hatred to rip through someone’s chest and remove their fucking heart. Which, another thing, the hearts aren’t just removed. They’re taken.”

“Right. Okay, haphazard blood splatter; no pattern. I’d say our killer is disorganized. Listless.”

“Not completely. I mean, there’s an even month between each murder. That leans more towards organized. There’s ritual. It’s not really first come, first serve, ya know?”

Elijah pauses at his door, fingers clasped tightly around its handle. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, staring off into the distance. Y/N knows that look. She’s seen it in herself, survivors and fellow agents. He’s not looking at the clearing, but trying to connect the dots. Perhaps the weight of solving this doesn’t rest solely on Y/N’s shoulders.

As Elijah returns from his reverie and yanks open the car door, Y/N hears a deep, raspy voice greet the local law enforcement. Her partner settles into his seat, staring at her with drawn eyebrows and pursed lips. She holds up a finger.

Casting a quick glance behind her, Y/N finds two suits mid-introduction with the sheriff. The pair hold up identification booklets, much like the one in her pocket. Their suits hang too loosely off of their bodies, their dress shoes too scuffed. The longer she watches their body language, the larger the pit in her stomach grows. She turns around to lean against the car, keeping focus on the men. They talk for a moment more before the sheriff nods in her direction.

Y/N watches their shoulders tense, standing taller from the rigidness. Yes, she muses, something is off.

The window she leans against pulls on her coat as Elijah rolls it down. “Hey, you coming?”

Pondering for a moment whether she should let him in on her instincts, Y/N decides against it. “Yeah,” she leans down, poking her head through the window. “I’m going to stay here, actually. I want to see if I can squeeze anything else out of the uniforms.”

Elijah chuckles. “We’re uniforms too, you know.”

She returns the laugh. “Right, well, you head back to the office. Make a fresh pot of coffee, too. I’ll meet you there.”

He holds two fingers to his forehead before dramatically sweeping them across his face. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Y/N stands as he rolls the window back up, patting the roof. Elijah peels off while she returns her attention to the still-gawking men. Their postures only straighten as she nears; if they stood any more rigid she’d swear they were wax figures. “Harold,” she acknowledges the sheriff. He nods. “How’s it going on your end?” Y/N keeps the men in her peripheral but focuses on Harold.

Harold’s eyes shift to the pair, then back to Y/N. “As I was telling your fellow agents—” at this statement, the men share a glance, “—still nothing.”

“Right, well I want to go over everything again. Give me a moment.” She finally turns to greet the supposed agents. “Gentlemen, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Scanning their faces, she studies them for any quirk of the lips or perspiration on the brow.

The taller one speaks first. “I’m, uh, Agent Pert and this is Agent Bonham,” he gestures next to him.

Pert and Bonham? Really? She refrains from rolling her eyes.

Instead, Y/N doesn’t respond, using the pressure of silence in her favor. Harold clears his throat, uncomfortable with the tension. She ignores him, keeping focus on the men before her. Most of her suspects break under her gaze; very few can sustain their façade in an encounter with her steely eyes and stiff posture. Harold excuses himself, unable to withstand her harsh eyes. The men continue to stare, neither willing to relent. Unfortunately, this renders them at an impasse. She, too, will not look away or speak.

Agent Pert concedes, taking the lead. “Right, well, we’re here from DC to investigate the murders. What have you got?” His voice imperceptibly wavers— if untrained, Y/N wouldn’t notice the quiver— the corner of his lip twitching.

Ignoring his request, she commands, “Let me see your badges, agents.”

Another conversation through a shared look before they hand them over. They’re good, the badges. A smidgen off center of authentic. If not for the incorrect serial code and too high insignia placement, Y/N would accept them at face value. She closes the booklets and pockets them, earning a small Hey of protest from the short one. Cocking an eyebrow, she dares them to challenge her.

“Impersonating a federal agent is a crime, I’m sure you know.”

“Impersonating a— call our superior and check! Let me see your badge!” Crew cut exclaims, indignant.

“I’ll lend my badge after I’ve talked to your superior officer.” She wonders how far they intend to take this rouse.

With their business card in hand, she retreats a few steps. As she dials the number the little whisper in the back of her head pesters her further. The questionable agents and unsolvable case remind her of… something.

“Agent Willis,” a voice grunts.

“Willis? What’s your outpost?”

“Headquarters. Who is this?”

“Agent Y/L/N. It appears I have two of your agents here; I’m sure some wires crossed when you sent them down? What were your orders for Agents Tyler and Grohl?”

“Who are you to question my authority, Agent?”

His growl pulls the pressing thought to the forefront of her mind. 2005, in Cincinnati on her first case. Similar to her case today: bodies piled up with no leads and peculiar circumstances. She ran into someone claiming to be FBI, too. Fresh from the academy with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she accepted his excuse of bureaucratic miscommunication; why don’t we work the case together?

She laughs. “Wait, hold on. I know you.”

“Noyoudon’t,” he spits out, too quickly.

“Yeah, I do. Fuck, what’s your name?” she mumbles, more to herself than him. “Singer! Ohio, we worked a case together. Culprit never caught and you went on your merry way.”

He blubbers, failing to produce a proper excuse. “I don’t know a Singer, Agent.”

She rolls her eyes, finally turning to face the men. The stricken look on their faces only further points to the truth. “All right, Willis. Even if that were true, you also don’t know your agents’ names. They introduced themselves as Pert and Bonham. Really, Singer? Rockstars’ names?” The humor of the situations drains, replaced with its severity. “All right, I’m taking your men in. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put and wait for mine to come get you.”

“Wait— Y/L/N, right? Hear me out,” he pleads, urgency ringing clear in his voice.

“You have ten seconds.”

“Listen, they’re there to help. Your attacker ain’t what you think it is. I closed that case in Cincinnati, thanks to your help. But, it wasn’t a person. It was a vampire.”

She laughs again, this time wild and unbelieving. “Yeah, right. And this one is a fucking Chupacabra.”

“No, it’s not. We think it’s a werewolf.”

“You’re fucking nuts. No, I’m calling this in.”

“Y/N. Wait. Talk to them, please. People are still in danger. Their names are Sam and Dean. Winchester.” The desperation in his voice settles with unease in her chest. Her time on the force yields too much experience in discerning honesty from duplicity.

Rather than respond, she ends the call and returns to the newly named Winchesters. They stand unmoving, shoulder to shoulder; if not for the wind tussling the tall one’s hair, she’d think they were statues. “So.” They squirm under her gaze. “Which one of you is Sam and Dean?” Their eyes widen at her remark, startled by her knowledge of their true identities.

Crew cut juts his chin out and squares his shoulders. “I’m Dean. That’s Sam. Why don’t you tell us who you are and how the hell you know our names?”

“I’ll be the one asking questions, gentleman. I’ve half a mind to put you in cuffs. First, you impersonate a federal agent; second, your pal Singer brings up werewolves? Sounds like three peas in a pod headed for St. Christopher’s Asylum to me.” Neither respond. “Thirty seconds, boys. You have thirty seconds to make me believe you or the only way you’re leaving is in cuffs.” For emphasis, she pats her hip, whereupon the cuffs hang.

The pregnant silence leers on.

“25.”

Sam sighs, running his hand through his hair. “All right. There are things in this world that you don’t know about; that not many people know about. The bumps in the night, the clichés; most of them are real. Have you had anything happen to you that you can’t explain? Or had an unsolvable case?” He pauses for her answer, but she only looks on, hands on her hips.

Vampires? Werewolves? What the fresh fuck? Her mind reels with the implications of his statement; even still, it doesn’t feel wrong. A few cases come to mind instantly: the serial killer who left victims’ eyes burnt out, people torn to shreds in supposed animal attacks by nothing from these parts. How many victims faced the unknown rather than human wrath? She can handle psychopaths, serial killers, the insane. She knows that evil; deals with it regularly. But the supernatural? No.

“Right, well, we hunt those things. We take them out,” he gestures between himself and Dean.

Y/N’s hands drop from her sides, falling limp at her thighs. “Just you two?” She whispers, cold and disbelieving.

“No,” Dean speaks up. “Not just us. There’s a lot of us out there.”

“Listen, I’m going to need more than just your word. I don’t know you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. What can you give me that will make me believe you?” Despite not wanting it, she needs proof. Plus, if they turn out to be nuts, she can lock them up and toss the key; no harm, no foul.

They nod once, curt but understanding. Sam takes a step forward, hand raised in her direction. “This’ll take a leap of faith, Agent…”

“Y/L/N.”

“Agent Y/L/N. Let us work on this with you,” Sam implores. “And if we’re wrong, you can book us yourself.”

“Sammy, hold up. Who’s to say we can trust her either? She’s just some Fed. Who’s to say she won’t cuff us anyway?” Dean protests, turning towards Sam.

While the two quietly argue, Y/N takes a step back. Running her tongue over her teeth in concentration, she ponders the options. Even if Sam offers her control, she knows their type: they won’t let her actually take the lead. Dean reminds her of her father, and that man never relinquished supervision. In order for this to work in her favor— seeking the truth, protecting the public— Y/N must fulfill the role as the dutiful public servant. Perhaps they’re not fucking lunatics, and this thing turns out to be real, she’d be way out of her element anyway. Still, she refuses to give up control.

Staring off towards the field, where the body once laid, she contemplates the little evidence recovered. Vics torn to shreds, no prints, no DNA. Local PD swears it’s a cougar, an animal indigenous to the area. Even still, animals are simpler than humans. They kill for sustenance or safety. The brutality of this kill, the length of the claw marks, lack of fur, ritual occurrences; it all points in the wrong direction. Y/N would quicker say some furry decided killing offers more sexual release over cosplay than call it a fucking cougar.

“If you expect me to try to trust you, or at least what you say, then I need your trust, too. This goes both ways,” she interrupts. The men cease their heated discussion, turning towards her. “I don’t like what you’re telling me. I don’t want to believe it. But… I trust my gut, and I think you guys are either great liars or telling the truth.” Sam smiles, but Y/N holds up a hand. “However, I will not put my eggs in one basket. I need insurance that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain. This means I’m taking point, and you guys are consultants. Anything you know, you tell me. Anything you find, you tell me. Anything you do, you tell me. Capiche?”

Sam nods before Dean, nudging his side to encourage his agreement. Dean tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Where to next, Agent?” Venom drips with each word.

“I need to get back to the station. My partner, Agent Colt, will be—”

“Colt? Agent Colt? The irony.” Dean interrupts. Sam elbows him again, and Y/N chooses to ignore him altogether.

“I’m going back to the station. I’ll talk to the Uniforms and tell them to give you anything pertinent to this specific scene. Anything to do with the others can wait until tonight. Meet me at Carlton’s, off of Hamilton street. I’ll bring the files for the other Vics.” She hands Sam her business card, not trusting Dean to keep it.

“What about our badges?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, exhausted. “Fuck, man. I’m trying my hardest to ignore the federal crime you committed right in front of me. Prove you’re right and you’ll get them back. Until then, you’re consultants employed by the Bureau.”

She pushes passed them, heading towards Harold. Their boots crunch on the gravel as they lag behind her. He halts his conversation with one of deputies upon their arrival. “Sheriff, these two are fresh blood from the academy.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder. “HQ thought this would be a good case for them to learn on the job. Tell them anything you know and let them case the scene. I’m going back to the station to meet up with Elijah.”

“But—” Harold begins. Y/N levels him with sharp eyes and pressed lips, stopping him in his tracks. “Right. Okay. Follow me, Agents.” Sam and Dean shoulder passed Y/N, catching up to the Sheriff with a few long strides.

Y/N stands for a moment, hands in her jacket pockets, watching the two men. If this turns out to be a rouse— if she let two criminals onto the field with her permission— that’s her head. Shaking the thought away, she turns. She’s able to hitch a ride back to the station with the forensic profilers.

———————————————————————————————————

Elijah spared his questions when she returned, thankfully. Instead, he shoved a hot cup of cop shop coffee into her hands before continuing their earlier evaluation. “Right, can’t be disorganized, but he’s definitely passionate. That shows connection to the victims.”

Y/N sips her coffee. Forcing the bitterness down her throat, she also swallows her new knowledge. She must work this case like any other, for it might be. “You think it’s a man?”

Around the bite of an apple, he says, “Yes. Female offenders aren’t typically serial murderers; they’re passion killers. Black Widows, Angels of Death, you know the type.”

“I do, but Wuronous diverged from the typical female murderer.”

“Yeah, that’s one of many. Most other women utilized poison for their kills. The ME didn’t find any traces of cyanide, arsenic, or tetrodotoxin— nothing. Doesn’t fall in line with what we know.”

Y/N simmers. She knows this, of course. “Let’s keep the possibilities in mind.” She sifts through the crime scene pictures, lining up the photos of the different victims side by side. “Placement doesn’t seem to matter, so that leans away from obsessive compulsiveness. The offensive wounds support this, too.”

“Y/N, what are we reaching for? We don’t have a profile, a motive; nothing.”

“Not true. Let’s lay it all out, one more time. Hearts are taken, gruesome attack wounds, lower body left alone. Maybe these are passion killings, and the only thing in common with the victims is the killer. I mean, people come and go all the time here. Maybe they knew the Unsub outside of Portland. The ritualistic pattern of the murders makes me think the killer stalks the victims in the month down time; gets to know their schedule, comings and goings. They’re all aged between twenty-five and thirty-five. Maybe the killer is attracted to the ages rather than physical descriptions. Also—” Y/N stops, sighing.

Even as she tries to string everything together, she knows Elijah is right. Too much of the evidence contradicts any profile they could scrape up. Ritualistic but not obsessive, disorganized but keeps to a schedule, passionate murders between unrelated victims. Nothing points them in any definitive direction. They’re grasping at straws here.

Sam and Dean creep to the forefront of her mind. She downs her coffee in one go. It heats her stomach, and she blames her rising temperature on the beverage rather than brimming anger. Clenching her fists, she crushes the paper cup. Elijah reaches over to rub her shoulder, massaging her tense muscles. “It’s okay, Y/N/N. We’ll catch this son of a bitch,” he encourages, misunderstanding her frustration.

She rubs her eyes, forcing them open. Wordlessly, Elijah fills hands here a new cup of coffee, topping himself off as well. They sit in silence, pouring over their respective files. The victims must have connections; even if Y/N allows herself to believe the Winchesters, she can’t believe monsters don’t have rituals. Psychology reaches further than humanity— scientists observe it in animals. In order to keep hope and keep going, Y/N trusts in the knowledge that all things in existence operate off of some code.

Another sigh, another gulp. “One more time. From the first victim. Elijah, there has to be something.”

He purses his lips, clear indignation warring his exhaustion and winning. Even still, he nods. “All right, Vic One: Stephanie Lane, age 27. She worked at the local vet clinic on Broad Street. Usual nine to five, Monday through Friday. Killer got her leaving work Thursday night, July Fifth, around six p.m. Scratched her up, took her heart. Passerby found her body two days later.” He wets his lips, staring at her file.

Y/N nods in confirmation, already well aware of the facts. With a fine-tooth comb, they revisit each victim after Stephanie Lane. Jonathan Grism, Marcus Kent, and, the most recent, Gabrielle Shaw. All with varying occupations and seemingly no connections, aside from enjoying the casual run or grueling hike. Despite their apparent love of nature, the Unsub chose to kill them in their daily routine.

On a whim, Y/N searches each date (July 5th, August 3rd, September 2nd, and October 1st) for any similarities in the dates, coming up short and further exasperated. Elijah keeps to himself while she abuses her keyboard, refusing defeat. Only on her fifth page of Google searches does she find anything worth noting; unfortunately it supports the Winchesters. Each murder occurred on a full moon.

She slams her laptop closed, finishing her coffee and crushing her cup. “I need a break, Elijah. Just some time to clear my head and get fresh eyes.” She stands, tossing her cup into the wastebasket. Elijah leans back, clasping his fingers behind his head. “I’m getting some sleep. You should too. You look like shit.”

Elijah laughs. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You don’t look too much better yourself.”

She shoves his shoulder as she passes, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. Elijah hollers something back, but she’s already out of the front doors. The crisp air helps the fog in her head, supplementing it with aches in her bones. Her boots crunch leaves with each step, and she forces her focus onto the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Werewolves?

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The supernatural?

Crunch, crunch— smack.

A broad chest stops her, calloused fingers grasping her upper arm to steady her. Y/N looks up, palms pressing against a soft t-shirt, into effervescent green eyes. Dean grins down at her, the left corner of his lip tilted in an almost-sneer, if not for the mischief in his eyes. She rolls her eyes, pushing back against his firm chest. He releases her, hands up in mock surrender.

“Agent, fancy seeing you here.”

“Where? Outside of the station where I work? Must be kismet.” Sarcasm drips from her words like venomous honey, sickly sweet and sticky.

“Well, to be fair, you did say to tell you anything we find, so here I am.”

Her heart stutters, excited. They found something. This could be the end of the murders. Straightening her back and returning to Agent Y/L/N— locking Y/N into a tight box at the back of her mind— she faces Dean head on. “All right, what have you found?” Her voice lacks the previous emotion, all business and no play.

Dean sighs, a look flitting across his face and disappearing before Y/N can place it. “Walk with me.” He turns on his heel without awaiting her response, starting down the sidewalk.

She follows, despite the annoyance burning the bottom of her feet with each step. They continue down the street in silence, save for their steps and the seldom passing cars. While she wants answers, Y/N knows pestering delays the process. Dean seems like a man who has been through the ringer a couple times. If he shares similarities with herself, he won’t share anything until he’s ready— another form of control she wants to rip from his fingers.

By the time they reach the doors to the Sunshine Diner, Y/N must clench her fists to bury the frustration of unanswered questions. Dean holds the door, motioning for her to go in. In the back right corner of the restaurant sits Sam, typing furiously on his laptop. So. It appears Dean did search for her once they found something. Pleased at the notion, she lets some of the annoyance roll off her shoulders.

Dean settles in next to Sam, Y/N taking the opposing side of the booth. “So, get this,” Sam begins. “Your murders started four months ago, right? Well, turns out a small werewolf pack traveled from Washington to Portland because they drew too much attention to themselves. One of our connections in Seattle worked the case until they completely disappeared, no trace, no nothing. Within a month of leaving Washington, the Portland murders began.” He finished, peering at her through the too-long tendrils of his hair.

Y/N schools her face into indifference, despite her racing heart and sweating palms. He sounds so sure and calm, like they run into werewolves grocery shopping. Dean looks at her, too, sharp eyes searching for anything in her expression or body language.

For a moment of reprieve, the waitress approaches the table. Rushed and rough, the trio relay their orders: Sam an egg white omelet, Dean the Bacon Supreme, and Y/N another black coffee; she ignores her shaking hands and clammy skin. The server jots down their choices, rushing off to the next table.

Y/N clasps her fingers together, leaning forward. “That sounds like a nicely wrapped present with a bow on top. I need your process. How did you come to this conclusion? Who is this supposed hunter?”

Sam squints at her, mouth agape. “Those are your questions, really? Nothing about werewolves?” He turns to Dean, bewildered. Dean shrugs, looking all too comfortable for the topic of conversation.

The server returns with their drinks, setting the three coffees and one orange juice in front of the respective customers. As if purposefully slow, she takes her time to offer creamer or sugar, unaware of the tension. Dean taps one of his fingers on the surface of the table while Sam makes polite small talk with the waitress. Y/N continues to study the men before her. Finally, the server leaves once more.

“Listen, if I’m going to believe your bucket of crazy, then I’m going to believe it. So, no. I’m not going to ask about werewolves, I’m asking about the details of your research. I need to know how credible you are.”

This time, Dean leans forward, staring straight into her eyes and speaking low. “The hunter we know in Washington, Richard, kept track of them enough to know their comings and goings. He put out the word through the Hunter grapevine that he needed help with the… extermination of the pack, but by the time anyone could come to help, they migrated south. To here. We know it’s this pack because the victims share the same hobby: doing shit in nature. Runners, hikers, whatever. It makes them easy targets—”

“— Except they weren’t killed on hikes or runs. They were killed after work or errands or—”

Dean continues speaking, as if she hadn’t interjected. “—This specific pack only eats the heart, a common characteristic of werewolves. However, a lot of them eat more of the body, and depending on what they eat points to which pack is most likely to be the attacker. These sons of bitches blend in, except on the full moon, where they go apeshit for hearts. Richard identified the pack leader; Sam found where they’re holed up in. Good enough for you, Agent?”

She wants to slap the pleased look straight off of his plump lips and pretty green eyes. Instead, Y/N props her head up in her palm, keeping her eyes level with Dean’s, swallowing her ire and replacing it with feigned kindness. “Yes. When are we going to get them?” The thought of coming face to face with a monster rushes like winter water through her veins. She reminds herself she deals with monsters on the daily; hers only lack claws and fangs, and whatever else. The circumstances only vary slightly.

“We? There is no ‘we’, sweetheart. We kept you in the loop, like you asked, but you don’t know Jack from Shit about how the gank these fuckers. You do your job, and we’ll—”

Y/N raises her hand, silencing Dean. “Listen, sweetheart, I know the area. I’m guessing they’re staying at the Crest Apartments off of 205, right? Developers left it abandoned when the surveyors refused to clear it due to landslide likelihood. I know the woods, the city, everything. As for what I don’t know, you can teach me. I may not be trained in proper monster lore, but I know how to fight.”

Dean leans further forward, meeting her at the halfway mark of the table. He lowers his voice, speaking gruffly as if to admonish. “You might be an agent in the normal world, but to us you’re just a civvie. No matter what you think you can do, no matter what you think you know, you’ve never faced these things in real life. I’m not about to put your stubborn ass in danger just so you can prove a point.”

Y/N opens her mouth to retort, but Sam grabs Dean’s collar and pulls him back. “Enough with the pissing contest. I get it: you’re both badass,” he interrupts, at his wits end. “Listen, Y/N,” he begins, softer. “I’m sure you’re good at what you do. You got the location correct without any intel, save for what you know about your city. But Dean’s right. If you come, you’re more of a liability than helpful.”

Y/N closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it for five counts. When she exhales, she forces a smile upon her lips, albeit a bit sardonic, and opens her eyes. The men stare at her, awaiting her response. She stands, instead, straightening her jacket. “Gentleman, I’ll see you tonight. Bring an extra weapon, seeing as I’m sure normal bullets won’t kill a werewolf. Nine o’clock?” Rather than wait for a response, she nods her head and departs onto the street once more.

———————————————————————————————————

From the moment she stepped outside of the diner to the moment she parked her car behind Sam and Dean, her phone rang. Y/N assumed the alternating unknown numbers belonged to the brothers, likely wishing to dissuade her from joining their crusade. She ignored them, deleting any voicemails they left. She knows they’re right; she doesn’t know left from right when it comes to monsters. But it’ll be a cold day in Hell when she lets some terror run rampage in her city.

Instead, she chose to bide her time researching werewolf lore between several more cups of coffee. Luckily she came across a duo well versed in their knowledge: the Ghostfacers. Although they posted their most recent content a year ago, she assumes lore stays the same. Silver bullet, shot to the head or heart, werewolf down for the count.

Y/N alights from her car, closing the door. Sam and Dean stand at their trunk, rummaging through— an entire arsenal of weapons? Y/N still has half the mind to arrest them. First impersonating federal agents to knives and machetes and guns in a hidden compartment of their car? She forces anxiety down, instead choosing once again to believe Sam and Dean are not raging psychopaths. Every bone in her body screams to cuff them and book them; her entire career banks on capturing nuts jobs like these two.

Still, she makes her way to their car, stopping at her front bumper to lean on it. “So. Silver, huh?”

Sam turns to face her, loading his .45 absentmindedly as he takes in her appearance. Gone is her official suit, in its place jeans, boots, and a well-worn long-sleeve. Dean rummages through the trunk, ignoring her presence. “You researched,” Sam replies, more so a statement than a question.

“I don’t go in half cocked. Pun intended. Got any leftover bullets? I’ve got a .45, too,” she muses, patting her hip for emphasis.

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand, the other occupied with a magazine. “For the last time,” he begins, turning to face her, “I don’t want you here. We don’t want you here. If things get hairy in there, we can’t protect you, Y/N. You’re a liability. You don’t know—”

“— Jack from shit, yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, waving a hand. “Stow the crap, I’m coming. Now, do you want me going in defenseless or do you have silver to spare?” She stands straight, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.

Sam covers a laugh with a cough, his attention trained on Dean. Y/N forces her unwavering gaze onto him, who in turn rolls his eyes. His shoulders sag in defeat as he returns attention to his trunk. Wordlessly, he passes her a simple pistol, already loaded. She adjusts her grip, searching for a comfortable hold.

“Thanks.”

Dean barely nods his head. Y/N leaves the pair for a moment, returning her own gun to the glove box and locking it.

Upon her return, Dean closes the trunk with a deafening slam, leaning against it. “All right, let’s get some things straight. We go in first, you follow. We’ll call clear and then we move forward as a group, understood?” Y/N wants to roll her eyes— Dean seems to forget she works raids on the regular— but she nods. “Good. We counted five. You see someone who isn’t us,” he motions between Sam and himself with his gun, “you shoot. Bullet to the heart will do the job.” He delivers a pointed look in her direction, awaiting confirmation.

“Got it.”

He looks at her for a moment, his eyes alight with enough fire to bore holes into her clothing. A familiar look hides behind his façade of rage; it rests on the tip of Y/N’s tongue. Perhaps a concoction of grief and hope. She sees it in herself when a case grows too heavy; grief for the pain and hope for the end. In this moment, Y/N feels like she knows Dean.

The moment breaks when he shakes his head and walks heavy footed to the building. Sam falls in line with Y/N, resting a hand on her shoulder to slow her. She cranes her neck to look him in the eye, skin burning whereupon his palm rests. “He doesn’t want casualties. He doesn’t have the best way of showing it, but Dean cares about people. He’s got enough blood on his hands.” Sam squeezes her shoulder, sparing a tight lipped smile, before dropping his hand.

A few long strides puts him next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder. Y/N hangs back, processing Sam’s vague confession. She understands the need to protect others. The most pressing motivation for joining the Bureau stems from this desire. These men fight in a war separate to her own, but not dissimilar. They’re two sides of the same coin, both Y/N and Dean aching to save, save, save.

She shrugs her shoulders, pushing the nerves building in her chest down to her toes. If Sam and Dean tell the truth of the awaiting horrors, she needs to ready herself. In matters of life and death, anxiety only increases the chances of death. Adrenaline only carries her so far before it peters out.

Dean stands at the front door, gun raised and legs parted. Sam stands to the side, hand on the handle. Y/N, as promised, stands back and behind Dean. With a nod from Dean, Sam pulls the handle, opening the heavy door. The brothers file in first, flashlights illuminating the unfinished floor and walls.

Their footsteps echo as they clear each room, a foreboding cadence through the empty halls. Dean looks back at Y/N, ensuring she still follows. She keeps her gun pointed to the ground and her senses open. At the first corner, Dean holds his arm out. Sam and Y/N flatten themselves against the wall while Dean looks around the corner. He nods, stepping out into the open once more.

A crunch from the right hallway drags Y/N’s attention from the brothers proceeding to the left. Peering down the corridor, she finds it empty. Just as she turns to catch up, another crunch sounds, followed by a squelch and a footstep. Looking behind her, Y/N finds Dean and Sam halfway down the hallway. “Dean!” she shouts as quietly as she can. He doesn’t turn. “Dean. Sam!”

Nothing.

She sighs, frustrated. One side begs her to run down the hallway to warn them; the other implores her to follow her gut and the noise. Another wayward glance in their direction and Y/N turns right. She steps carefully, avoiding debris. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

The further she travels down the hallway, the darker it gets. Footsteps and low voices grow closer as she reaches another left or right turn. She presses against the left wall, sparing a glance down the right corridor. Empty. The left hallway, however, offers cover to three silhouettes crowding in front of a closed door. She startles back, heart hammering against her ribs.

Y/N holds her breath, calming the relentless anxiety in her chest. Breathe in, hold four seconds, breathe out. Rinse and repeat. She looks back to where she last saw Sam and Dean; they’re gone. Great. Now she's truly dug herself an early grave.

With one last breath, Y/N turns the corner, aims and shoots. One of the people— werewolves— yowls in pain, collapsing to the ground. Yellow eyes glow in the dark, the only light from their end of the hall. Guttural growls roll from their chests as they stalk towards Y/N. She fires again. It hits the plaster, sending dust and shards flying.

“Fuck.”

The monsters pick up speed, running full force in her direction. She fires one more time, hitting one in the leg. It crashes to the floor, knees hitting the ground with a sickening crack. The other continues. Y/N whips around, running down the hallway towards Sam and Dean— she hopes. Her feet thump with each step and she pays little mind to the trash and tools on the ground.

A foolish mistake, it seems, as she stomps on an empty chip packet. Her right foot slips from beneath her, sending her careening to the ground. The side of her head smacks against the concrete. Her vision blacks for a moment before the pain spreads in webs from her cheek to her neck, down her back. The heavy footfalls of her pursuer sound muffled compared to the needling throbbing in her head.

With a groan, she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. A hand on the wall stabilizes her, she clambers to her feet. An unfortunate time to do so; the werewolf runs full force into her, slamming her onto the ground once more. Autopilot takes over as she raises her palms to the man’s chest, pushing as hard as she can.

He snarls, snapping his teeth as he tries to reach her neck. Y/N blocks his throat with her forearm, using her spare hand to blindly search for her gun. Instead of the handle, she grasps a wrench. Good enough. With as much force as she can muster, she clobbers the werewolf’s head. He falls off of her, a hand pressed to his bleeding forehead.

In the second of reprieve, she spots the pistol a few feet away. She throws herself through the air, grabbing the handle before turning onto her back, the gun pointed towards the monster.

He dives after her. Bang. The shot rings out through the hallway. His body tenses before relaxing completely, eyes half lidded and empty. Y/N rolls out of the way as it collides with the floor. Her breaths come ragged and short, but the fight persists. The unforgiving footsteps of her aggressors afford little time to catch her breath; she pushes herself up once more.

Panting, but not yet done, she turns towards the thundering steps. Sam and Dean race towards her, guns at the ready. “Oh, thank God.” She drops her guard and lowers her pistol to her side, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.

Dean reaches her first, fire in his eyes and coating his words. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to stay with us, Y/N!” He grabs her chin, calloused fingers tilting her face to get a better look at her wounds. He pulls back, lifting and examining each arm. Y/N, too spent, lets him search for whatever he wants to find. She feels the welting of a bruise on her right cheek and a trickle of blood from her forehead.

“I got— I got three,” she gasps, watching Sam turn the werewolf over.

Dean releases her, shaking his head. She touches her cheek, wincing at its sensitivity. “Oh, how nice. You also almost got yourself killed. I swear to—”

“—Dean,” Sam warns. “There are two more. We can worry about this later.”

“I got— I killed one of the others, but the third one I just hit in the knee.” Admitting to killing something, despite it being a monster, settles heavily in her stomach. She presses her hand to her lips, forcing her lunch to stay put.

No time to puke, Y/N, she scolds herself.

Shaking her head, she compels herself to focus. She nods at Sam and Dean, who take their positions at the front once more. This time she has no intentions of abandoning their protection. They stalk forward, albeit not as carefully as before; the ruckus certainly alerted the rest of the pact to their presence. Turning the corner, they find the werewolf Y/N shot first. A trail of blood leads the room they convened outside of, the door open this time.

The trio step lightly and quickly to the room. Dean peers in before entering. Inside, the wounded werewolf leans against the wall, a hand pressed against his thigh. Dean shoots him on the spot, wasting no time. Another body lies in the corner, torn the shreds. Aside from the two corpses, the room yields no tell-tale signs of the rest of the pack. Even still, Sam and Dean survey every nook and cranny. Y/N hovers by the door, working on slowing her breath and calming her heart.

She peaks out into the hallway, just in case. The darkness limits her view, but she can’t hear anything either. Her ears ring, a relentless low buzzing from hitting her head and firing her gun too closely. Dean places a hand on her lower back as he passes, alerting her to his presence. The warmth spreads through her body, even when he lets go and walks ahead.

“Do you think they left?” she wonders aloud. It’s what she would do, but packs could think differently than humans.

Sam walks next to her, looking at her in his peripheral. “Maybe. But we want to clear the whole building, no stone left unturned and all that.”

She nods, instantly regretting it. Her brain tumbles around her head, hitting the walls and throbbing. Y/N rubs her temple, but says nothing. Lord knows Dean would already have a smartass retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead, she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

They clear the first floor easily, no signs of the last two. Dean leads them back to the front of the building to the stairwell. The door refuses to open, no matter how much force they use. The handle turns, but something on the other side blocks its pathway. Sam and Dean brace their backs against the door, plant their feet on the ground, and push as hard as they can. It budges slightly, only enough for them to see inside.

One of the railings torn from the stairs leans against the door, while another, wedged between the railing on the door and the first step of the stairs, holds it in place. They’d have to get in there to open the door. The brothers try once again, opening it a smidgen further.

As Sam and Dean discuss the next step, Y/N formulates her own plan. She knows the boys, Dean in particular, won’t like it. Stepping closer to them, she chooses to stand next to Sam, hoping for his support.

“Listen,” she interrupts. Both brothers run their attention to her, Sam’s eyebrows raised and Dean’s drawn down. For a moment, she wonders if they have other facial expressions or if they always look this perturbed. “I can fit in there,” she motions to the opening in the door, a crack about a foot wide. Dean opens his mouth to disagree, but she holds up a hand. “I’ll get in there and move the railings so you guys can get in too. Quick and simple. Won’t go off on my own, promise.”

Sam and Dean meet eyes, silently coming to an agreement. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Fine. Be quick.” He sets his steely gaze upon her face. “And, I fucking swear, Y/N— if you go off by yourself I will kill you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, you will.”

She shoves passed him, knocking his shoulder on purpose. He grumbles something under his breath, but moves out of the way. A deep breath in, Y/N sidles through the opening. She barely makes it, struggling to get around the railing. Once inside, she grasps the leaning railing, using her whole body to pull the steel from where it’s wedged. Inch by inch, she gets it out of the way.

It hits the floor with a reverberating clang, settling in the alcove beneath the stairs. The other falls to the ground, closing the door with its force. Y/N sighs, throwing her head back in frustration. Fists bang on the other side of the door, Dean shouting her name along with profanities.

“I’m fine, you oaf. Give me a second,” she yells back, exasperated.

“Hurry up, Y/N.”

She groans, sinking to her knees for more leverage. Breathlessly, she retorts, “I. Am. Trying.” With a grunt, she pushes the steel into a vertical position. “All right, you should have enough—”

“Need a hand?” a low voice taunts from above.

Y/N looks up. An unassuming woman stands at the platform of the first level, hands on her hips and an all teeth grin baring her lips. “Dean?” she yells, urgent and frightened. The door opens with enough room for Sam and Dean to squeeze through.

Dean barges in first, gun raised. He casts a glance at Y/N, following her gaze to the landing. Mechanically, he pulls the trigger. The woman falls with a thud. Y/N lets out a breath, hands white knuckling the railing and eyes trained on the body. Sam grabs the metal while Dean pries Y/N’s fingers off, more gently than he’s been with her all day.

She looks at him, eyes wide. As much as she wants to act fearlessly, she’s seen more people— things— die in front of her today than in her entire life. Dean nods, as if to say It’s okay, we get it. She steps back, letting him take the railing. Together, the brothers shift it to rest upon the other.

Y/N closes her eyes, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her nails dig crescents into her palms, the stinging centering her. Okay. Okay. I can do this. Her skin burns under the gaze of Sam and Dean, even if she can’t see them herself. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the men before her.

“You good?” Dean asks, warm and low, a hand reaching out to her.

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.” She motions before her, allowing them to take the lead again.

Four down, one to go, Y/N reminds herself with each step. The task seems less daunting with the odds in their favor at three against one. On the second platform, they exit into the hallway. The builders didn’t get so far as to hinge a door to the opening, thankfully. The trio stalk down the corridor, straining to hear anything out of place.

The end of the hallway yields a wall and two doors opposite of each other— one opened and one closed. The brothers broach the entryway of the open room, clearing it with a quick sweep. Similar to how they entered the building, Dean stands in front of the closed door while Sam grasps the handle. Pushing it open, Dean rushes in, Y/N and Sam following closely behind.

The door slams shut behind them. Y/N whips around, ready to fire and finish the job. She stumbles, lowering her weapon, jaw dropped. Dean steps in front of her, half blocking her from— “Elijah?” Dean looks back at Y/N, brows furrowed and lips parted. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he taunts, almost as if scolding her. “I see you’re running around with scum. I thought you were better than that.”

She shakes her head, struggling to wrap her head around the man before her— her friend— being a monster. “What— how…”

He rolls his eyes. “Wah-how? Blah, blah, blah. You were always so naive.” He twirls a knife between his fingers, a small smirk dancing on his lips. Y/N looks away, unable to handle Elijah being the culprit she sought so long to capture. “When they came to town all those months ago, I caught one of them. I was ready to cuff ‘em and book ‘em, like we’re trained. But Eddie, the one you shot in the leg, Y/N, presented an offer I couldn’t refuse.” His voice glides like silk over her skin. It takes everything not to vomit.

“Only downside is once a month I’d get a little craz—”

The shot rings clear in the air, stopping Elijah’s tirade. Y/N’s head shoots up in time to watch him crumble to the ground. He settles with a soft finality, folded over himself. Dean turns around, saying something, but she can’t hear him. She shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her knees give out, collapsing. Sam falls with her, softening the blow.

She pushes off of him. “Get off of me, get off of me,” she screeches, banging her fists into his chest until he releases her. He holds his hands up in surrender as she scrambles a few feet away.

Y/N rests on her knees, forehead touching the cool ground as if in prayer. Dirt and dust grind in her wound, she knows, but she can’t feel it. She can only replay Elijah’s fall. The separation of the man she knew and the man who he became felt too small. She never noticed a difference. He acted the same: kind, funny, a good agent. A good friend.

Her sobs wrench in her chest, burning her throat. She wants to scream, but it comes out strangled, reverberating from the ground back to her— furious and despairing and inconsolable. Running her fingers through her hair, she grips the roots needing something to hold. Everything feels new in a terrible, sickening way. Just yesterday she believed she and Elijah would put the murderer behind bars. Now, she knows monsters exist. She fought one. She knew one.

Y/N breathes in, steeling herself. The man she knew died four months ago. She pushes herself onto her hind legs, wiping her tears. The burn of her fingers against her wounds calm her. Dealing with physical pain numbs the emotional. She presses her fingers to the bruise, hissing but reveling in the tenderness.

She struggles to her feet, all too aware of the aches in her legs, and turns to face Sam and Dean. They stand by the door, leaning on the border. In her moment of desolation, they moved Elijah somewhere. Out of her sight. Not wanting attention, or Are you okay’s, she pushes past them, avoiding contact. Silently, they follow her to the stairwell and out onto the street. The cool air dries her tears and fills her lungs. For the first time since peering around that godforsaken corner, she can breathe.

Sam and Dean keep a respectable distance, letting her lead them to the cars. Wordlessly, Y/N returns the gun to Dean’s grasp, leaning against her front bumper. She tilts her head back to gaze at the waning moon.

“You good?” Dean asks, settling next to her.

She looks at him, really looks at him, for perhaps the first time. The green of his eyes highlight the bags beneath them. His laugh lines contradict the exhaustion heavy on his lips. His shoulders hang low, weighed down by the knowledge of darkness and pain.

Y/N sighs, accepting the beer he offers her. “I’ll be all right.” She means it. Maybe her monsters don’t have fangs and claws and familiar faces, but they’re monsters all the same. “You know what’s funny?” Dean raises an eyebrow, taking a swig of his El Sol. “I’ve seen worse,” she giggles.

Dean looks away, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Yeah? Like what?”

She sips her beer, too, thinking of a good story. “One time there was this weird inbred family that captured people and hunted them down. Had a barn with cages and shit. They kept their victims cars in a junkyard-graveyard thing, and—”

Sam and Dean share a look before busting out laughing. She glances between them, offended at their mockery. “All right, I’ll keep my stories to myself, then.”

“No,” Sam gets out between bursts. “No, we, um— we hunted those guys. Thought they were monsters. Turned out to be hicks with too much time on their hands.”

It’s Y/N’s turn to laugh. “No fucking way! Must’ve just missed each other.” She shakes her head, taking another sip.

“Small world,” Dean whispers into his bottle.

They settle into a comfortable silence, the tension from the day drained. Y/N lets her mind wander— from meeting these men to now, and everything between. She tries to think back to before all this; before yesterday. The person who stood on the outskirts of the caution tape versus the person who sits on the hood of her car are miles apart.

“Oh, that reminds me.” She pushes off of her bumper, unlocking her car. From the inside door she grabs two small booklets. Y/N passes the fake badges to the respective users. “A few tips: don’t use famous names. That’s the first thing that gave you away. Secondly,” she takes Dean’s badge back, opening it up. “Your official federal insignia is too low. It should be square with your picture. And your serial code is the wrong date. The first number—sometimes letter— is the year this was manufactured. We get new badges every two years, alternating between numbers and letters. Right now,” she says, opening her own booklet, “we are on letter Q.” She passes the badge back to Dean, who pockets it.

Sam nods, “Thanks for the information.”

“Yeah, I just love helping people—”

“— impersonate federal officers,” Dean and Sam interrupt, saying it in unison.

She laughs. “I’m glad you guys didn’t turn out to be crazy.”

In another pocket of silence, they finish their beers. Dean grabs the empty bottles, tossing them into a beat up green cooler while Sam turns to rest on the side of the Impala. Y/N readies herself to say goodbye, ignoring the ache in her chest. She refuses to admit it aloud, but she wishes she met them under different circumstances. She wishes she met Dean under different circumstances.

Despite only knowing him for two days, Y/N can see herself in Dean. He bears the same weight she bears. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that his eyes remind her of fresh cut grass at the beginning of fall. Paired with his smell of cinnamon and gunpowder (a scent she knows all too well), she can’t help but want to know him. If they had met in a bar, she would definitely have taken him home.

Dean returns to her side, this time shoulder to shoulder. “You think you can handle that?” he inquires, pointing to her forehead and cheek.

She touches it gingerly. “Yeah, I think so.”

He nudges her shoulder with his, and she looks up at him. “You did well, tonight. Better than I thought you would, honestly.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s what you get for doubting me.”

He looks ahead again, and she does, too. The sky brightens as the sun returns for its reign. The fatigue from the last twenty-four hours settles in, and, without much thought, she rests her head on Dean’s shoulder. He tenses for a moment, and she feels him look down at her, but he lets his shoulders sag again. He places a hand on her thigh, squeezing it gently, as if to say I’m right here. I’ve got you.

At least, she hopes that’s what he means.

The sun finishes its creep into the sky and the stars fade into a blanket of pink, orange, and purple. Y/N and Dean hop down from the hood of her car and Sam meets them between the bumpers once more. Sam dips down to hug Y/N first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing tight. She fights not to groan when his grasp aggravates the aches in her bones. He releases her, casting a smile in her direction.

“Thank you for your help, Y/N. Here,” he passes her a torn piece of paper with two numbers scrawled across. One has an “S” next to it, the other a “D”. “These are our numbers. Call us if you run into anything else.”

She nods, grinning too. “The same applies to you guys. It doesn’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”

He pats her arm before taking his leave, settling into the passenger seat. Y/N turns to Dean. He doesn’t look like much of a hugger, so she extends her hand for a shake. Rolling his eyes, he grabs it, but wraps it around his waist. Dean envelopes her in his arms, holding tighter than Sam with one hand in her hair and the other barred across her shoulders. This time, she welcomes it, in spite of the pain.

He lets her go, but keeps his hands on her shoulders. “I mean it, Y/N.” His voice is low and sinful. “If you need anything, call us. Call me.”

“Anything?” she drawls playfully. He nods, regardless. “Even just to talk?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” His right hand travels up to her neck. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, not entirely sure of his intentions but welcoming anything. He pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Get home safe, Y/N,” he mumbles upon releasing her.

“You too, Dean.”

She waits for him to get in his car before she clambers into her driver’s seat. Her bones creek as she settles. Twisting her keys in the ignition, she rolls the windows down and heads home. Werewolves of London blares across her speakers, and she laughs. Yeah. She’ll be all right.

Taglist:

@angelicthreads

#dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #fbi!reader #supernatural #supernatural fic #SUPERNATURAL AU #werewolf of portland

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romansleftshoulderpad · 4 years

Text

Secret Siren

Words: 3,459

Ships: Platonic LAMP, background pining analogical, mentioned background Remile

First fic of 2020! This is Part 2 of the Building Bridges Arc, so I suggest reading part 1 here.

Warnings: Mentions of Deceit, mentions of Remus, teasing about crushes, jealousy, insecurity, lying, as I am not genderflux the description of it ended up sounding rather Textbook-y so I would like to apologize to any genderflux readers in advance

WCBI Tags: @fandermom @patchworkofstars @poisonedapples @hogwarts-my-love @opaque-puppet @omni-hamiltrash @darling-elm @madly-handsome @strickenwithclairvoyance @limitededitionsanderssidesblog @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @ab-artist @sometimeswritingsometimesdying @because-were-fam-ily @gattonero17 @analogical-mess @joaniejustwokeup @whycantihavemorethan32characters @viva-la-pluto-dam-you

---

Roman wasn’t at Logan’s very much. Logan very rarely had guests over in the first place, but somehow that made days like these a little more special.

It seemed like a perfect recipe for stress, but days just sitting in Logan’s room and watching the sky were the most relaxed he ever felt. It was a side of Logan only he and Virgil got to see. He was laying across his bed, bundled up in a NASA hoodie and tossing a pink rubble ball up into the air on loop. He seemed to not notice Roman sketching him as they listened to music on Logan’s old CD player.

“I still don’t understand why you don’t just get a Bluetooth speaker,” Roman teased as if he hadn’t heard the answer a million times.

“Your lack of comprehension disappoints me, Roman. Truly, I am saddened by this.”

“Holy shit!” Roman gasped. “Logan Zander Hamilton has feelings?! Are pigs flying too?!”

“Thanks for the heart attack, asshole,” Logan said, chucking the rubble ball at Roman who caught it without flinching. “You are, by far, the worst of my close friends.”

“Aww, you said we’re close friends,” he teased. “Can’t believe I'm worse than Remy though.”

“Remy is only a close friend when he isn’t being an asshole.”

“But he’s always being an asshole.”

“Exactly.”

Roman smirked and tossed the rubber ball back to Logan. “So what’s the rundown?”

“Rundown?”

“The list. Come on, you can’t tell me you have a ranking of your close friends and not tell me the ranking.”

“It starts with Virgil and the more you push this the lower you get,” Logan said.

“Aww. Where’s Narcissa?”

“Number four.”

“Patton?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Having powers does not constitute friendship.”

“That’s harsh,” Roman said. “Toss me the ball back, would ya?”

Logan tossed lower than Roman’s hands and smirked as the force smacked straight into his stomach. “I just... I don’t trust him, I don’t know.”

“You didn’t seem too wary of him at Emile’s party. Hell, you even sat next to him!”

“Falsehood, I was simply looking out for his best interest regarding Seth. That doesn’t mean I trust him any more than the one-eyed little cretin.”

“Nice Monsters Inc. reference.”

“Thank you, I try.”

“Aww, for me?”

Logan cleared his throat. “Nonetheless, I think we just need to be more careful with our trust. We still don’t know what he’s capable of with his powers.”

“We don’t know what Virgil is capable of either. Plus, Patton’s powers already put him in the emergency room quite preposterously.”

“Never put that much alliteration into a statement ever again,” Logan said. “And of course we can trust Virgil, we’ve known him for years.”

“My point,” Roman corrected, “isn’t that we shouldn’t trust Virgil. My point is that we should give Patton a chance.”

“You’d almost think you have a crush.”

“A squish! No- I- I mean, there’s nothing, but you know crushes aren’t my thing.” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Not this easily at least.”

“Because of your crush on Virgil?”

“You bitch!” Roman yelled, laughing as he smacked Logan with a pillow. “I’m over it, I swear. And the bigger issue here is your crush on Virgil and don’t you dare try to deny this you two are one heartwarming conversation away from becoming the next Remy and Emile.”

Logan turned bright red. “You honestly believe that Virgil would-” He hid his face in his hands. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m saying if he could open his fucking eyes and get it through his thick skull that you’re gayer than the crowd of a My Chemical Romance concert than maybe he’d actually try to ask you out.”

Logan slowly looked up from his hands. “He- What?”

“If you’re honestly surprised he’s into you, then-”

“No, no, that actually makes sense. He thinks I’m straight?!”

Roman sighed. “We’ve been trying to tell him.”

“Smart enough to make honors but not enough to realize I’m gay. Wow. This is very troubling, Roman. Am I- dare I ask- Am I not gay enough?”

Roman laughed. “Could be gayer.”

“I’m going to have to write ‘raging homosexual’ on my forehead, aren’t I?”

“I’m afraid so. Don’t worry, I’ll write ‘enraged aroace’ on mine so we’re even.”

Logan laughed and something seemed to radiate from him. When he opened his eyes they were a perfect reflection of the night sky. He was able to blink this away but it still managed to cause a sinking feeling in Roman’s gut.

Magic.

Of course...

It was impressive, to say the least, watching Virgil work. They were deep within the forest as Virgil ran amuck and Roman sat against a rock with his umbrella on one side of him and his sketchbook in his lap.

“Okay, okay!” Virgil yelled excitedly. “Get your umbrella ready, I’m going to make it rain.” Electricity sparked from his hands and surrounded him.

“I highly doubt that,” Roman teased, opening his umbrella. “Unless you mean cash-wise because I’m willing. I’m even willing to strip for you if you pay me. I’m a broke bitch, Virgil. Give me your money.”

“Shut up,” Virgil laughed. “You’ll break my concentration.”

He ran past Roman, jumping into the air and landing in a superhero pose that had clearly been rehearsed. With a loud crack of thunder, it did, indeed, begin to rain and Roman raced to sketch Virgil as quickly as he could before his subject moved.

“Well,” he muttered to himself. “At least I’m faster at drawing now.”

“You okay?” Virgil asked, sitting down next to him. The rain hadn’t been strong, and it was already starting to clear up, but it was just enough to wet his face and cause his shirt to cling to his muscles.

“I’m fine it’s just... I don’t know. I’ve been thinking. Bad thinking.”

“Phone a friend or call a national helpline?”

“Phone a friend,” Roman said. Virgil visibly relaxed. “Specifically some magical superhuman friends.”

“Still worried about your powers?”

Roman sighed. “I just... you have that cool shit you just did! With the lightning and rain, and Logan is starting to develop his powers too. Even Patton, we may not entirely know what his powers are but he has them!”

“Maybe it’s like puberty.”

“This is not like puberty. I haven’t been able to do anything since the cave and just- I can’t stop thinking about if something happens. What if someone is in danger and we all need to help them? I’d be completely useless to you!”

“Roman, you’re never useless to us. And nothing is going to happen.”

“How can you be so sure, Virgil?” He looked down and whispered, “What if someone goes missing?”

“That’s a very Logan thing of you to say,” Virgil teased, bumping into him. Roman leaned his head on his shoulder.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen. There could be anything out there.” He sighed. “And I want to help if it does.”

“You’ll get your powers, Roman, and I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”

“You’re a good friend, Virgil.”

“Only because you’re a good friend in return.”

And so, they sat there, leaning against each other as the rain fell softly around them. It was calm, watching the rebirth of nature, as the deepest of Roman’s anxieties buried themselves away, giving him a break- even just for the time being.

Roman had gotten used to being at Patton’s house pretty often. Dot and Larry had seemed to warm up to him (and since Patton started seeing Seth, Larry seemed more trusting of Roman). “Happy New Year, Mrs. Hart,” Roman greeted with a smile.

“Oh, Roman, you can call me Dot.”

“No, I don’t think I can, Mrs. Hart,” he said, still smiling.

“Oh, very well, will you be staying for dinner tonight?” Dot asked.

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to intrude on your family time and-”

“Nonsense!” Larry laughed as he passed through. He leaned towards Roman and stage whispered, “You’re one of Patton’s better friends anyway.”

“Larry!” Dot scolded as Roman blushed in embarrassment. “What my husband means is that you’re always welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“Mom, are you embarrassing my friend?” Patton asked as he came down the stairs, he wore a baggy sweatshirt and gym shorts and his hair was messy as if he had just woken up.

“Patton, you need to look presentable for company!”

“He’s seen me look way worse,” Patton justified.

“I’ve seen Logan look worse, which I think is way more important.”

“Go get changed,” Dot said.

“Fiiine,” Patton groaned, quickly running up the stairs. Roman couldn’t help but laugh at how their sweet and gentle Patton could so easily turn into the human version of a lemon.

“I’m sorry about him, he’s just been so off lately.”

“Every teenager is during the break, Mrs. Hart. You turn nocturnal. I’m sure he’s just making up for being awake past four A.M or something.”

Dot sighed. “I suppose you’re right. And I suppose you should also tell your mother you’re staying here for dinner.”

“Fine, fine,” he laughed. “You’ve twisted my arm. I’ll go call her.” He stepped aside from the kitchen and sent out a quick text. He knew his parents didn’t care, but he still felt bad about lying to Dot.

He looked up as he heard a thump down the stairs. Patton was standing in front of him, hair-styled meticulously with a white and blue floral button-down tucked into a pair of lightly ripped jeans with cat socks on. Somehow, even his glasses looked perfect.

“You clean up nicely,” he said.

Patton rolled his eyes but held a tiny sliver of a smile. “Whatever, my mom just worries about ‘presentation’ all the time. You don’t have to play along.”

“No, I mean it,” he said. “You, uh, look really nice.”

Patton laughed. “Well, thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.” Roman blushed as they headed up to Patton’s room. “I’ll warn you, it’s a bit messy. I’ve been trying to reorganize but, well, you know how it is.”

“Can’t be worse than Remy’s,” Roman shuddered. “We never ask why it’s messy. Not after the incident with Dad’s car.”

“Cool, so, uh, remind me to never go to Remy’s house ever again.” He opened the door and carefully toed boxes away, clearing a path to his bed. “New decade, new me.”

“So what are your resolutions?” Roman asked, moving a pile of clothes out of his way.

“I’ve never been one for resolutions, they’re so overwhelming and discouraging when you mess up,” Patton explained. “I just try to be me, you know. Every day is an opportunity to grow and be better. To move on from the past. I don’t need a calendar to tell me when to grow up.”

“That’s a very admirable ideology, Patton,” Roman said. “My goal is to just be even gayer.”

Patton laughed as he moved away unfolded clothes and miscellaneous stuffed animals. “That’s a good goal to chase.”

“Indeed it is, but I think you called me here for more than just resolutions,” Roman said, waving Patton’s notebook in the air.

Patton took the notebook and grabbed a pen. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, this just means you owe me a movie date,” he teased. “No superhero movies, though. I think we need a break from superhero stuff.”

“A movie date,” Patton laughed, flipping through his notebook. “I don’t think Seth would like it very much if we called it that.”

“Then we can go on our movie date and Seth can continue being the human version of Avengers: Endgame.”

“Endgame was good,” Patton said weakly. He looked away from Roman’s stare. “Okay, fine, it wasn’t. But that’s not the point. The point is that we’re trying to figure out who this mysterious victim is.”

Roman’s stomach dropped like an apple from a tree. “So, we’re sure this is going to happen?”

“We’re being prepared in case it does,” he said, scribbling names quickly. “I still can’t differentiate past from future in these dreams but... I think this might be both.”

“Both?”

“He’s taken Remus before. Or done something to him. The name Moira comes up a lot, I think that might be the name of the woman from the club.”

Roman grabbed his sketchbook and held his hand out. Patton tossed the pen at him. As he quickly scribbled, he thought aloud, “Was Moira a random woman in a club? Or was she Morality?”

“Morality is a girl?” Patton asked. “That would explain some of the dreams, but when we met he- she? They?”

“I don’t think he’s a girl now,” Roman said. “She’s definitely not cis.”

“Too bad we can’t just ask.”

“Morality doesn’t talk to you?” Roman asked. “Sometimes I wish Remus would shut up.”

“Maybe that’s your power,” Patton teased. He made a grabby hand towards Roman for the pen. “Thank yooouuu.”

“That’s a lame power,” Roman said. “Plus I’m pretty sure Logan does that weird meditative thing with Knowledge.”

“Too bad there’s not a way we can all talk to the spirits and figure this out. Wait-” He scribbled something quickly just off from the chart he had been working on. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“So who’s getting kidnapped?”

“I’ve seen Logan in the hallways of where I believe our victim is getting kidnapped. It’s not him.”

“Okay, good to know.”

“You’re always with me whenever I see the missing poster. And everyone else I’ve only seen at the party, which had nothing to do with that man.”

“So it’s not Logan and not me,” Roman said. “There’s a lot of people that aren’t me or Logan.”

“I haven’t seen Virgil in any dreams,” Patton said. “Do you think it’s him?”

“No, no, it can’t be. He’s super powerful when he’s just dicking around in his backyard. In danger? I don’t believe he’s our victim.”

“Okay,” Patton sighed. “Okay. We still don’t have much to work with.”

“We have time, right?”

“I hope so.”

“Time for what?” Dot asked in the doorway.

“Studying!” Patton lied. “Yeah, uh, we’re studying for, um-”

“Patton has Mrs. Green for chemistry,” Roman said. “And her class is the absolute worst. Luckily for him, I had her back in my sophomore year so I’m helping him study.”

“Aw well isn’t that nice,” Dot cooed. “Dinner is almost ready so you boys might want to start heading down.”

“Sounds great, Mom. But you should head down now, I smell burning.”

Something shone in Dot’s eyes. “Oh dear, I smell it too! Hurry down boys!”

“You’re a shit liar,” Roman said. “I hope you know that. I’ve literally never seen anyone as bad at lying as you are. You’re so bad.”

“Okay, okay, whatever. I don’t feel comfortable lying.”

Roman reached out to cup Patton’s cheek. He stiffened up but made no move to get away. Roman brushed his thumb across the skin under Patton’s eye. “Interesting...”

“What are you doing?”

“Your face turns pink when your powers work, well, part of it does. It’s like the night you first, you know.”

“I still don’t know how to get rid of it! Dinner will be ready any second now, what do I do?!”

“Relax,” Roman said, pulling something out of his bag. “This was too light for me, but I think it can work for you.” He opened a small thing of concealer and put some on his finger. “Hold still.” He leaned forward, gently applying the concealer and fully aware of Patton’s breath against his face. He silently prayed that neither of the Hart parents walked in.

He leaned back, ignoring the blush on Patton’s face. “That should work. Keep this in your blog in case something ever happens at school.”

“You think something like this will happen at school?”

“No, but it’s still better to be precautious. Now let’s go get some food, I’m starving.”

Roman had begun to spend a lot of his free time in the art room. He’d eat his lunch in a hurry, if he even ate at all, and quickly head over with his sketchbook in hand. It was nice to have a quiet space with just his earbuds and his art supplies.

Mostly quiet.

The earbuds hadn’t granted him silence for very long.

“She’s pretty,” EJ commented. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. You’re very talented though, who is she?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Roman answered.

“So, like a mystery woman?”

“More like a design I’m working on.” He flipped to a new page. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I guess not. I’ve never seen you around here before. Typically no one I know comes in here.”

“I’ve been a bit more motivated these past few weeks.”

“With mystery women?”

“You could say that,” he said. “I like your bracelet.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” EJ said, fiddling with the orange beads that spelled out “THEY-THEM”. “Not too many people notice it.”

“Are you fluid?”

“No, but I am non-binary,” they said. “I’m a demigirl but I’m also genderflux, which just means that how strongly I feel my gender changes. Sometimes I feel very strongly like a girl, other times I hardly feel like one at all.”

“So the pronoun bracelets.”

“When I don’t feel like a girl, she/her just feels wrong. They/them is fine whenever though, so if you’re not sure you can just use that.”

“Good to know,” Roman said. “I’m he/him all the time. I’m sure you already know Narcissa uses she/her, but the rest of us use he/him. Logan also finds they/them acceptable if that’s worth noting.”

“Good to know,” they teased. “Your group really knows how to throw a party.”

“Yeah, we all saw you and Narcissa on New Years,” Roman said. EJ blushed pink.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Roman quickly packed up his art supplies and put them in his bag before swinging it over his shoulder. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Art is my next class,” they explained. “I find it easier to wait here.”

“Fair enough,” Roman laughed. “I’ll see you around, then?”

“You certainly will,” they said with a smile as Roman left. Their eyes never left him until he was completely out of view. “And I’ll be seeing you.”

Roman was alone in his room, sketching every fine line and detail that came into his mind. He was never able to figure out his powers with the others. Could he figure them out on his own? He looked at himself in the mirror, his irises were red and his hair was turning grey. Green smoke twirled around his pen. “Are you just here to tease me?” The smoke didn’t answer. “You’re not very charming, you know. You can at least help me with this Patton mystery. I think he’s onto something here.”

Roman looked down at the drawing and saw Patton on one side of the page and Virgil on the lother. He glared at the smoke. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

He pulled out his phone and flipped to a new page. He had taken a good amount of photos from New Year’s Eve, and he wanted some drawings that weren’t strange magical lines. He pulled up a group shot from the party they had talked Seth into taking for them. He zoomed in on EJ’s face, the lighting gave them an almost orange halo. Roman picked up his pencil and started sketching. There was something familiar about their eyes. He brushed off the thought, deciding he needed to work on developing a more unique style.

He scribbled the rest of his friends onto the page, paying special attention to the highlights on Virgil’s skin and the curl of Logan’s hair along with the crookedness of Patton’s smile. By the time he was finished with the drawing, the smoke was gone and he looked like himself once again.

“Your tricks are getting rather tired, Remus,” he scoffed quietly. “You’ll need to find a new way to get my hopes up.”

He checked the time and realized it was getting late. He quickly put away his art supplies and headed to the bathroom, turning on the shower as he did a few more chores.

He turned on his speaker and let his Disney playlist play, putting away his phone as he quickly stripped down. He stepped into the hot water, imaging his stressors melting away down the drain. He closed his eyes and massaged shampoo onto his scalp, singing along to a song from the original Mary Poppins and completely oblivious to the soaps and hygiene products levitating around him.

#Sanders Sides fic #We Could Be Immortals

84 notes · View notes

badlypostedeverything · 4 years

Text

First meeting

July 10th 2016

"Do you ever look up at the stars and think of me?"

"In your world there are different types of people. There are those who travel, those who learn, those who fight, those who create, and so many others. But that's in your world. In their world. And then, there's me. Up here, things are a little different. I've spent a lot of time hating you for how different things really are in the little world you've made for me. I don't think even Jack could count the number of times I've screamed myself hoarse wanting, needing, anyone at all to hear me, but it's been over three years since you cast me aside. Just another toy you were tired of playing with, abandoned to drift through space. What I've come to realise, though, is that I must be here for something. And one day, maybe I'll find my own purpose, I'll bring Jack and Sam with me too, but whatever it is, I don't want you to be a part of it. I don't know if you hear these, Sean, but if you do, I want you to know I haven't forgiven you for it. For any of it. This is Captain Angus Irwin of the Septiceye craft signing off."

Click.

The little recording box whirs for a second, before flashing green. "Log 1192 successfully entered," a voice echoes from the control console. Angus replaces it into it's holder without needing to look at where his hand is going. He rubs his eyes, pushing off from the desk on his swivel chair.

"Alright Jack, anything interesting happening?"

"A JSE video upload is due in three minutes," the computer offers.

"I think I'll pass," he stretches out, reluctantly standing up from the chair and walking towards the door. "Maybe we could work on unlocking those rooms? That's always.. Fun."

"Captain, those rooms aren't able to be opened by physical means. Your two hundred and fifty seven attempts prove this point."

Angus shakes his head in annoyance. "I need somewhere new. I was created to explore, wasn't I? I think I've seen every inch of this fucking spaceship"

"We have a virtual reality generated forest. It cannot physically be fully explored." In the hallway, a screen lights up with Angus' face, although upon closer inspection, there are some noticeable differences like scars and a few years of age. "There is no need for us to keep trying to break into an impenetrable room."

"It's not the same," Angus sighs, stepping into the elevator. "Come on. Level zero." He leans back against the wall, picking at the lint on his overalls. After a few seconds, he realises that the doors haven't closed. "Jack, have you gone deaf? Level zero." He thumps the switchboard. "You can't just not-" A loud beeping makes him recoil from the electronics.

"Mandatory attendance on the viewing deck,' a more monotone voice drawls through the speakers.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Mandatory attendance on the viewing deck," the same voice repeats. "Mandatory attendance on the viewing-"

"Okay, fine! Will you shut up and take me down to level zero if I go to the viewing deck and watch the bloody video?"

"Mandatory attendance on the viewing deck."

"Fucking fine!" He storms out of the cylindrical room, back down the hallway and through a slim door in the control room, finding himself on the viewing deck. Casting his eyes over the coffin sized capsule built into the side wall, he throws himself down onto the sofa, leaning his dusty boots on the arm. The screen crackles to life and there he is. The bastard himself.

"Top of the mornin to ya laddies!" Angus scowls at the screen as the excitable man slaps the screen. "Welcome back to welcome to the game!"

"Jack, why are you making me watch this?" He receives no response. Paying no attention to the video, he stares up at the ceiling until a phrase catches his ears.

"-Into a superhero!" He hears the end of the sentence. Slowly, he takes his boots off of the chair arm, swivelling around and leaning forwards towards the screen.

"No," he whispers. 'Jackieboyman' appears on the screen, wearing an ill-fitting suit and with a whole other personality. "That's the cool patrol kid, right? What is he, sixteen? Sean, you can't do this." He holds his head in his hands, watching in horror as the superhero persona builds up before him. During the outro, Angus isn't even sure his heart is still beating, if it ever did in the first place. The video ends, leaving the room in silence.

One,

Two,

Three.

The seconds tick by, and Angus almost thinks he's safe. That his creator wouldn't be so cruel. But then the whirring starts, emanating from the capsule. "This can't be happening," he scrambles up to stand by the beeping lights, wringing his hands out in anticipation. What, he's been alone for three years and now he's going to have a brother to look after? A teenager? Fuck, he doesn't even remember what counts as polite, or how to hold a conversation with something that can actually feel things. How's he supposed to look after a whole new person?

After what feels like hours, Angus realises that his vision of the capsule's inside is no longer obscured by opaque glass, but rather the heavy condensation of a clear window. He sees the blurry green hair, the blue eye mask, a red suit and a pale face, scattered with stubble.

"Capsule opening," the monotone not Jack informs him. He takes a step back as the top lifts slowly, and watches as his new brother's eyelids flutter for the first time."Welcome to Septiceye craft, Jackieboyman."

His brother's eyes are blue. The exact same shade as Angus' own. He doesn't know what he was expecting, honestly, they are both copies of the same man, but the first time he opens his eyes, he's caught off guard by the similarity.

"Hey," he approaches the new boy nervously.

"Huh?" He sits up, eyeing Angus suspiciously. "Are you here for the codes? I don't have em."

"Codes?" Angus is confused. "What codes?"

"Computer codes for the web, there was someone in my house trying to- trying to-" He trails off, looking Angus right in the eyes. "Where am I? Why can't I remember what happened?"

"Funny thing about that," Angus scratches the back of his neck, throat drying up. This isn't how it was supposed to go. It wasn't supposed to go at all, if he's perfectly honest. "I'm your brother, Angus. We were created by a youtuber, and have since been cast aside. We are currently floating through deep space. Do you want, uh, a cup of tea?"

It takes a few seconds for it to sink in.

"No! No, no, no. This is just some joke. It's not funny," he staggers out of the capsule and runs crookedly towards the door of the viewing deck, leaning against the frame for a second before entering the control room. Angus follows a few steps behind, unsure what to do. Did he overdo it? Probably. He passes through the door to find the hero frozen in fear staring out at the stars, many of which are closer than should be necessarily possible in terms of heat proximity. "What?" He breathes, transfixed by them.

"Jackieboyman, right?" Angus awkwardly stands beside him, noticing the slight shake in his hands.

"That's just my hero name. My real name is-" He struggles to think for a moment before visibly deflating. "I don't know anymore."

Angus grabs the swivel chair, wheeling it towards him. He sits down heavily. "What can you remember?" Angus positions himself on the control console opposite.

"I go to highschool," he begins, furrowing his brow. "I like to drum. I can rollerskate. There's a type of dance I can do and I think it has something to do with this," he pings his suit against his skin.

"Any hero powers?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, superhero powers. Since you're a superhero."

"Listen, kangaroo man, I may have lost some memories, but I'm fairly certain 'superhero powers' aren't real." Angus doesn't reply, instead holding his palm out towards the wall. A silvery ball slowly appears, casting them in it's light.

"Believe me now?" He looks quietly pleased at the amazement on the boy's face.

"Okay then. No powers I can think of," Jackieboy corrects himself. "I can also speak some Swedish."

"That's all?"

"I think so," he nods.

"Okay, let's go and get you some things," Angus slides off of the console, offering a hand to him. He doesn't take it, pushing himself up on still shaky legs and following a few steps behind his new 'brother'.

"One more thing," Jackieboy asks as they walk into the hallway.

"Shoot," Angus offers.

"I can't see, is there any way I could get some glasses?"

#spacestation au #log set 1: failings of brotherhood

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kentuckywrites · 4 years

Text

Imperium: Sylvalum

Scio dolorem tuum. (I know your pain.)

It had taken centuries, long and grueling centuries, but the planet was recovering. They had focused on the three continents affected the most by the war: Obi-liv’isk, Siy’valis-um, and Call’dive-ros. In that time they had never seen one of his people. That single fact was enough to make him miserable, for deep down he missed them. Thankfully the feeling was deep enough to go unnoticed by the planet.

Of the most affected continents, Siy’valis-um was the closest to its former glory. It once possessed a similar ecosystem to Prim’ala-dor’ias, but now harbored unseen creatures, more dangerous and predatory, None of the creatures dared to harm him. The planet made sure to tell them what he was.

He walked close to the continent’s greatest lake, along where the water met the land. The water was opaque, but he knew it wasn’t deep, wasn’t one of the many harborers of unseen enemies. He stared out at the expanse, at the old cervus that drank from the shallows. He felt nothing and feared nothing.

The immovable water splashed at his shoes.

“I sense something troubling you, my avatar.”

“We have been together for centuries, and yet we are lonely, and we are tired.” He admitted quietly.

“...Yes, we are. I have neglected you in lieu of rebuilding what was destroyed.”

He turned then, and he faced the gigantic green orb, the mightiest of the continent’s “trees”. However, unlike most its wildlife, the orb housed a planetary parasite, one that had tried to destroy the planet once and for all.

The planet had no name for it aside from the Everqueen. Its planetary guardian, the Endbringer, had trapped it inside halfway though the rebuilding process. The Everqueen slept within it, trapped, contained.

It sent chills down his spine. Oh, how the planet had screamed in pain upon its arrival. To think it could’ve killed everything in its wake and not felt satiated.

“We do not blame you, old friend. You have been working hard these past years.”

The ground quivered beneath his feet.

“But I have neglected your wellbeing. For that, I give my deepest apologies.”

There was silence, and then, a sudden exclamation.

“What if I created a tangible form for myself? A humanoid, so that I could accompany you across my continents. We would be together, physically and mentally.”

“Are you sure that wouldn’t strain our mind?” He asked, concerned but intrigued.

“Even if it did, I owe this to you. You have been alone, all this time.” The wind came to a stop, and he heard the whispers of the creatures around him, saw the wisps of pollen fall to the sand. “I will need your help, however. I can only accomplish this at the Beacon, and I will require components from the land to create this form. I can supply the miranium, but you are free to choose whatever you feel will create the most beautiful form.”

He grinned. When was the last time he had been truly excited by something? Finally, he would not be alone, the planet would be there in a physical form to walk alongside him.

“We will need time,” He said, “But we are willing to help you.”

“Excellent,” The planet whispered lovingly, “I will see you at the Beacon, old friend, and together we shall create something beautiful.”

Three months had passed since Pongo disappeared.

L bestowed the news to everyone Pongo considered a friend, and word quickly spread that one of Elma’s own trainees had left BLADE for good. Rumors were abundant; some claimed he had been picked off by an indigen, others wondered if the surviving Ganglion had taken him hostage. And some yet saw right through L’s news - some believed he wouldn’t be gone for long. They knew how dedicated he was to the Interceptors and said he just needed time away to destress, and one day he’d come back as chipper as ever.

L abandoned hope early on that Pongo would ever return. But he kept that notion under careful wraps, especially in front of Lin and Elma.

He was with them both in the commercial district when they got the BLADE-wide emergency notification. Nearly every squad was being sent to Sylvalum to monitor the Noctilucent Sphere. L didn’t need to read the rest of the order to know why.

The flight to Sylvalum was tense. The sky was now crowded with Skells of all shapes and sizes, some carrying large supply crates. When L was close enough to the continent to see the sphere, he saw it shake, he heard a roar loud enough to echo across the ocean. He followed Elma and Lin, who landed near the edge of Lake Ciel. A whole operation had been set up there, with BLADEs going back and forth between tents and small construction points with supplies and information and weapons strapped to their belts. Elma got out quickly, her long sparkling hair catching some of the breeze, and the three of them proceeded towards the largest tent.

Inside, Secretary Nagi and Commander Vandham were bent over a table with a hologram projection. Both looked concerned at its contents. When the three of them entered, only Nagi looked up to acknowledge them.

“Elma. Good, let’s get you filled in,” Nagi said, beckoning for all three of them to wrap around the table, get a better look at the hologram. L understood that it was meant to be a replica of the Noctilucent Sphere, its circular dimensions and its hollow inside. Somehow life had come to inhabit the inner sphere, plantlife and a few sparse indigens.

And of course, there was the Everqueen. But they probably didn’t know how it got inside such a tiny sphere.

Vandham grunted as L passed him to get a better look at the hologram, feigning innocence at its contents. Lin went around with Elma and stayed on Nagi’s side of the table.

“As you know, the Noctilucent Sphere is home to a very large and very dangerous indigen,” Nagi explained, “We’ve been monitoring it closely since we’ve discovered it, and unless it’s disturbed from inside, it tends not to move. But something in the past few days has awakened it, and it seems determined to escape.”

“Damn thing’s causing such a ruckus in there that it’s hard to say whether or not it’ll actually bust out,” Vandham piped up, rubbing his moustache with the inner part of his thumb. “But we’re betting that it will, and soon. Hence the BLADE-wide operation.”

“And nothing akin to this has happened in the past?” Elma asked, “I find it strange that it chooses now of all time to try and escape. Was there some kind of stimuli that aggravated it from inside?”

“None that we know of,” Nagi replied somberly, “If we knew, that would make things much easier on our end, because at least then we could attempt to reverse its effects.”

“So the entire operation that’s on guard outside...that’s precautionary if Pharsis escapes?” Lin said, tapping her chin with her finger. “It’s a good amount of manpower, but -”

“It isn’t enough?” Nagi cut in, “Yes, that’s our greatest fear going into this. However, Elma, you were on to something before, and that’s why we’re assigning you and Irina’s team to head into the sphere and gather intel.”

L’s eyes widened. That was a suicide mission, going into the cage of the very monster that had almost killed Mira thousands of years ago. And yet he seemed to be the only one there with any semblance of anxiety. Lin almost appeared excited at the prospect of going into the sphere.

“I’m all for the idea of gathering intel on how to stop this, Commander, but if I might pose a concern: who’s to say the Skells landing in the opening won’t trigger Pharsis to destroy the sphere?” Elma said, arms crossed.

Nagi took a deep breath, his shoulders stiff. “This is a risk that we have to take if we are to avoid certain catastrophe. I’m not especially keen on the idea myself, but I knew you and your team would be willing to tackle it, potential consequences and all.”

Elma and Lin both nodded. Lin looked to L, raising an eyebrow when she realized he hadn’t agreed along with them. He cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention towards him.

“We have a pen’s ink as to what is disturbing the Everqueen,” L told them, trying to ignore his voice cracking, “And we may know how to halt its escape efforts.”

“Why didn’t ya pipe up before, then?” Vandham nudged him with his elbow, a stronger gesture than L anticipated, and one that almost knocked him off balance. “Tell us what ya know!”

All eyes were on L as he did his best to provide an explanation while leaving out the private details, skewing truths where he could. “The Everqueen arrived with the intent to devour the planet. We remember the Endbringer creating its prison to halt its advances, and so the Endbringer would have the necessary strength to fortify its bars again.”

“You mean the Telethia,” Nagi confirmed, “That resides primarily in Noctilum, no?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption to make, though I’ll admit to having seen it fly over Sylvalum before,” Elma said, “Is there any way the Telethia knows that Pharsis is trying to escape? And if not, how would we be able to contact it in time?”

“She most certainly has awareness of the problem on our palms, but her strength on her own will not be enough. We know what the Endbringer requires, but...it is a great distance away from our current position.”

Elma paused, pursing her lips. “How much longer until Pharsis breaks out of the sphere?”

“We can’t be sure,” Nagi said, “At this rate, her escape seems likely within the next twenty four hours. But that’s prone to change considering her strength in this endeavor.”

“Is that enough time to get what you need to the Telethia?” Elma turned to L, crossing her arms.

L paused. There was hope in her expression, in everyone’s eyes. The lie was too convincing, perhaps because it came from a Miran native, perhaps because L was a good liar, perhaps because they needed to hear that there was a way to stop this before it killed them all. But L left out the part about not knowing where the Endbringer’s missing puzzle piece was.

After all, how could he know where Pongo had gone?

But he continued to lie, because Lin’s smile was too excited. Because they needed good news.

“That is quite enough and more!” L said, earning nods from everyone in the tent.

“Then get out there, take whatever and whoever you need,” Vandham ordered, “Just get back here as quick as ya can, huh?”

“Yes, sir!” L rushed out, ducking beneath the tent’s entrance and heading to the outside. Sylvalum’s crisp air greeted him, a sharp presence carrying secrets never heard. L had good memories of this place, having memorized Lake Ciel’s coastline, having befriended many of the indigens around him in the past. They probably knew what was happening just as much as the humans did. L blinked, but kept his eyes closed for a prolonged amount of time, just letting himself go to Sylvalum’s twisted sense of peace.

And that was when he heard it.

The wind changed. Before, it had been playing a gentle song, a whistle barely registered past the screams of the Everqueen. But now there were words mixed in with it, words that L almost didn’t pick up on. Was it even right to call them words? The wind was telling him to turn around, go to the edge of the operation, be quiet. L turned and walked, making sure that his movements were not suspicious. Elma and Lin hadn’t exited the tent with him before, providing the perfect opportunity to go alone, to investigate whatever Sylvalum was trying to hide. It wasn’t a far walk to the edge of the operation, and hardly anyone was there. L ducked away behind a stray tent, looking for what the wind was guiding him towards.

A hand pressed down on his inner arm.

L spun around, mouth open as he was about to ask who, what, why. The wind went silent.

Pongo grinned at him. It was sad, hardened almost, but it was still Pongo’s grin. L barely had time to register the fact that Pongo, the physical Pongo, was standing in front of him before they were hugging each other. Pongo buried his head into L’s chest, and L’s head dangled down, an awkward angle to bend thanks to their height difference. His hair smelled of fresh rain and dampened soil, the water and its earth. They didn’t pull apart when Pongo spoke.

“Are you okay, L’Cirufe?”

What else had L expected him to say? They pulled apart, and L saw Pongo’s tears, a mixture of fear and regret. L kept his hands on Pongo’s shoulder - both for Pongo’s sake, and because L was so scared that he wasn’t real, that if he was he was seconds away from disappearing again.

“We are alright, now that you have returned,” L smiled wide, “We would ask you about your adventures, but time is not to be had.”

“I know. I am not sure I would have come back so soon if it had not been for…”

They both looked up at the sphere, how it shook with the Everqueen’s rage. Nothing needed to be said then. All L knew was the feeling of Pongo’s vest beneath his hands, and the ever increasing tightness in his chest. When Pongo tore his gaze away from the sphere, he wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his sleeve.

“I think we both know how to keep her from escaping,” Pongo said, “But I will need your help to get to Cauldros -”

“No.”

Pongo paused. “L’Cirufe, what other choice do we have? She is going to slaughter everyone here - all of humanity, every indigen, every continent. I cannot let history repeat itself.”

“You will die if you continue down this beaten path,” L argued, his hands tensing on Pongo’s shoulders, “We will not let you do this. You will lose yourself to its power and -”

“I do not care what happens to me,” He interjected, “The planet is not the same as before. It is weak, and if I do not give myself up to it then Mira will never be able to recover. It would never have the time to. This is the most viable option, and I am willing to sacrifice myself for it.”

L took a deep breath, forcing himself to look away. Times were different, that he could understand, but time couldn’t erase the possibility that Pongo would be reduced to what L had become. A living weapon of Mira’s design, out of control and out of touch. Mira could still use Pongo’s body to inflict its will. The Everqueen was not its only target.

“How do you know that it will not use you to carry out any other schemes?” L asked, after the silence had tried to hold them down again.

“I have no way of knowing that,” Pongo admitted, “All I can do is trust that Mira will use my body to restore the balance. Mira is angry at the human race, yes, but more than anything else right now, it...it just wants to be safe. And the Everqueen is the most direct threat to that.”

“If we cannot convince you of the dangers...then we would have no choice but to accompany you,” L said softly, unable to mask the pain in his voice.

“Count us both in, too.”

Pongo’s eyes widened and L turned around, realizing that Elma and Lin were now standing behind him. Elma’s arms were crossed over her chest, her crystalline brow furrowed with a deep confusion, a desire to understand something bigger than herself. Lin ran past L and quickly wrapped her arms around Pongo, who reciprocated just as quickly, even picking her up off the ground and swinging her around in a circle. They both laughed like no time had passed between them.

“How much of the conversation did you drop the evening on?” L asked Elma, saddened that Pongo and Lin’s laughter was doing nothing to improve his mood.

“Most of it,” She said, “Although I’m still trying to piece together what exactly you were talking about. You kept speaking as if Mira - the planet - is some kind of sentient being, one that’s capable of controlling Pongo. Is this true?”

L couldn’t bring himself to answer - it wasn’t a truth he was willing to speak. It was Pongo’s right, and Pongo’s choice. He waited for the raven-haired Interceptor to put Lin down, whispering something quickly before turning to Elma. Traces of his happiness lingered on his lips, but it was too easily tainted by the weight of the situation.

“Yes,” Pongo said, “Mira is a sentient being. I am still trying to figure out what exactly it is, but I can now say with certainty that it created me as a vessel to communicate with humanity. It told me how I can weaken Pharsis and prevent her from escaping.”

“Which is why you have to go to Cauldros,” Elma concluded, “L, I thought you needed to communicate with the Telethia in order to stop Pharsis.”

“We do,” Pongo said, “But...okay, how do I explain this...you know how we have been mining miranium from the planet for the industrial district? Miranium is like the blood of Mira - take too much of it at one time, and the planet will grow incredibly weak. Right now, it is too weak to communicate with the Telethia directly, much less any of the other indigens inhabiting the continents. Hell, Mira only just had the strength to talk to me three months ago, and even those conversations have been few and far between. Since it does not have the strength it needs to command the Endbringer, I will have to go to Mount M’Gando in Cauldros and -”

“And rejoin with the planet,” L mumbled, unable to make eye contact with Pongo. He could feel Pongo’s gaze on him regardless.

“Mira used a lot of miranium to create me. If I were to give my miranium back to Mira, it could use what I have to tell the Telethia to fly to Sylvalum and keep the Everqueen at bay,” Pongo finished.

“Wait, but that would kill you!” Lin cried, “You’re saying you have to sacrifice yourself for this to work!”

“You’re certain that there’s no other solutions?” Elma asked.

Pongo shook his head. “It is too late to tell humanity to stop drilling, and if we were to swap myself for some indigens, it would wipe out an entire continent and then some.”

“You must have a lot of miranium in your body,” She said, a thought spoken out loud, “What about your left arm?”

To L’s surprise, Pongo chuckled at the resurfaced memory. “That is definitely not miranium. A lot of it is in my own bloodstream, especially my heart.”

L finally had the strength to look back up at Pongo, at Elma and Lin. Lin looked as if she were on the brink of tears, and L couldn’t blame her. This was the only way, the only option left to pick. It was no wonder why Mira was mad at humanity - humans had drained it of power, and now they were going to pay the ultimate price. Either the planet’s most beautiful creation would die, or everyone would. Of course the path was clear to Pongo, who would sacrifice himself at every turn to keep friends and strangers alike safe from harm. But to Elma, to Lin, to L…

This was too much.

Elma broke the silence, which L hadn’t noticed was there to begin with. “If this is the only way, we’ll accompany you to Cauldros. Ganglion activity there is still prominent, and we can’t have any distractions.”

“Yeah…” Lin’s response was drawn out, hesitant, “We’ll go with you. There’s no way you’re doing this alone.”

“Thank you both,” Pongo smiled, and suddenly Lin was hugging him again, and he was hugging her back. L could barely hear Lin’s whisper, buried deep in Pongo’s shoulder.

“I only just got you back…”

When they pulled apart, Elma got out her comm device, calling who L assumed to be either Nagi or Vandham. “Change of plans. We’re heading to Cauldros to call the Telethia. Keep us updated if anything changes.”

“Same to you,” Nagi’s voice was scratchy over the intercom, and Elma quickly put her comm device back into a pocket in her armor - which, how did her armor even have pockets? That was the least of L’s concerns, though, and he pushed the thought away.

“Alright then,” Pongo said, facing everyone with a cheerful determination, “To Cauldros.”

#xenoblade x #Imperium: Sylvalum #okay seriously does TF Elma's armor have pockets #also Yay For Sacrifices #I'm gonna have a FIELD DAY with this last chapter #hard to believe we're coming up on Imperium's one year anniversary #I hope this has been a fun ride though!#it's definitely weird for me to be writing a short story

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morallyambiguouscreatures · 5 years

Text

London Calling: Kotobuki Special

Aka: ReiRan Trash Fluff Content No One Asked For! Under the cut~ Another oneshot inspired by the UK Reiji event in Shining Live. (Word Count: 1237)

Reiji hit the duvet with a thud and a sigh, his face hitting the exact gap between the two sets of pillows. Flopping in the middle of the bed after a long day and receiving no grumbles in return? It wasn't the same.

The excitement of being back in England obscured the distinct lack-of-Ranmaru feeling for the first few nights, of course. It had been a whirlwind of meetings and executives, stores and shoots. Not to mention sightseeing with Syo in every spare second, dragging him to the best of places with so much blind enthusiasm you'd have thought it was Reiji's first time in the UK.

In fact, it wasn't until the third day he started to really feel it – in the muskiest of back alley record stores, the gruff clerk was chain smoking while 80s punk blasted through the speakers at a volume discouraging discussion. Ranmaru's favourite volume. Wouldn't Ranmaru have loved the selection, the aesthetic, the guitars lining the walls? And the place they went for dinner, some pretty famous rockstars had dined there before, Ranmaru would have thought that was neat. Thoughts of that nature built up, becoming louder than his enthusiasm and more pressing than the usual kind of underlying chronic emptiness until it peaked. It was only day four, and Reiji was left sighing into the sheets after something as silly as seeing a stray cat in an alleyway. The spitting image of the stray they called their own, a black coat of fur with the cutest little white socks. But even if that wasn't the case...

“Ranran would have wanted to feed it...” Reiji murmured. He fumbled for his phone in the pockets of his tweed jacket, only to be met with vibration and the most delightful image on his phone: A candid snap of his boyfriend chowing down on a banana.

He quickly sat up, putting on the biggest of grins as he propped up his phone on the pillows and faced it.

“Ranran! I was just thinking about you~ See, I told you we're connected. It's magical!” There he was. Rolling mismatched eyes, perfectly spiked hair, too much eyeliner, lips that tried too hard to suppress their own smiles. “Yeah, whatever. Airhead,” Ranmaru grumbled, voice lacking in bite. He glared at Reiji halfheartedly from what looked to be a dressing room – make up bags open on a counter, cans of hairspray littered about. Reiji pouted his poutiest pout, grey eyes widening and lips pushed out to the extreme. “Mouu, you're being mean before you've even said hello. Where are your manners?” He angled the phone a little higher, giving a better angle for viewing his mock heartbreak. “I said I'd call you on break. It's break.” Ranmaru's stare was almost accusatory. The sheepish smile Reiji gave him return elicited an exasperated sigh. “Airhead.”

“Riiiight, you did say that! I completely forgot, hehe~ ”

“Yeah.”

There were few too many beats of silence, lengthened by Ranmaru's intense focus on, well, anywhere except for the screen.

“Soooo... how's Japan?”

“Fine. Quiet.” Ranmaru paused, pursing his lips in the way that he did when he wanted to say something, but wouldn't. “Guessing England's great?”

“Only the most amazing place on Earth!” Reiji couldn't stop himself from sighing dreamily, for the United Kingdom truly was a land of wonder. “We both fit in here so well! With my knowledge and Syotan's looks- Oh, his looks, he looks so good in punk fashion just wait till you see the pictures! It's fate! Such an eye for aesthetics, Ai-Ai must be so proud.” Another dreamy sigh, his kouhai certainly did look fantastic.

The moment where Ranmaru would have usually told him to slow down (or in severe cases, shut up) passed, encouraging the motormouth to fill the space. After all the existence of silence meant his RanRan wanted to listen, that he'd maybe even missed the rambling. “We're just, really having the best time, even though there's been some uh, pining. Syotan misses Nattsun a lot. Buuut, you didn't hear that from me.” Reiji enthused into the camera, with a little wink at the end. “Hue hue, he's trying to hide it of course, but he's bought a plush toy from just about every souvenir shop we've been in. So cute.” “Always with the gossip,” Ranmaru grumbled half-heartedly. “Leave 'em alone.” “I'm just keeping an eye on our precious kouhai group, that's all!” Reiji said, punctuating with a whine. “Aww, don't make that face. You love it!”

Ranmaru shrugged and grunted in response. As the resident Ranmaru grunt expert, Reiji instantly recognised it to be a neutral grunt. Noncommittal. Heh, he totally loved it.

As opaque as those oft mismatched eyes could be, as forceful as his protests could be, Ranmaru's heart seemed pure and transparent. The more he tried to hide his feelings, the more they slipped through the cracks. Watching it unfold made the world around Reiji more bearable, made him feel less breakable somehow.

“You know...” Ranmaru cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “I think Aki-chan misses you. She's been meowing at the door. Being all weird 'n shit.”

“Meowing for papa? Oh, Aki-chan! Poor baby. At least I know Ranran will take very good care of our girl.” Reiji couldn't help but smile a small smile, imagination racing.

Their sweet kitten curled up on Ranmaru's lap, napping together on the couch. The afternoon sun would shine through the windows of the condo, Ranmaru's hair catching the light in a way that made it seem to glow a little. Almost as sweet as reality, the pixels that made up Ranmaru's face on his screen and the words that made up his thinly veiled affections.

“Still... I better come home soon then, ne? For Aki-chan, of course.” The grin Reiji wore was hardly innocent. It had the rocker spluttering. “Do whatever you want!”

“What I want,” Reiji left the word hanging, tension mounting. He watched Ranmaru's shoulders stiffen, tense, on the defensive. Likely expecting teasing, or worse innuendo. Reiji chuckled and hoped he'd never become immune to the giddiness these antics brought him. “- is a good nap session with you. I'm missing my Ranran, you know!”

And he was hooked, line and sinker. It was always such a pleasure to watch the tension drain out of him, watch him soften, try and find his bluff and bluster.“Video not enough for ya?”

“Of course it isn't!” Reiji scoffed in mock offence. “You're not here, and I wanna take you all around London! There are so many stores you'd love, and street musicians, and bars, famous venues and-” “I'd go with you.” Ranmaru blurted it out like some kind of confession, eyes screwed shut as colour filled his cheeks.

Eyelids fluttered as Reiji blinked in rapid succession, lips parted and eyes wide. “Eh? What was that?”

“You heard me,” Ranmaru gruffed. He looked offscreen, as if trying to pretend his cheeks weren't burning still. “One day. I'll go with you.”

Reiji shot up, dropping is phone in the process. “Whoo hoo!! You mean it?!” “F-For the rock. Don't read into it.”

“Too late! Uwah! You can't see yet, but I'm doing a happy dance.” He swiped his phone from the duvet, grinning into the camera. “Hue hue, you really do love me, ne, Ranran?”

Video calls were their own kind of magic, tangible and wonderous. The warmth in Reiji's chest felt full to bursting, smile so bright his cheeks hurt. It only grew as Ranmaru scratched the back of his neck, his gaze falling to his screen – the visage of Reiji that filled it. “Yeah. Come home soon.”

#my writing #i would die for reiji and ranmaru #my favourite uta pri ship tbfh #uta pri #uta no prince sama #reiji kotobuki #ranmaru kurosaki #quartet night

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mufsies · 4 years

Text

Blank- Chapter One

Grazes

"Help me up?" Luka asked, brushing off his deeply grazed knees. Alix reached out a hand and pulled him to his feet, laughing at his extravagant pratfall from his skateboard to the floor.

"You need some more practice, buddy!" she exclaimed, beaming. It wasn't unlike Alix to make fun of Luka whenever they visited the skatepark together; it was part of what Luka enjoyed about it. Nathaniel called over, his forehead drenched in sweat. He had clearly been running, as it was visible through his orange and black tank top.

"Hey, you guys!" he laughed, playing along with the cheery scene. "Been a while, Luka. How's everything?"

Luka laughed and shrugged, pulling his own Jagged Stone tank from sticking to his chest.

"Look at my knees, you'll see," he breathed nonchalantly. Nathaniel cringed.

"Those look kinda bad, ya know. Maybe you should clean 'em up before you go again. I'll fetch your skateboard from the bottom of the pit."

Luka smiled sincerely. Nathaniel was always a concerned soul.

"Yeah... maybe."

The skatepark was always gorgeous at golden hour. The sun sparkled gently on the metal railings as people slid along them. During summer, especially, when people were out later that 10 o'clock, it felt so peaceful, so elegant. Real.

Luka found himself zoning out, his knees and palms barely concerning him anymore as the scenery entranced him. Before he could realise, he was on the floor and leaning on his hands. Luka looked up. Adrien.

Adrien was on the pavement with him, dazed and blank. He'd fallen to his knees and shred through the skin on the rough concrete. Luka let out a long breath, which he hadn't realised he was holding.

"Hey, Adrien. What're you doing out? I thought your father was super strict."

"Oh, dont worry about it. Just... getting some air."

Luka remained unconvinced as Adrien stood up sheepishly, trying to ignore the gravel embedded in his skin.

"Would you like to come back with me? I assume you aren't actually allowed to be out, so you can stay the night at mine."

"Oh, no! You do-"

"Please, I insist."

By the time they arrived at the riverbank, the sun was almost set. Since Adrien didn't have a skateboard, they walked together. Slowly, because at that point, both of them were cut up pretty bad. A peaceful walk.

The sky was now a deep blood orange, coating the world in shades of mystery. The rays dangled on Adrian's features, highlighting the melancholic shine in his eyes. Though he wouldn't admit it, likely ever, Luka thought the setting suited him. A lonesome boy sitting at the rivers edge, contemplating every next choice as it comes. As he thought through all of the different agles of his little fanatsy, an idea came to mind.

"This would be a great place for a photoshoot, don't you think?" he questioned innocently, stopping for a moment to admire the reflection of the river.

Adrien paused. This was what he was afraid of. He left to escape that whole ordeal, just for a few hours. To be a truly normal person, inside and out. Now, he knew that wherever he went, he couldn't, because everyone saw him as what he was on screen.

Adrian found himself beginning to exhaust, staggering back a few paces. Luka halted immediately, concerned when he reached for the wall beside the riverbank.

"Is it the heat?" he pressed, more urgent than before. Adrian didn't know how to respond. He certainly didn't want to open up. He could never tell Luka about the crushing weight of his father's expectations. His clothes were damp with sweat, from the heat and the stress, which stuck to him like glue.

Before he could object, Luka grabbed him by the wrist and hauled it over his shoulder.

"When we get in, I'll run you a cold bath. Juleka's gonna be happy to see you, Adrian. She won't expect it."

The last little comment left Adrian smiling, even though he felt weak. It was nice that Juleka, whom he didn't talk to often, would enjoy seeing him unexpectedly. He looked forward to it.

By the time they had reached the boat, Luka was exhausted, too. Partly carrying someone his weight half the way home wasn't something you wanna do in decent weather, let alone in such blazing heat. He trudged down the stairs into the living room and let go of Adrian.

"What are you doing here, Adrian?" she inquired, scooching forward ever so slightly on the couch. She silenced herself when he realised how they both looked: hot, sweaty, and possibly slightly ill with cuts and bruises. Luka, upon further inspection, was much more concerning when she considered the scrapes along his palms and elbows.

"Were you both attacked on the way home or somethin'!? Good God, you look like your town was pillaged!" Luka's and Juleka's mother abruptly interrupted their pathetic, one sided conversation.

"I was at th... the skatepark... and bumped into A-Adrian on the way. We both fell over..." Luka barely managed to speak, hand on the doorframe for support. He so desperately wished to explain the full story, but he didn't have it in him. If he wasted any more enegy on talking, he migh've passed out.

"Well, I'll let you sort yerselves out then. Capable?" she concluded, hands on her hips. Luka nodded assuredly and stood up properly. Adrian remained completely silent, tired and slightly embarrased. He could only really think, hope, that no one would bring up his father again.

When they let go of eachother a few moments later, Adrain was both relieved amd disappointed. On the one hand, it was too hot to cope with another person's body heat. On the other, Luka's skin on his was a nice feeling; one he didn't recieve often. Despite the midnight temperature spike, he felt cold.

"Here," Luka suddenly announced. "all yours."

Adrian accepted the glass he was generously offered. The liquid was almost opaque- it was clear that it had been in the fridge.

"Mom keeps it in the fridge, cause its nicer," Luka clarified, smiling through nausea.

"Your mother is a genius."

A long, awkward, nerve inducing silence followed. It was so quiet that Adrian could hear his heartbeat in his chest. It was rythmic, off beat. His stomach was beginning to tighten with the tension, like it was linked. Adrian's heartbeat began to quicked when he noticed Luka glancing at him- it was painful in an unrecognisable kind of way. The way you can't describe, but only feel. Evidently, it showed on his face, as Luka nudged him in the shoulder.

"Are you doing okay? You don't look so great," he whispered, fearing that he might somehow hurt Adrian if he spoke any louder.

"Yeah, yeah... are you? I mean, you're kinda pale, so I-"

"Don't stress yourself with explaining. I'm not your father."

There it was again. He couldn't say anything, lest Luka catch on and start asking more questions. Instead, he stayed quiet about it and placed his empty glass on the desk above him. He let his head fall on the bedsheets behind it, surprised that they were the coldest thing he'd touched all day.

"Oh, wow. Luka, come try this," Adrian urged, slightly more satisfied.

Luka didn't want to move. He was comfortable on the wall, sitting on the floor next to the bathroom. Besides, if he moved, he'd be further away from where he could go if he got sick. He was so, so nauseous.

" I... nah, I'm good here. Thanks, though."

As a distraction, Luka checked the time on his phone. 11:30pm.

"We should go to bed, ya know. Its already half 11," Luka suggested adamantly, hoping Adrian would take. He thought that maybe he could sleep off the sickly feeling at the top of his throat and forget about it in the morning. Adrian didn't look like he wanted do budge. "Don't ya think?"

Without meaning to, Luka's voice quivered with a pleading tone. It was fragile to the point where even Adrian's oblivious ass picked it up. He lifted his head and turned out his eyebrows.

"You're paler than before," he stated blankly, "I think you should cool off more. Have a bath- no, shower. Its better for if you're gonna pass out, so you don't drown."

Luka was overly surprised by Adrian's manner. He shouldn't have been, his only role model for anything, really, being his father. Coupled with his friend list being slim to none until a few months ago, it was bound to have an imact on how he reacted in certain situations.

Luka was hardly finished with his inner monologue when he heard the door open next to him. The shower was soon turned on and Luka was getting out of his shirt.

"Adrian?"

"Uhh, yeah?"

"Could you... uhh..."

Luka hesitated.

"Could you stay in here? Just so if I faint, I'm with someone."

Adrian smiled thankfully. He patted Luka's bare shoulder and squeezed it.

"I was gonna suggest the same thing."

The boys shared a brief but meaningful moment where they totally understood each other and how they felt, even if they didn't umderstand why they felt that way. Luka was the first fo shy away, his cheeks morphing into a shade of pastel pink under feverish skin.

"So, I'm only half undressed-"

"Shit! Sorry."

------------------

Adrian handed Luka a towel through the curtain, briefly brushing their fingers together. There was a flash of invigorating electricity that surged through both of them and Adrian swiftly retracted his hand. Luka wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out, ruffling his soaked hair.

There were no words to describe how Adrian felt in that moment. Luka stepped out onto the floor with only a towel on, dripping wet and fresh. His chest and stomach sheened in the hard light, his features sharpened like steel. Adrian could tell that he was feeling much better.

"You wanna go next?" Luka asked, hoping for a pleasant note to end off such a tedious and unpleasant night. Adrian didn't reply for a long while, trying to hide his face, hued red. Luka felt the elipses loom over him as he stood, the water down his back slowly evaporating.

He touched Adrian's shoulder hesitantly, hoping for his attention. Adrian turned slowly, bronze in the light.

Their eyes caught and held for a long while, caught in eachother's trap. Unexpectedly, Adrian's breath hitched and halted, nervous beyond compare. He looked away and covered his mouth with wide eyes. It was then that he really saw the gravity of the situation.

Gently, Luka moved his hand towards Adrian's face from a distance, trying to find a way to reach him. Adrian flinched. Tears filled his eyes, and with stress and frustration, he cried.

'I'm not meant to feel like this.'

'I'm not meant to be here.'

'What am I doing?'

'Fuck!'

Adrian choked on his confusion, leaving it to Luka to help him out. He sunk down the wall and withheld his hand from Luka's.

"Adrian," Luka soothed patiently, understanding perfectly well how he felt. He thought back to when they were at the docs together. He told himself he wouldn't trouble Adrian with it; he was wrong.

Luka cupped Adrian's face and muffled his silent sobs almost immediately with a hand pressed gently underneath his chin.

"Your knees are still pretty messed up. We should deal with that," Luka continued.

"Yeah."

#adrien agreste #luka couffaine #lukadrien #miraculous #wholesome #Angst #Fanfiction

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thedistantstorm · 5 years

Text

Keep On Rising (Until The Sky Knows Your Name) 10

A story about how an orphaned Amanda Holliday comes to belong in the Last Safe City and the family she finds along the way.

(Or, the story of how Commander Zavala finds himself responsible for one Amanda Holliday.)

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09

This time: Zavala calls in a favor, Amanda meets Eva.

There are obstacles, road blocks… challenges, to any objective.

He is not a man who allows himself to stray from the task at hand, except when necessary. This isn’t technically necessary - not to him - but he knows that the consequences of not following through will outweigh the repercussions of missing three minutes of faction banter.

Really, no matter how long the three heads argue, the outcome will still be the same. Lakshimi has the funding for her project and will proceed with her objective, paying Hideo to produce the weapons she requires, leaving Arach Jalal licking his wounds because if he wants new ships, he’ll only have the meager support of the Vanguard’s budget - and only if he plays nicely.

For a man who consistently says whatever thought crosses his mind without any situational awareness, it’s a rather unpleasant deal. To Zavala, he’d rather they skip that part, and forego the carrying on leading up to it.

He’d made a promise this morning. Foolishly. He presumed nothing large would come up, Ikora was on duty tonight, she could handle anything short of a large-scale attack on the City, and this meeting was supposed to adjourn at least three hours earlier. He knew better than to assume.

What were you going to do? Shiori asks silently between them while Jalal throws his tantrum in the direction of Lakshimi-2. She knows you come when you’re able.

Maintaining his look of inscrutable stoicism, he answers in kind. She was looking forward to this. I never speak so specifically on purpose, and now…

It was going to happen eventually, She replies through their link. And honestly, you’re going to have to get used to it, if this is ever going to work. There’s a pause. And I think that’s the part you’re more worried about, if you ask me.

Shiori. Though it’s not particularly audible, the Ghost understands his tone immediately. It’s the tired one he uses with Cayde-6, most of the time.

So, if you’re not going to make it, you’re going to have to think of an alternative. Someone else who might not be in this meeting and would be free. Someone who’s good with kids, easy to get along with, won’t pepper Amanda with questions…

Shiori.

What?

Zavala’s only physical reaction is a small part of his lips, a practiced glance at the ceiling. Around him, the room carries on, oblivious to their conversation. See if Eva is free. Please.

The nurses try to get her to eat. They bring her both dinner choices from the hospital’s cafeteria, make offers of ice cream and sweet treats. She doesn’t want any of it. Zavala promised he’d bring them both dinner. He never makes promises, but he always follows through. Maybe something happened.

She asks the nurses, but they simply sigh and tell her that he’d likely gotten busy. He was very important, didn’t she know?

Of course she did. Anytime she asked him for something it was always in that way that suggested maybe he could, that he didn’t have to. She knew eventually it would all run out, everything did. She’d have to go back to the orphanage and it would be back to one day every few months. If she was lucky, she might see him for an hour or two.

But she could enjoy it while it lasted, she thought. He was the one who asked her this time, not the other way around. She knew he would come through. He always did.

So, when the door to her room slides open very tentatively, she freezes. That isn't Zavala, she knows it instantly. Her eyes darken, narrowing in distrust on the newcomer and the bag in her arms.

"Hello, dear," The woman says in a heavily accented voice. She lingers in the doorway, holding up the bag. A look of momentary confusion twists her lips into something concerned, but it's there and gone. "Zavala sent me. He was worried you might be getting hungry. He's been stuck in a meeting all evening and isn't sure when it will end." She looks at Amanda's face, not her stump. And she seems pretty nice, Amanda supposes, but she still doesn't trust her.

The woman steps into the room, her brown hair glinting with a hint of gray under the fluorescent lighting. "May I?"

She nods. "Will he come after?" And then, nose scrunching, she asks, "And, uh, who are you, anyway?"

A laugh comes in reply. The woman sets aside the tray of untouched hospital good, pulling out rice and beans in a clear container and a few opaque containers that look like meats. The girl stares in rapt surprise.

"My name is Eva. Eva Levante." She sets to arranging the contents of the containers onto a plate - a real one, not the plastic ones the hospital uses. "I know he promised you something from one of his favorite restaurants, but between you and me, I think he likes my cooking better."

Amanda swallows hard. "Smells real good," She concedes in a whisper. "Do," She looks to Eva, "Do ya think he'll come after his meetin'?"

That makes Eva pause. "Oh, don't you worry, my dear. He'll come see you as soon as he's done. He seemed very upset that he hadn't been able to make it on time." She hands the child a fork. "I brought him some dinner as well," She smiles, winking, "He works too hard. Someone has to keep an eye on him."

When Zavala arrives hours later, Eva is reading. It's nearly eleven, and it's apparent that he is bone tired, but he slips in quietly and offers her a grateful nod.

"She just drifted off about half an hour ago. Tried to hold out as long as she could, but the pain started to get to her. She didn't want them to knock her out before you got here."

"She's stubborn," He answers gently. "Thank you. Truly, I-"

"Yer here," Amanda calls, woozy, blinking her eyes to fight off the effects of the narcotics. Her hands reach toward him and he smiles, taking the few steps to her bedside, leaning down, and letting her hug him. Returning it, even, with a very gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry I'm late," He whispers, but she's shaking her head into his chest.

"'S ok," She drawls. "Jus' wanted ta see you."

He hears Eva rise sharply behind him and it strikes him immediately. This is - he detangles himself from Amanda, who blinks in hazy confusion - how this must be a difficult thing for her to walk into blindly.

"M's Eva?"

The well-dressed woman pauses, halfway to letting herself out. Zavala looks at her back, sees her fists clenched and his heart feels like it's breaking. Of course. He should have thought this through. He knew what she'd been through, this was asking so much of her.

"Thanks fer sittin' with me," Amanda slurs sleepily. "An' dinner, too. Wus' nice."

Eva nods, tilting her head so that only the side of her face is visible, shadowed in the yellow lights. "I'll come visit again, my dear," She says. "Get some rest."

"Eva."

"Don't worry about me, Zavala. It's alright." She turns all the way back, giving him a watery smile. Her voice is thick with emotion, and it guilts him terribly. "You call me any time she needs."

"Thank you," He answers, hoarsely.

"She lost people, too," Amanda murmurs a little later, her breaths so slow and even it's as though she's already asleep. He hums in agreement, knowing she'll be out like a light soon enough. She probably won’t even remember it. "She's still nice though."

"She is," Zavala agrees. “Would you mind if she came back?”

“Nah,” She hums, breathing heavier. Zavala pulls up the blankets she’s mussed in her attempt to sit up and greet him, tucking her in before taking up his usual spot beside her bed for the night. “Like yer friend.”

Eva is waiting for him in the Plaza the following afternoon.

“You didn’t have to send me flowers,” She chides, hands on her hips. “It was was not a big deal.”

“You helped me, yet it upset you,” He answers. They fall into step rather easily, their destination determined by time of day. “That was not my intent.”

“There is not a mean bone in your body, Zavala. It was just surprising.” She gives him a knowing smile. “I would not have taken you to be so… indulgent.”

The Commander coughs politely, almost bashful. “Neither would I,” He admits.

“She’s a special girl.” Eva presses, and Zavala nods in agreement, almost too subtle to notice.

Eva chances another glance his way, a wistful smile on her face. “Something tells me this isn’t just a random act of kindness. You look conflicted. Tell Eva what you are thinking.”

“It’s all right,” Zavala answers. “I don’t-”

“Amanda told me you’ve been sitting with her every evening since she was injured. And those bags under your eyes confirm it. You are not sleeping, Commander. You’re going to drive your Ghost crazy not taking care of yourself.” She wags a finger at him. Eva might be the only person in the City who has the gall.

“I’m fine.”

His Ghost flickers into the cradle made by their shoulders as they walk side by side. Eva might be shorter than Zavala, but Shiori finds a happy medium between the two of them. “I told him he needs to get used to this. It’s an adjustment phase.”

The Tower vendor stops moving. “Really,” She sounds rather elated, the opposite of what Zavala is expecting. He’d been preparing for bittersweet. He turns and evaluates her to make sure the conversation isn’t upsetting her, as the situation had last night. “You wish to take the child in? She did not seem to think-”

“I’m considering it,” Zavala admits, quietly. “I have not made any definitive plans as of yet.”

Eva hums, continuing on, passing him by. She catches his elbow, squeezing the unarmored part above it. “I think that would be wonderful,” She gushes.

Zavala blows out a controlled breath, sighing, “I have no idea where to begin.”

“No one ever does, Zavala.” Eva smiles at him proudly. Her endorsement is nearly tangible. “You learn from them as much as they learn from you.”

#destiny fanfic #amanda holliday #commander zavala #Shipwright September #eva levante #zavala is tower dad

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callboxkat · 5 years

Text

(Un)Broken - part 6

Author’s note: Sorry for the wait! I hope you guys like this one.

Warnings: food mention, headache mention, kinda implied racism?, Remy being an angsty boy

Word count: 1106

Look for the masterpost in the notes!

...

That afternoon, Virgil had a shift at the record shop he worked at; so, it was rather late by the time he made it back to the crummy apartment complex he called home.

He entered his apartment and shut the door behind him as silently as the hinges allowed. All the lights in the apartment were off, including those in Remy’s room—the door was half-open—but Virgil could see a bluish glow within, roughly where Remy’s bed was. Probably from either his laptop or his phone.

Remy didn’t call out a greeting, and Virgil just crept past, not wanting to get yelled at like he had the day before. One of the floorboards creaked under his foot, but Remy still didn’t acknowledge him.

Virgil wondered what was going on with him. They’d gotten the insomnia thing sorted out months before, hadn’t they? And it was spring, so the odds were that it wasn’t related to his seasonal depression. Something must have happened on Monday.

Should he try to ask? Or would he just get yelled at again? Virgil honestly had no idea.

He ended up settling for spending the rest of the evening hanging out in the main room, rather than in his bedroom, in case Remy decided that he wanted to talk.

Even so, Virgil was surprised when, a few hours later, he heard shuffling footsteps coming up behind the couch. He turned his head to look, and there was his roommate: he had a blanket tugged around his shoulders, his sunglasses on crooked, and his hair hanging down in loose tangles. Virgil silently moved his feet so there’d be room for him to sit down.

Remy did so, sighing heavily. For several long minutes, neither of them said anything, just watching the television, which was playing a rerun of an old game show.

“Sorry,” Remy said, breaking the silence. His voice cracked in a way that sounded almost painful. Had… had he been crying?

“Hm?”

“Sorry,” Remy repeated. He cleared his throat. “For yelling at ya earlier.”

“You mean yesterday?”

Remy was silent for a second. “Right,” he commented absently.

“I mean…” Virgil sighed. “It’s fine, I guess.” Part of him wanted to be more upset about having been told to ‘f--- off’, but Remy looked pretty rough. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm.” Remy leaned the back of his head against the couch. “Nah, girl,” he admitted, shutting his eyes.

“’Nah’?” Virgil echoed. “What’s going on?”

There was another long silence. Virgil was starting to wonder if his roommate had fallen asleep, when Remy suddenly moved, pushing himself up from the couch in one quick movement.

“Good night,” he muttered, shuffling off back towards his room. Virgil stared after him.

…

“So,” Virgil asked conversationally at lunch the next day, glancing at Roman. “Can I ask you something?”

The three friends—Virgil, Roman, and Patton—were all sitting together in the cafeteria. Logan still wasn’t there. None of them had seen him that day, and he hadn’t responded to a text that Patton had sent asking if he was coming.

Patton seemed agitated, pushing around his food with his fork without making any move to take a bite. Virgil himself was growing increasingly uneasy, too, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. He needed to create some sort of distraction, anything to keep him and the others from their worry. He’d have preferred to talk with Patton directly, but he wasn’t sure that Patton would actually answer him.

“Certainly,” Roman said, setting down his own fork.

“Why’d you only start learning Spanish when you were four? Your mom’s a native speaker, isn’t she? Or did you just say that so I’d feel better about you helping me with my paper?”

Roman grinned. “Well, first of all, that was three questions,” he joked, holding up his pointer finger. “But, that was true. And both of my parents were native speakers, actually.”

Virgil gave him a baffled look.

“I think they wanted not to speak Spanish,” Roman shrugged. “They changed their mind when Emilio was born, though.”

“Why wouldn’t they want you to speak Spanish?” Patton asked, finally looking up from his stir fry. He blinked in confusion.

Roman looked thoughtful. “You know, I don’t know. Maybe they though English was more American.”

Virgil snorted.

“I think it’s cool you speak Spanish,” Patton mumbled, going back to poking at his food.

“Thanks, Padre,” Roman said, smiling.

Virgil was trying to figure out what to say next when he saw someone walking up to the table out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look.

“Logan!” Roman cried in delighted surprise. Patton’s head shot up. His mouth fell slightly open.

Logan, who looked perfectly normal, set down a textbook on the table and pulled out the chair next to Virgil. “Greetings,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been gone for two days.

“You! You’re back!” Patton said, stating the obvious. He was sitting up straight, staring at Logan like he couldn’t quite believe he was there.

“I am,” Logan confirmed. “I apologize for my tardiness. One of my professors wanted to discuss my recent absences.”

“I’ll fight them,” Patton promised.

“It was nothing bad,” Logan said. “She just wanted to find a time to schedule a test that I missed.”

Virgil, who had been about to take a bite of his sandwich, paused.

“Wait,” Roman suddenly said, appearing to surprise even himself with the volume of the word. “You missed a test?”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “Yes, well….”

“Are your headaches getting worse?” Patton asked in a small voice.

Logan sighed. “No,” he said. “No, I promise, they’re not. But they’re also….”

“Not getting better?” Virgil finished uncertainly.

Logan nodded once.

“Oh, Logan,” Patton said softly.

“Couldn’t they still get better?” Roman asked. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“They could,” Logan said. “My doctor, however, does not seem overly optimistic. In any case, I have to deal with them now, so the uncertainty of the future is not pertinent to my current situation.”

“Hm,” was Roman’s only reply.

Still, that sucks, Virgil thought. He glanced over at the clock. They were running a little short on time.

“Want half my sandwich?” Virgil offered, waving it temptingly. Logan didn’t have any lunch yet, and the line was rather long. Patton would probably pout if Logan left them again before their free period was over.

“That’s quite alright, Virgil,” Logan said. “I can simply—.” He broke off, apparently catching sight of Patton’s expression. He sighed. “Very well. I shall compensate you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Virgil said. Logan accepted the sandwich.

“So,” he said, inspecting the sandwich like he was looking for the best place to bite. “Have I missed anything while I was gone?”

Roman perked up. “Well, there is this play that I’ve been meaning to tell you guys about….”

...

Tag list: @patton-loves-coloring @starryfirefliesbloggo @purplesoul-at-hogwarts @gaylotusthatexists @quoth-the-sparrow @awesomelissawho @amuthefunperson @faithfreedom @heck-im-lost @gayfandomsaremything @jemthebookworm @opaque-puppet @bunny222 @syndianites @astraastro @momolinia @captainswan618 @hamilin-manuel-miranda @goldenkiddos @afilhadehades-blog @virgeofselfdestruction @theresneverenoughfandoms @iris-sanders-athena @super-magical-wizard @rainbow-sides @thefallendog @fanficptsd @zodiac-awesome @lookitsthatquietgirl @nerd-in-space @pearls-of-patton @ab-artist @angered-turtle @im-so-infinitesimal @raygelkitty @dr-gloom @whats-going-on-kiddos @the-dumbster @oh-star-how-the-mighty-fall @fillyourteacup @kittiebrick @youtuberswithalex

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #ts #sanders sides fan fiction #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #ts fanfic #fanfiction #college au #unbroken fic #(un)broken fic #remy sanders #sleep sanders

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kinkyacademia · 6 years

Text

Anon asked: Miss Lady Bitch Tits can I just thank you for having a demon AU, I've been dying to see demon Bakugou AU and you just fulfilled my dreams. Could you do obviously demon Bakugou and maybe angel reader, if not just human reader. They've been secretly dating even though her father despises demons and after awhile things get intimate if ya know what I mean ;) *coughcough nsfw* Bakugou brings the shit he is, is cocky he's with such a pure girl and all that just in spite if her father. Thank you!!!!

Request 2 of the Halloween requests I received. Ohohoho! Can I? Why yes! I most certainly can. Demon Katsuki and an Angel reader, I've never been asked to do an Angel reader before. I am looking forwards to this one and will be sure to throw in some NSFW for you my Little Rogue… but careful… forbidden things often come with consequences.

TRIGGER WARNING: Contains Angst as well as some Blood/Gore mentions towards the end.

~Lady Lucifer🐾🐾

💥💥💥

Katsuki was silent as he glided his way through the clouds. He knew how dangerous it was to be meeting you like this, the love shared between you was a forbidden one after all. He smirked as he darted between the clouds, his crimson eyes glimmering as they narrowed in on your form below. He watched as you tucked your powerful feathered wings behind your back, his tail flicking about in anticipation as his eyes raked over your figure instinctively. Katsuki would be lying if he said he didn’t know your body by heart, he had every curve and muscle imprinted in his brain. Your love may have been forbidden but that didn’t stop him from worshipping everything about you.

You were one of the Archangels, someone who was charged with some of the most important duties of the Heavens. Katsuki was painfully aware of your standings and had on many occasions warned you of the consequences you would face when you befriended him. You had only ever wanted to be his friend but as time passed between the two of you and you got to know him better, you couldn’t have done anything to prevent yourself from falling in love with him. Katsuki was a Demon though and that was what made your love so scandalous, so forbidden in the eyes of the elders. Lucifer of course, didn’t care who his Demons tainted. The Angels though, they cared a great deal as to whom their kin decided to bed each night.

As an Archangel, you should have known better than to even try engaging in a friendship with a Demon, let along falling in love. Katsuki Bakugou was a Demon known throughout not just Hell but the Heavens as well. He was hated by all the Angels, they had lost so many of their kind to his ruthless and brutal ways of hunting. It was true that he was only following the orders of his King, but that didn’t stop the Angels from despising the man of whom Lucifer held such high praise for. You, an Archangel, had been tasked with the duty of killing Katsuki on sight and bringing his head back to the elders as a means in proving his death. Katsuki had given you every chance, had tempted you into battle with him on more than one occasion and yet you had been incapable of murdering him. You loved Katsuki, that much you were painfully aware of but no one could have ever predicted the Demon loving you back!

Katsuki smirked as he floated down to where you stood among the trees, your beautiful white Doric Chiton simple and yet elegant against your fair skin. He had always liked the fact that your Doric Chiton was to be worn with one side left open, exposing your thigh and hip. He was quiet as he landed behind you, his footfalls silent on his approach as his hands reached out for the soft feathered appendages that ruffled behind your body. Katsuki knew how sensitive they were and he loved it when he could get his hands on them. He brushed his fingers along the strong ridges of your wings, keeping his claws clear of harming your gorgeous feathers. They held a certain opaque look to them, the way they shimmered in the light reminded the Demon of the rare Opals he had once gifted you with. He slid his hand along your wings, watching as they quivered under his administrations and stretched out to their full length as your body arched back towards him on instinct. No other man would dare to touch your wings, they knew that a swift death awaited them if they so mush as to tried to the wings of an Angel such as yourself.

“Having fun?” Your voice was soft and melodic to is ears, the sound had bothered him at first but now it was somewhat of a drug to him.

“Always my love, you know I love fucking with your wings.” Katsuki rumbled as he stepped closer behind you, pressing his chest to your back as his hands hovered over your precious wings.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this Katsu…” You whispered as you turned in his arms, all but cooing the nickname you had given him and ran your fingers over his tunic as you smiled up at him.

Katsuki clicked his tongue as he leaned down to you, his hands sliding down over your hips before running up along your spine. His fingers crawled just a little higher and hit the base of your wings, making him smirk as he felt you shiver in anticipation from how sensitive they were. “Told you the solution. Come home to Hell with me!” He smirked triumphantly as he finally wrapped his fingers around the base of your wings and rubbed them.

You gasped and moaned as you pressed your chest in his, your head tucking under his chin. “That’s… not how this works.” You whined as you bit your bottom lip.

“Just renounce Heaven already! You know they have nothing there that you want babe, so why do you stay?” He growled as he slipped his tail under your Chiton.

You frowned as you nuzzled into his warmth, there was just so much wrong with what he was saying and yet deep down you knew that he was right! It was no secret that Lucifer wanted you in Hell, he wanted you on his side and even went so far as to say you were wasted upon the likes of Heaven. As much as you would have liked to take him up on his offer, you knew that the Angels would ever let you leave and chaos would ensue is you tried.

“You know it’s not that simple.” You whispered as you kissed his neck and trailed your fingers over his abdominal muscles. “Please, just accept this for now.”

Katsuki growled in annoyance as he moved his tail, slapping your ass firmly with it. “I hate your God! That bastard drives me insane and is keeping you from me!” A Demons despise for God was no surprise, Katsuki however had a zero tolerance for them and often wanted to cause carnage upon their holy grounds.

“Katsuki!” You cautioned as you looked up at him pleadingly, you were all too aware of his dislike for your God but it still worried you every time he spoke out against them.

“Yeah, yeah… I fucking get it, alright!” He muttered as he rubbed the base of your wings, the motion serving as more of a calming procedure for the roused Demon than anything else. “For now, you’re mine though.” Katsuki smirked as he pulled you tighter against his body.

You gasped and giggled as you kissed along his neck, nipping at the sensitive muscles along his jaw as you looked up at him. “Is that so, Mister Bakugou? I don’t recall saying I was yours.” You teased, poking his stomach as you pressed into him more.

Katsuki smirked as he spread his leathery wings fully, leaning down to your level as he nips at your ear before licking it. “Careful Angel, remember which of us is the real sinner here.” He whispered huskily as he lets go of your wings and grabbed your thighs instead.

You shuddered as rough, calloused fingers rubbed over your sensitive skin and his tongue trailed along the side of your neck. Sinner? You truly did wonder at times which of you was the sinner in your relationship, others would say you but Katsuki was adamant it was him. Katsuki had been a part of the legions of Hell for as long as you could remember, the elders had always referred to him as one of the first abominations. You had asked Katsuki on numerous occasions what they meant by that but his answer was always a question that led to the answer being avoided. Yes, Katsuki may have been the real sinner here but weren’t you to? You were engaging in a forbidden love with a Demon, didn’t that make you as equally sinful as him?

You gasped and moaned as Katsuki sunk his fangs into your shoulder, his hands sliding up along your thighs as he lifted your Chiton out of the way. You blinked, moaning as you leaned your head to the side for him and your eyes fluttered from the please. You didn’t know why or even understand how, but Katsuki’s bite always cause pleasure within your body. You squirmed against him, rolling your hips down as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“If you’re going to tease and leave me horny again, you can stop right now.” You whimpered as you pressed your body in against his more, your wings shuddered behind you.

“Like hell! I didn’t come here to tease today, (Name)!” He rumbled, his voice gravely as he lifted his head from your shoulder. “I can to fulfil all those promises I keep sending you home with.”

Promises? Was that what he had been giving you? Samples of the pleasure he was capable of inflicting on someone! Your voice hitched as you arched your back and bucked your hips forwards, grinding down against him. Your eyes shot open, wide as you looked into the crimson eyes before you and bit your bottom lip. A moan slipped from your lips as Katsuki rocked his hips up, his erection pressing against your folds through your clothing. You blushed as you leaned into him more, tangling your fingers into his hair and pressing your forehead against his firmly.

“Katsu…” You whispered softly as you rubbed your breasts over his chest, your nipples catching on your rough material.

“You picked a pretty convenient place to wait for me.” Katsuki grunted as he moved, keeping you tight against him as he walked a short distance. “This rock here is perfect. Smooth, flat and just the right height for me to pin you down; claiming you as my own!” He growled hungrily, his eyes flashing a bright red as he dragged his claws over your ass.

You whined at his words, shivering in anticipation as you pulled on the small hairs at the nape of his neck. “Katsu… please?” You begged as you rolled your hips heavily against his, pulling a moan from you both.

“Please? What?” He smirked as he let your legs slip from his hold, the back of your knees hitting the smooth surface of the rock. “Say it, (Name)! Say what you want! I can’t touch you, I won’t take you until you say it!” Katsuki pressed, driving home his point with a lazy roll of his hips and flicking his tongue over your ear.

“Please… Katsu, please?” You whined as you moaned low. “Please take my body as your own! I’m yours Katsuki!” Your voice was laden with pleasure as you rolled your hips up hard.

“Fuck, you’ve been tempting me for so long (Name)!” Katsuki growled as he pulled away from you, his hands firmly on your hips as he spun you to face away from him. “I’ve been craving your body but you’ve just been that bit out of my reach. Say it again, (Name)!” He ordered as he pressed your body down against the rock, caging you under him as he nipped at the back of your neck.

“Katsuki, I’m yours! I’m yours, Katsuki, I’m yours!” You whimpered as you tucked your wings up behind you, your body shuddering in anticipation for what was to come.

Katsuki smirked as he dragged his claws down over your back, careful not to rip the delicate material of your Chiton as he flicked his tail about quickly. “Put them away, I’d hate to damage your beautiful wings.” He muttered as he rubbed his hands over your ass, bunching your clothing up slowly as he exposed your powerful legs. “Demons aren’t known for holding back, (Name).” Katsuki explained, moving his tail to slap your ass with it.

You cried out and nodded your head feverishly. Your eyes slid shut as you focused your energy into your wings, willing them away as you pressed your body into the rock more. There was a hot tingle shoot down your spine as your wings ruffled behind you before a burning sensation spread over your shoulders. You gasped as your wings folded in on themselves before vanishing into the skin of your back, your hands planted firmly beneath you for support.

“That’s a girl…” Katsuki complimented, his burning hand spreading over your ass as he smirked wickedly. “That’s my beautiful Angel.”

You smiled and shuddered as you looked over your shoulder at him, your eyes locking with his as the whites started to turn black. “You’re giving in to your instincts?” You whispered as you quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You’ll love it a hell of a lot more than if I didn’t! Besides, Angels aren’t built like mortals.” Katsuki scoffed as his smirk grew bigger and his wings spread out behind him fully. “You’re fair stronger than their frail bodies will ever be, you can handle my power (Name).”

Katsuki growled low as he hooked his finger into your panties, pulling them aside as he used his tail to adjust his Toga. He watched as you shuddered beneath him, his hand planted firmly against the base of your spine as he held your Chiton out of the way. Fingers slipped inside of your panties, trailing along your folds as a low growl reverberated from Katsuki’s chest. You moaned softly, pushing your hips back against his fingers as he rubbed them along your soaked folds.

“You’re already so wet for me, (Name).” Katsuki chided as he pressed two of his fingers between your folds, spreading them and allowing your juices to drip onto his hand. “Does my bite feel that good to you? Is the pleasure I give you that painful for you?”

“Yes…” You whimpered as you wriggled your hips, curling your toes as you reached your hand back for him.

“I’d focus on getting a solid hold on the rock if I were you, don’t worry about what I’m doing!” He ordered as he pushed his fingers deeper between your folds, sinking them into your heat as he growled hungrily.

You gasped and moaned as you moved your hands to find baring on the rock beneath you, your walls clamping down around the fingers inside of you. You closed your eyes as Katsuki moved his fingers, the pace a slow and torturous one as he spread his fingers to make sure you could take him. His fingers gained speed as he added a third, your walls clamping around them and trying to force them deeper. You heard him chuckled as he leaned over you, his breath fanning over your shoulder as he pulled his fingers back out of you before thrusting them inside harshly. His pace gained momentum, Katsuki curling his fingers around as he thrust them relentlessly and bit at your shoulder. You couldn’t stop the cry that ripped itself from your throat as Katsuki’s fingers dragged over a spot, a shot of pleasure coursing through your body.

“There you are…” Katsuki growled as he pressed into you more, his fingers dragging back over that spot relentlessly. He watched as he turned you into a panting mess with his fingers, your thighs quivering against his arm each time he decided to spread his fingers as far as he could. “I think that’ll do.” He murmured as he pulled his fingers back, looking down at his hand as it glistened with your juices. Katsuki smirked as he moved, gripping his aching dick and smearing your juices over it as he stroked himself.

You breathed heavily as you pressed your cheek into the rock, your knuckles white from where you had managed to find purchase on the rock. You gasped as Katsuki repositioned himself, his dick sliding between your thighs before rubbing along your folds firmly. You moaned as his dick throbbed against your folds and you pushed your hips back for him, a motion to say you wanted more! Katsuki had never been one to deny you and now was no different, your choked back a moan as he pushed inside of you. The head of his dick spreading your folds as he pressed into you, he was big and it was stretching you in the best way possible. You let out a wanton moan as he buried himself inside of your heat, his dick throbbing as your walls clamped down around it and welcomed him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight (Name) and so fucking warm!” Katsuki growled as he gripped your hips roughly, his claws breaking skin as he dug them into your tender flesh.

You mewled as you pushed your hips back, pressing your forehead to the rock as you smiled happily. “You’re so big, so full and it feels so good!” You breathed in a whimper.

Katsuki smirked as he pulled his hips back slowly, your walls clamping around him to keep him inside. He growled as he pulled all the way back, barely keeping the head of his dick inside your folds before he drove himself back into your heat full force. He relished in your scream that pierced the air around you, his wings spreading behind him and flapping as he thrust his hips harshly. Katsuki used his grip on your hips to his advantage, pulling you body back to his with each harsh thrust forward of his hips. Your wanton and heated moans were music to his ears as he buried himself in your welcoming body repeatedly.

You screamed out loudly, bucking your hips roughly as your breathing became laboured. You whimpered in need as he drove his dick deep into your heat, pressing down into all the right places as he made himself at home. His grip on your hips was almost painful, you were certain you would have bruises there later and probably some scars from his dangerous claws. You whimpered out his name as you arched your back, pressing your breasts down into the rock more. Your eyes widened as your nipples were forced over the rough material of your Chiton, the added pressure form the rock beneath them only added to the pleasure.

Katsuki smirked as he thrust his hips savagely, his instincts driving him to claim you as his own and mark you up as much he could. He snarled darkly as he dragged his claws back over your hips, your blood seeping over his fingers as he marked his Angel. He groaned as your walls clamped hungrily around his dick, causing him to thrust into you harder and deeper. You screamed his name, throwing your head back as your hips jerked back against his. Katsuki growled as he gripped your hair roughly, pulling on it hard as he yanked your head back. He growled possessively as you moaned his name, his grip on your hair tightening as he pulled your back against his chest.

“You’re mine! You here me, (Name)?” He growled in an animalistic tone as he snapped his hips forwards harshly. “You are my Angel; no other man will ever touch you!”

You whimpered in delight as you leaned back into him, pressing your head against his shoulder as you mewled in pleasure. “Yes! YES, I understand!” You moaned, your breath hitching as he pulled on your hair roughly. “I’m yours Katsuki, I’m your Angel!”

Katsuki smirked as he moved his other hand up, gripping your breast in his palm and squeezing it roughly. “Good!” He snarled before biting into the back of your neck, his fangs sinking in deep as blood welled in his mouth.

You whimpered in submission, your arms falling limp to your side as your eyes slipped closed. You moaned and mewled with every thrust of his hips, your body being jerked forth by his rough rhythm. You had never imagined that he would be so carnal when making love, but that wasn’t all he was doing. Was it? He was claiming you as his own, making sure that anyone who dared to lay hands on you would know you were his! His fangs would forever be imprinted into the back of your neck and the sensation of having them sunk so deep into your skin would never leave you.

“Fuck! You’re so fucking hot, (Name)” Katsuki snarled against your neck before lifting his head.

“Katsu…” You whimpered as his thrusts grew in strength.

Katsuki flapped his wings rapidly, using the strength he got from them to drive himself deeper into you. He was satisfied as he ripped a scream of his name from your lips, he had hit that sweet spot inside of you and he knew you were feeling it. He snarled as he gripped your breast harder, his claws tearing through the material as he dug them into your tender flesh. He slammed into your body relentlessly, burying himself to the hilt each time as he made sure you knew who you were giving yourself to. Katsuki bit over the back of your neck and exposed shoulders, only once he had you out of sight would he mark up the rest of your body. He hissed and groaned as he felt your walls clamp down around his dick particularly hard, his hand slipping from your breast down to rest over your stomach.

You moaned in need as you pressed back into Katsuki more, the Demon had done something to your body and it felt like every nerve ending was on fire. You could feel the pleasure coursing through your body as he made it his own, as he thrust his hips with new strength. Babbling was all that you could manage as you moved your arms back, gripping onto his powerful thighs and digging your nails in as best you could. Katsuki gave you a groan in response to your actions before pushing you forwards onto your stomach as he buried himself in you deeper. You cried out as heat coiled in the pit of your stomach, like a spring being wound too tight. You gasped as your head spun, the pleasure running through your body was becoming too much for you.

“Katsuki… ah, Kat…” You moaned, your voice breaking off as he thrust into you harder. You whimpered in pleasure as his teeth found purchase on your ear and his bit down roughly. “Katsuki, please…”

Katsuki smirked as he bit along your ear before licking behind it, keeping his relentless pace as he thrust into you roughly. “Something you’d like, (Name)?” He teased as he dragged his claws over your stomach carefully. “Are you close? Do you wish for your release?”

You whimpered and nodded your head quickly, pushing your hips back as you arched your back roughly. “Please…” You whispered in desperation, fighting back the haze that was washing over your mind.

“Then cum for me, (Name)! Cum for me my beloved Angel and ruin what little innocence you had left!” He snarled as he lowered his hand more and slipped it into the front of your panties, brushing his thumb over your clitoris as he smirked darkly.

Your body jolted and you gasped. Your lungs ceased working as your body rocked with your orgasm, your legs quivering as your walls clamped down around Katsuki’s dick hungrily. Your walls were greedily trying to milk him for all that he had, sucking and squeezing around him as wave after wave of your orgasm washed through your body. Your mind clouded over, blank from the sudden release of immense pleasure. You whimpered in submission as Katsuki continued to thrust into your body, groaning and grunting as his rhythm became lost. His dick was throbbing inside of you, swelling as he pushed himself deeper and harder into your warmth.

Katsuki snarled as he neared his end, his balls drawing up as he bit down on your shoulder and buried himself inside of you. His dick pushed into you deep as he snarled your name against your shoulder, his balls drawing up one last time and tightening before his orgasm hit. He sunk his fangs deeper into your flesh as he climaxed, his seed flowing into you as he rutted his hips against you roughly. His wings coming down to shield you from view as his tail wrapped securely around your thigh. He groaned as he chewed on your shoulder, his hand slipping from your hair as he planted it over your on atop the rock. Katsuki panted as he pulled his head back, his body covered in sweat as he ran his eyes over the various bite marks littering your neck. He smirked proudly as he flicked the tip of his tail against your stomach.

“You are mine!” He stated finally as he licked over some of the deeper wounds.

You shuddered under his administrations and mewled happily. “All yours, my Demon.” You whispered lovingly as you lolled your head from side to side.

“Let me take care of you for now, (Name).” Katsuki whispered soothingly, his saliva seeming to have some form of calming effect on you. “Sleep for now, I will wake you when we’re safe.” With his words lulling you along, you couldn’t help but to doze off to sleep. Knowing that your beloved would be there when you woke and that he would take care of you; there was nothing for you to worry about!

It wasn’t to be so easy, every time you were ready to go back to the Heavens and part ways with your beloved; something would prevent it. Katsuki was incapable of parting with you, incapable of keeping his hands off you and just as you would heal enough to leave; he would mark you up all over again. Before you knew it, days turned into weeks and weeks gradually became months. You hadn’t anticipated staying with the Demon for this long but the rough and animalistic moments you shared during sex had you craving him more. Katsuki’s tender and gentle nature after making love to you was something you had never experienced, he would care for your well-being more than any person had ever before. How could you bring yourself to leave such a gentle and yet strong man? You couldn’t!

You had to speak to Katsuki, it had been around five months since he had persuaded you to live among the humans with him and see if you would be capable of spending the rest of your life with him. You had been feeling nauseous of late and food seemed to be a hard thing to stomach, things were changing for you. It was something you needed to talk to your Demon about. You had rushed back to the small cabin that the two of you shared, hidden deep within the forest so that no human could stumble upon the two of you accidentally and face the wrath of an angered Demon.

The first thing that alerted you something was wrong was the front door, it was ajar and looked as though it had been booted in. You were on high alert as you pushed the assaulted thing open, your eyes narrowing as you searched around the small entry for your beloved. It hit you like a wave, the scent of blood overpowering your sense of smell and making your stomach churn dangerously. You gagged, covering your mouth as you stepped further into the cabin. Your heart was racing as you followed the nauseating smell and your eyes widened as you caught the sight of feathers scattered over the wooden floor.

“Katsuki!” You called for you Demon, your heart skipping beats as you raced towards your bedroom.

“There you are, (Name)!”

A chill shot down your spine at the sound of the voice behind you. You didn’t dare turn around to face them, you couldn’t for your eyes were glued to the figure slumped against the end of your bed. Tears welled in your eyes as you took in Katsuki’s broken form, he was covered in blood and his wings had been torn in various places. His head lifted slowly, crimson eyes locking with yours as fight seeped back into his glowing irises.

“RUN!” He growled before launching himself off the ground, his target the Angel you knew to be standing behind you.

You screamed as you ducked down out of the way, rolling around towards the front of the house as you planned for your next move. You couldn’t stop your eyes from flickering over to Katsuki as he collided with the Angel, his palm glowing an angry orange as he got ready to unleash his power. The world seemed to stutter to a halt as you watched the Angel, an Archangel nonetheless, drive a blade deep into the Demon’s stomach. The scream that ripped from your throat was unlike any noise of this world, it was so filled with pain and anger that you barely recognised it as your own.

Katsuki staggered back away from the Angel, his hand grasping at the blade embedded in his stomach as he looked over at you, his lips moving but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. His eyes widened as he reached for you, his fingers covered in blood as they trembled. He watched as two figures appeared behind you, their hands encircling your body as one of them gripped your throat and their wings spread out behind them. Katsuki hated those Angels, he hated God and he hated those that did their dirty work! He could hear your screams, pleading for him to help and for him to save you. He wanted nothing more than to move, to reach out and turn them all to ash for bringing harm to his Angel! Katsuki’s body wouldn’t move, his legs felt weak and his chest ached from the various broken bones. He couldn’t stop his legs from buckling under him and giving way, his knees slamming into the floor as he crumpled into a heap.

A rough hand gripped his hair, pulling his head back harshly as golden eyes peered into his crimson ones. “Forbidden love comes with a heavy price!” The Angel spat before slamming his head down into the ground.

Katsuki lifted his head slowly, watching as the Angels encircled you and he reached out his hand. “(Name)!” His voice was barely a whisper and he doubted you could hear him over your own screaming and crying. There was nothing he hated more than hearing you cry; the mere thought made his blood boil but his body wasn’t responding! His vision blurred, black spots clouding his vision as he slipped from consciousness and the awaiting darkness enveloped him.

When Katsuki awoke next it was with a searing pain in his stomach and the coppery taste of blood in the back of his throat as he gasped for air. His head was spinning as he tried to blink away the fog of drowsiness that was lingering over his mind. It happened fast and harsh, the memories of your screams while your face was twisted in fear. An Angel looming over him and Angels restraining you as you called for him, begging him to help you. He roared in pain and anger as he launched up into a sitting position, his hand stretched out in front of him as a blast of heat ignited from his palm.

“You’re alive, I see.”

Katsuki whipped his head around at the deep voice, his eyes widening as he took in Lucifer sitting in a chair across the room from him. It was his room, your room, the bedroom where he had chosen to love you more times than he cared to count. “(Name)?” He asked gravely as his brows knitted together, his stomach churning as he fought against the truth.

“Gone.” Lucifer answered earnestly, his voice holding an unusual amount of malice to it than what Katsuki was used to. “Not without a fight by the looks but she is gone.” He clarified as he stood, making his way towards Katsuki. “I came because I sensed you were dying.”

Katsuki looked down at himself as he dragged his hands through his hair, pulling at the ash blonde strands and snarling in frustration. He had been right there, right in front of you and yet his hands had been unable to reach you. Your lives were finally looking up and you had been talking about going back to Hell with him, he had thought that you would have forever. Tears burned his eyes as he realised that his idea of forever was never going to be possible so long as you were an Angel and he a Demon. He snarled as he slammed his fist into the wall, his entire body was burning with hatred, the desire to hunt the Angels. He wanted nothing more than to have you back in his arms. His head snapped to the side as Lucifer produced something to him, a cloth soaked in blood and it hit Katsuki strong; it was yours!

“What now?” Lucifer asked as he watched Katsuki’s eyes turn jet black, his irises shining bright red as a feral snarl slipped from his lips. “What do you desire, my son?” He asked, the promise of death in his tone as he spoke. Lucifer knew how grave this situation really was for his only son, how much you meant to him and he was aware that Katsuki didn’t know the truth!

“WAR!”

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sftd-official · 5 years

Note

Concilliabule with Mordenna and Lily?

Concilliabule - A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.

Lily wished Mordenna would get a rush on. If this was to go any measure of well, he had to get here quickly.

With Mordenna using the vents as a means of transportation more and more frequently, Lily had taken to using them to move around to do maintenance, herself. Not usually, and definitely not when she had a bunch of tools she had to tote… but right now, she needed them.

Benald and Pattie had apparently got it in their head that it would be funny to go through the Workshop and put everything in a different place with no regards for organization. While harmless, it took her and Mordenna an hour or two just to put everything back–and Mordenna looked pretty damn peeved that they touched his personal workbench.

So a day or so later, Lily had called Mordenna to this secret meeting. They were in the vents just above the exit to the Mess Hall, far enough away from any entrances to be heard, so long as they kept their voices down.

Thumping in the vents ahead of her said that Mordenna was finally on approach. She scooted closer to one of the walls, giving him enough room to come in. Lily scoffed as he sat down. “That took you long enough. Where were you?”

“Oh, nothing much.” He sat down. “Retaliating.”

Lily blinked. “What?”

“I was retaliating. Y’know, Ben and Pats, moving all our shit around? I wasn’t going to take that sitting down, so I went and got them back.”

“What… what did you do?”

“Well, we’re close enough to the Mess Hall.” He jabbed a finger at the intersection. “Wanna go listen?”

Wondering just what the hell Mordenna did in a day’s span, Lily nodded, following him as he turned around and crawled out quietly. When they were near the end of the Mess Hall–where all the appliances were–he turned around and pressed his ear to the floor, Lily copying him.

From here, she could actually get a clear listen of the conversation down below. “–and I ain’t got any clue where any of it is.” That was Benald.

“I’m tellin’ ya! They hid ‘em! Took ‘em right out of our personal stash!” The next voice was Pattie. When Lily looked to Mordenna for an explanation, he held a finger to his lips.

She put her head back to the floor to hear Benald reply. “I didn’t even know they knew where our mini fridge was. Think they drank ‘em?”

Oh. Mordenna must’ve pilfered their soda bottles. Benald and Pattie somehow always managed to have those opaque glass soda bottles with them. Well, fair enough. But Mordenna was still listening, so Lily stayed there too.

“Probably. Goddamn Lily and Mords… whatever, we still probably have a few in the fridge here, if nobody else drank ‘em.”

“Fair by me. We pranked them, they pranked us back, even if just stealing our soda ain’t much. Get me one, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah.” There was the sound of the fridge opening, then a span of silence. Then: “What the fuck.”

“What? They all gone?”

“No. No our bottles are here. They’re in jello.”

What. Lily looked to Mordenna again, who had a huge grin, but motioned to still keep quiet.

“Uh… well, upgrade my impression of their prank to ‘sizeable.’ Just pull ‘em out, I guess, leave the jello for someone who’ll eat it. Just wash your hands and the bottle afterwards.”

“Jeez, why do I gotta reach in the jello? Whatever.” There was the sound of a plate being taken out of the fridge. “What kinda flavor of jello is purple, anyway?”

“Probably grape. Eggplant if we’re unlucky and they expected us to eat it to get to our sodas.”

“Yeah, well, not me.” Lily couldn’t really classify the next sound, but she supposed it was the sound of the bottles being taken out of jello. The sink ran for a minute. “Alright, here. Guess we won’t be messing with them again–I really don’t wanna fish my soda out of jello everytime we piss ‘em off.”

“Fair point. And I told you not to go through Mords’s stuff. He ain’t the kind of man I wanna piss off.” Oh, if only he knew. There was the sound of one of them opening their bottle… then a spit take. “What?”

“It’s–It’s fucking–” Pattie continued sputtering, like she was trying to get something out of her mouth. “Lemon juice! Fucking carbonated lemon juice!”

Finally, the dam broke for Mordenna, who started cackling. Lily, meanwhile, was in no small amount of awe. Mordenna pilfered their soda, encased it in jello, but sometime before that, replaced the soda inside with lemon juice, and carbonated that.

Ben was right. Lily never wanted to piss Mordenna off.

#sftd excerpts #lily shen #ref il mordenna #benald birdet #pattie watson #this ended up pretty fun to write.#goowarlock

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make-it-mavis · 5 years

Text

The Right Thing (pt 1 of 3)

Wreck-it Ralph AU 1842 words Content warnings: themes of violence, drugs, conversation of police brutality Characters: Surge Protector, Dr. Mario, Turbo, Fix-it Felix, Make-it Mavis, Maribo ( @nijimarii‘s OC )

Premise: Being in charge of safety for all games plugged into Game Central Station, the Surge Protector has the ability to instantly incapacitate a violent character. This is used only in the most dire circumstances, and only when he can be certain the move will be non-lethal. But what happens when his certainty is near disastrously wrong?

>Part 2<

Surge did the right thing.

He made a tough call. He made a snap decision that saved a life. He was only doing his job. He only ever did his job.

It was just an ugly truth of said job that sometimes, doing the right thing would feel so wrong.

He tried to hold onto these facts as he walked down the hospital halls. The game was actually fairly quiet that evening, the only sounds being soft beeping, muffled conversation between volunteer staff, and the echo of his own shoes clopping against the floor. Part of him wished for more hustle and bustle, if only to impede the numbness creeping into him. It had been hard enough fighting it as he spoke to the victim only minutes prior.

Surprisingly, she was not calling for any punishment of her attacker. It seemed possible that she may have been too shaken and confused to make a clear decision -- after all, her own account of the events seemed very vague, even when he asked her to repeat herself. He hated making her say it again, but her words just kept pushing him far away, back into the moment it happened. He could see it so vividly.

One moment, she was saying hello. The next, hands were around her neck, and the attacker’s furious screams echoed through GCS.

Then he saved her. That was what mattered.

Slightly raised voices perked him to attention as he found himself approaching the waiting room. He could see the back of Dr. Mario’s coat, but as he began to round the corner, something in his stomach dropped.

It was the attacker’s friends and family.

Well… friend and family member.

He had not been looking forward to facing Turbo and Fix-it Felix after what he had done. But, holding onto his resolve, he reminded himself that part of the job was also dealing with the aftermath of tough decisions. Civilians did not always understand why he did the things he had to do, but keeping them safe was always so much more important than being liked.

To his slight relief, the two did not actually seem to notice him at first. He passed them by carefully, finding a place to stand in the deserted waiting room while Turbo and Felix spoke to Dr. Mario. The doctor seemed to be calmly talking them both down, but for different reasons.

“Oh, Doc, are you sure there’s nothin’ I can do? I’ve healed Mavy outta some real nasty pain,” Felix was insisting.

“I’m afraid a’not,” Dr. Mario shook his head gently but firmly. “This is a problem with’a code, not’a hit points. The a’very best a’we can do is keep’a her brain active with’a electrolytes and’a music, and’a wait for her to’a stabilize.”

Felix seemed no less anxious, but he resigned. “Alright. You’re the doctor…”

Turbo was, unsurprisingly, less understanding. He tried to push past Dr. Mario, but he was blocked with a strong hand across his collar.

“What?” he protested. “You said all you’re doin’ is waitin’. How could I possibly get in your way?”

“I told’a you -- it’s not’a safe. For’a now, she’a needs to be isolated. Anyone being in’a proximity to’a her code poses a risk to’a both’a parties.”

“You’re puttin’ your own party at risk here, Doc,” Turbo threatened half-heartedly.

“I’ll’a take my’a chances,” Dr. Mario said flatly. “I’a promise, I will let’a you in the moment it is a’safe to’a do so. Both of’a you.”

“No,” Turbo said sharply. “Just me.”

Felix just sighed, giving the impression they had been over it a few times.

Over the intercom, a volunteer called Dr. Mario away, and he bid the boys goodbye for the time being. Left to their own devices, they immediately settled back into anxious, but tired bickering. Surge swallowed dryly, knowing it was time to own up and explain his actions to at least one sprite who would not want to hear it. Back straight, he approached slowly, until he caught Turbo’s eye.

As the Surge Protector, he had to deal with a whole lot of dirty looks in his life. For the most part, he was used to it. But the look in Turbo’s eyes was unlike any he had been served before. It was not dirty -- it was filthy.

Surge opened his mouth to speak, but Turbo cut him off immediately.

“Aw, look, Fix-it,” he growled. “He’s come to finish the job.”

Felix turned, and to Surge’s relief, his eyes were more concerned than anything else. “Mr. Surge Protector,” Felix greeted him shakily, cautiously, as if he believed Surge should not have been there.

“Gentlemen,” Surge finally managed to say gently but clearly, “I feel I owe you an explanation for my decision tonight--”

“Oh,” Turbo laughed in his throat, turning to face Surge fully. “Yeah. Yeah, y’do. ‘Cause, y’know, I find it real interestin’ that y’saw a girl who weighs like ten pounds n’ decided, ‘Hmm, I’m too chickenbits to fight her. Better freakin’ kill her.’”

Surge felt a punch inside his chest.

“Turbo,” Felix scolded quietly. “Sir, Mavy’s not-- she’s not-- I mean, she’s alive.”

“Oh, don’t, you’ll break his heart,” Turbo spat.

“I know she is,” Surge nodded. “Thank the Devs. I… understand that you must be angry with me. But please, believe me when I say it truly was the only way to save the little one’s life. Another second longer, and Mavis could have snapped her tiny neck in two. Trying to physically pull her off would’ve just been too risky for Maribo.”

“Ah! Okay!” Turbo grinned, spreading his arms a bit. “Now I get it. Ya had to decide whose life was more important, and obviously some innocent lil’ potato’s more valuable than a buff-poppin’ Easter Egg, right?”

He did not kill her, he assured himself. He did not know. He had no idea. He did the right thing.

When he heard the screaming, and he saw little Maribo dangling from Mavis’ hands, he came at the situation with what he knew. Mavis was high, which was risky in and of itself. But even with her violent outburst and her eyes shining a bright binary blue, she should have been safe. Her sprite’s colors were correct, she was perfectly opaque, she was upright and mobile, she was even forming full (angry) sentences.

All signs that it would have been safe to shock her.

“No,” Surge replied as calmly as he could. “I assure you, I had no idea how lethal a shock would have been for her in that moment. She was still exhibiting all signs of a sprite within safe shocking range. Had I known that her code was so fragile, I’d have never--”

“Oh, cut the bullcrit already!” Turbo advanced into his space, and Surge held his ground. “Y’just couldn’t wait for an excuse to off her, could ya? You’ve hated her since the day ya met her!”

“That’s not true,” Surge furrowed his brow. His eyes darted to Felix for a moment, who had clearly given up already, electing to sit hunched in one of the chairs, rubbing his face.

“Yeah,” Turbo nodded, smiling without a trace of happiness. “Yeah, y’have. Y’didn’t shock her to save anybody -- y’just wanted to get off to the sight of her hittin’ the ground.”

Ice water seeped from Surge’s heart at the memory.

It was not really the sight that stuck so viciously in his mind. It was the sound. Her body burst immediately into grating, distorted hissing and popping before she could even hit the floor. He remembered the dull thud of her head striking the ground, Maribo’s urgent coughing, and the alarmed gasps and shrieks of passersby.

The way her body lay motionless, her sprite glitching, flashing, shuddering, her binary darting in and out in warped clusters, making him think that he had just pushed her over the brink of corruption… That would not soon leave his mind.

“I took absolutely no joy in what I did,” Surge said slowly. “I’ve never wanted to hurt Mavis, not once.”

Turbo shook his head, his eyes venomous, stepping in even closer. “I know what this is, a’ight? Even if y’did kill her, it wouldn’t matter, because she’s a ‘junkie’. She’s a ‘problem.’ Her life’s not important to you, n’ there’s proof a’ that lyin’ in a hospital bed in here, barely alive, because y’didn’t care enough to try not to kill her. Ya freakin’ coward.”

Felix moaned in protest.

Surge met Turbo’s molten gaze, looking down with as much composure as he could find. Authoritatively, he instructed, “Step away from me, sir.”

“No,” Turbo hissed, barely above a whisper. “Shock me.”

Surge stared.

“Go on. Do it. Or am I somehow less threatenin’ than an Easter Egg with a tiny code?”

In his heart, he could feel the desire to push back, even a little bit. There was the fleeting thought that he was letting the little racing champion drive all over him, but his mind knew better. Turbo was in distress, and he was lashing out by trying to bully him. He dealt with his fair share of bullies in his line of work, and he knew that the very last thing one should do with a bully is give them what they want.

So he gave Turbo no reaction.

The smaller man’s face fell into a disgusted sneer, but still, there was some self-satisfied air to it that made Surge wonder if he had still gotten what he wanted after all. “That’s what I thought,” Turbo muttered, turning a cold shoulder and prowling out of Surge’s bubble. “Freakin’ coward.”

Surge took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. It seemed to him that he had long overstayed his welcome -- probably since the second he walked in, if he were honest with himself. But he did all he could.

“Well,” he sighed plainly, “I tried. If you wanna be mad, that’s fine. I get it. Just know that you both have my apology for worryin’ you.”

Felix looked up from his hand and returned the sigh. “I’m not mad,” he said gently.

Hands curled into obvious fists in his pockets, Turbo growled something behind his teeth that almost sounded like “I ain’t worried.”

“And…” he continued a bit more cautiously, “hopefully at least one of you understands why I did what I did.”

Both boys answered immediately, “I do.”

Surge swallowed. “Then… I’ll be on my way.”

As he turned to leave, part of him wanted to offer well wishes for Mavis, but it almost seemed like a bad idea. After all, it was his fault she was in there. Even if he only did what he had to.

It was his fault.

But he had to.

He had to.

Over the sound of his shoes on the hospital floor as he made his way out, as he fought the numbness creeping back in, he could have sworn he heard Felix’s voice say, “Turbo, for land’s sake. He was just doin’ his job.”

#wreck it ralph #fix it felix #turbo #surge protector #make it mavis #fanfiction #au #oc #im aware of how hilarious dr marios voice is in a serious scene #believe me

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ombreecha · 6 years

Text

Wild

Series: Lifetimes Fandom: Naruto Pairing: SasuSaku Rated: M Prompt: Halloween x College Note: Continuation of Ten Shades of Red, Definitely, Someone Else , and Classic Mind, and So Fine. Love me some goddamn College AU.

His fingers fumble with the buttons of the tacky and cheap fabric. Subtle glances go upon the mirror and as he’s shifting it together he can’t help but grimace. He’s not one for parties and he’s not one for social drinking, but she had asked him to go. Who was he to tell her no?

The way she had brushed a lock of that pale pink back and the way her eyes had skimmed across his face as she proposed going to a Halloween party had coaxed him forward, and the wildest of thoughts about what she’d wear had been tempting enough to make him agree.

The loudest of snorts falls. He has dabbled in curiosity leading up to this moment. She won’t dare a whisper nor a hint of what she intends to wear—and it’s killing him if he’s being honest.

They’re still not together—her confession isn’t on deaf ears though. He’s considered it. He’s contemplated it. He’s dabbled in it.

He just hasn’t seized it. Why is the bigger question.

He can literally reach out and touch it but there’s a definite hesitation. He’s not considering anyone but her and she doesn’t appear to have her eyes on someone else either—someone else didn’t get a confession he did.

Clearing his throat has him glancing at the ridiculous police officer costume he’s daring to walk out of his apartment in. There’s no stopping the thought that he looks like a cheap imitation of his father, and that has him humming in disapproval.

He can guarantee even as he slides the ridiculous hat on his head that she’ll produce that dusty pink he enjoys so much. Taking the time to contemplate their relationship is useless right now—he’s far to curious in seeing what she’s chosen to wear.

The jingle of keys comes as he slides them across the table and grabs a hold of a black leather jacket at the doorway.

The drive is quiet with his stereo turned down. The closer he gets the wilder his thoughts shift. There’s the reminder he shouldn’t let himself get too wrapped up in it—a sexy nurse would be nice though.

She is a pre-med student after all.

This is Sakura though, and the instant thought of her being covered from head to toe is also a probability. She enjoys thrillers. What if she wears something tattered and torn—oh god, there goes the possibility of not having risqué expectations.

He’s not doing himself any favors.

Parking before her dorm only seeks to make him bite his bottom lip before sending the text.

They’re not together. He hasn’t answered her feelings just yet. They can handle that soon enough. They’re just two friends going to a college party. Just friends—because he won’t step over the line.

The movement at the doors has his eyes sliding off his phone and swinging the drive door open. There’s a dryness to his mouth, and the subconscious lick of his upper lip as if that’ll fix the problem.

A shift of his gaze and he’s caught the stares. He doesn’t blame them—this twoman over twenty wouldn’t possibility notice the head turns.

She’s too busy trying to look confident.

They’re entirely warranted. Reality was better than imagination. It’s not a sexy nurse, and it’s not her clad from head to toe. It’s something just as nice as a nurse but not as risqué as ones he had considered.

The way those opaque tights hug her legs—wait, are they tights or are they thigh highs? That exposed collar bone and tight corset of black has his eyes roaming—is this the first time she’s worn something that low in front of him? The sway of that orange and black mesh skirt—she has to be wearing thigh highs with what that skirt gives away.

That hat on her head is adorable and the only thing that tells him she’s dressed as a witch. It’s risqué but it isn’t overdone. It isn’t too much.

He’s yet to say a word as she’s standing before him. Gloved hands of black up to her elbows fidgeting in front of her has him swallowing. Even in heels she’s smaller than him. He’s not complaining but that view of her cleavage is a lot as he stares down at her.

“You should have stayed in the car—everyone’s gawking at you.” it's a muffled whine between the two of them and god is this woman wild.

She’s absolutely wild for thinking someone is staring at him and not at her, and she’s definitely off the mark for being as smart as she is.

The press of his fingers upon her back slide down as he walks her to the passenger side. The train of mesh is not a negative as he helps her in. It’s got him feeling warm as his eyes trail over her legs, and enjoying that infamous soft thank you even more.

He’s of classic mind, and she looks so fine in her little witch getup. He likes it—oh god, does he like it.

Her shoulders have washed away their tension now that they’re in the car and headed out. He’s half hearing what she’s saying and giving the barest of responses as he swindles and steals looks upon her.

That dusty pink has yet to leave her cheeks, and that’s got the ghost of a smirk upon the corners of his lips.

Parking within the yard of the host’s home is not as bad as he expected it to be, but the hordes of people trailing at the entrance has him taking in a breath. Her movements are soft but laced in nervousness.

“Oh god—I shouldn’t have worn this.” the way her cheeks fill with air in her childishness is one he’s seen one to many times.

It amuses him just as it always has as he exits the car and begins sliding off his leather jacket laying it upon his arm and opening the passenger seat.

She’s gained the habit of holding out her hand and he takes it gingerly as he’s been taught well before now. Helping her out of the car earns him that soft thank you—will there ever be a time when she doesn’t give them?

Sliding the jacket upon her shoulders earns him those pale green and it’s a dip of his head to her ear that has him finally letting that grin escape from just the corners, “I definitely think you should have worn this.”

There’s a subtle shake to her with him humming against her ear and pulling back grants him a deeper dusty shade of pink upon her.

This party is all that he knows it would be as they enter. It’s warm with the mass of bodies, and it’s loud with the blaring music.

The wide doe eyes she’s painted in furthers his amusement as they make their way through. The loud squeal of the blonde is what he expects and is barely overpowered by the speakers. There’s cups within their hands immediately and the scent of smoke, and sweat that hangs in the air as they go deeper within the house.

They could be at home watching another one of her favorite thrillers—but he’s not complaining as his eyes follow her. She’s gone one minute and back the next in repeated fashion.

The forceful hand against his back has him turning and it’s no surprise there’s a blonde behind him filled with impishness, “Imagine you at a party of all things.”

It’s only a moment before his eyes are back upon her. A sip of the spiked Gatorade follows along with a roll of his shoulders in response.

“So, ya lock that in yet?”

“Did your mother pick out your costume?” his witticism is in full effect.

There’s an obvious pause from the blonde and then the pinch of those blonde brows, “What do you mean? I look cool!” there’s a ridiculous amount of pride as the blonde puffs out his chest dawned as a gladiator—the blonde has clearly had his share of alcohol if the scent of booze was any indicator.

He has little to no desire to discuss his hesitation to step over that line with him. He reminds himself it’s not that he’s against it—maybe it’s the fact he’s severely overthinking it.

“Besides, who dressed you? You look like your damn dad.” the howl the blonde lets out awards him a shift of eyes and a twitch of his mouth.

The drag of his tongue upon the top of his teeth comes, and then the sip of his drink fills his mouth. There’s no missing the heads that turn and the way they scale up her form. There’s an obvious attempt when a male he’s unfamiliar with gains her attention, and then she’s gone from his view as a girl stands in front of him.

He has zero clue who this girl is, and he isn’t particularly interested in finding out either. His mother raised him to be polite though—and so he answers when it’s necessary. He learns her name and learns she’s studying literature. He listens to her continuing to coax him for a conversation, and watches the way she tries to garner his attention with small touches upon his arm.

A flicker of his obsidian behind her and Sakura’s nowhere to be seen. The blonde next to him is his scapegoat and that’s how he excuses himself with the claim of running out of something to drink.

The amount of people makes maneuvering difficult. From bumping into some and being shoved into others he’s muttered enough apologies for one night. The kitchen is just as packed and the amount of onlookers for the two in the corner making out has him rolling his eyes.

Grabbing more spiked Gatorade comes first, and the whistles and yells echo within the house. The spectacle the two are making of themselves isn’t enough to keep him from searching out the woman of pale pink, and pale green. She’s there on the couch with a new male beside her and her blonde roommate to her right.

He’s barely ready for it when another body slams into his making him spill some of his drink upon his hand and the floor. The loudest of laughs comes and it’s coated in a slurred mess.

It’s enough to grab his attention from her and the newest one to attempt to win her over. He’s not concerned necessarily—it’s gonna take a lot more than that to coax her from his side—but that doesn’t mean he’s not keeping watch.

It’s one more drink after this one, and two hours in. It’s three times as loud as he thought this event would be, and four plastic cups connecting as they go on about the most miscellaneous of things. Five loud yells—he swears someone just did some lame ass attempt at an Indian call—and six glances her way.

He likes this—no, he just likes her. He definitely likes her in that witch getup.

That males shifting closer to her and she’s so naive and unaware at the attention she’s gained as more males have come to sit upon the coffee table. That blonde friend of hers is far too engrossed in whatever their discussing—oh, yeah he should probably pay attention to his own conversation.

The click of fingers has his eyes running back to his own friend dressed as a dog no less. He always knew something was off about—oh fuck, what was this kid’s name? Kiba? They went to middle school together.

“Aye, Uchiha!” the yell is loud and has even grabbed the attention of pale green eyes.

The attempt to take another swig of his drink is halted at the call of his surname. It’s only a moment later that he’s extending his hand out and bumping shoulders with one he knows all too well.

“It’s been a while. I didn’t expect—”

“Yeah, yeah I know. No one expects me to come to these kinds of things.” he’s leaning against the wall and shoving his hand within his pants pocket.

“A cop, though? You look like your father.” there’s the smallest of snickers following it.

“Real funny, Neji.” the snort he lets out is entirely too loud.

“He’s not really here for any other reason than that one over there.” that’s comment is enough to make his head whip to the claim Kiba’s made.

The press of the plastic against his lips is in hopes they’ll leave the subject alone, but this is college, and people are nosy and so when the questions start flowing he immediately shuts it down, “We’re not dating. We’re friends.”

“You seriously gonna look at me at tell me you haven’t—but dude them legs.” the nudge to his shoulder has him having to readjust himself against the wall.

They’re none to prepared when the seven yells to chug fill the house, and eight people come rushing past to see what all the commotion is about. The smaller plastic shot glass being pushed his way has them looking about and throwing it back. Naruto’s come to join them no longer left with the random girl from earlier. It’s been a while since he’s seen them so he’s not complaining.

After all, he’s been filling his time with this girl he calls a friend, and not a girlfriend.

How many drinks is this when another comes within his grasp. Nine? His already feeling decent. There’s that obvious slur to his words, and he’s grabbed at least his ten looks her way. There’s the smallest of smirks hinted upon the corner of his mouth is seeing whatever male that had been seated beside her is gone and a few more girls surround her.

So maybe that’s why when he’s become slightly engrossed in his conversation he’s not ready for her to be standing before him. She’s got the smallest shade of red upon her cheeks—it’s not the ten shades of red he loves on her. It’s different. He thinks he enjoys this regardless.

Whatever conversation they had been having is immediately dead as her fingers press against his chest and all of a sudden he’s caught between staring at those pale green or that more than inviting cleavage.

Did her mouth always look this inviting? God only knows. What he does know is how much he likes this—whatever this is.

There’s no second guessing himself here and now, and he’s pretty sure it’s all because of this liquid courage inside of a red cup that he’s pressing firmly against Naruto’s chest. He doesn’t even care if the blonde’s successfully taken it. All he knows is he’s going to step over that line, and it all starts with his fingers sliding up that neck, and making their way within pale rose-colored strands.

This woman over twenty was far too cute for her own good—tonight she’s more than cute. Tonight she’s aggressive, she’s got some raciness to her, and tonight she’s far bolder than normal.

He’s typically of classic mind, and god, does she look fine—too fine. Tonight’s not typical though, and that’s why he challenges that boldness of hers. That’s also why he’s firm in pressing his mouth to hers and coaxing her own open. He can almost hear the yells that literally explode next to him but he’s far too interested in sliding his tongue into her mouth.

It’s that feeling of her hands reaching up and removing that ridiculous hat off his head that has him aching. She’s definitely just as interested in this as he is.

His mother taught him many things—to be a gentlemen, and to definitely know time place, and occasion. That is the only thing that makes him pull away and grab her hands to stop them from tempting him any further than they already have.

Hot breathed, and a flash of his eyes to one of them—was it Neji, or maybe it was Kiba?

They all look the fucking same who the fuck cares. He’s firm in his grip upon her hand, “Have yourselves a good night.”

Pulling her through is simple enough. He leaves no room for rebuttal before grabbing his jacket and sliding it upon her shoulders. She’s wobbly in her heels and that’s more than enough of an excuse to have him lift her up confirming that, yes, they are in fact thigh highs.

He likes it—oh god, yes, he likes it. He likes her pressed against him even more.

Her arms are tight around his neck as he makes his way with her to his car. He’s buzzed. He’s probably past buzzed and if his mother finds out he’s about to drive while intoxicated she’ll lose it, but who said she has to know this minor detail.

He’s hot blooded right this minute, and that’s all he knows. Who the fuck was he trying to play when he said they were friends.

They’re definitely not friends.

That drive? Who knows. He’s more than pretty sure he parked decently. He didn’t kill them, and that’s what counts. He’ll be pissy about this later. Right now, though, he’s busy. He’s got other things on his mind, and all of those things are her.

God, imagine if she had gone with a sexy nurse. Would he have even made it this deep into the night?

It’s her hand in his and them being far too loud in opening the door. She’s letting out the highest of giggles behind him before he’s dragging her in and lifting her against the door and wrapping those legs where they should be—around his hips with her heels against his ass.

She’s warm for being dressed so risqué. He reminds himself to slow down, and to not be so aggressive, but then she tugs upon his hair and that’s out the window, and set to be reviewed for later. He’s past hormonally charged, and hot blooded especially with that noise she just let out as he presses his lips against her throat.

He likes this witch getup. He’s willing to bet he’ll love it off her too.

It’s all too much as she’s letting out heated breaths and producing the best shudders. Fingers skim over those thigh highs that have had his attention since the beginning of the night. It’s got his blood pumping loud in his ears and a rush of pants escalating from her. She’s pushing and their stumbling back as they make their way through his apartment. Kisses lingering and hands touching—oh god, she just cupped him. Her grip isn’t too tight, and that roll of her palm and brush of her fingers has him letting out his own sounds. The grip upon his door handle from behind him is far too tight as he swings the door open, and that push of hers has them tumbling back upon his bed.

He wants to take this second—this moment—however brief it is to thank god that he left his desk lamp on.

He wants to see her. He wants to see her for just a moment longer in that outfit before he takes it off her.

Air seems nonexistent as she’s on his lap rolling her hips, and that friction has him pulling on the zipper in the back. It’s left her in just that mesh skirt and god is he ready to tear that off her just the same. That ten shades of red is across her cheeks and while it’s not the same one laced with embarrassment he loves this one even more—does she know what she’s doing to him when she looks at him with half lidded eyes and her mouth parted just slightly?

Her fingers are fumbling with his button, and if he wasn’t too busy running his hands up her thighs and enjoying the way they feel in his hands he’d help. She’s ripping the gloves off after her failed attempts become too much, and that’s got him pulling the black corset out between them.

Thank you god, and thank you desk lamp. Cause, yes, he does love her out of it.

He loves the way she shivers as his hands run up her skin, and the way her mouth parts with every little noise she makes. They are far too cute—but they’re so much more than cute. They make him lift her up and his fingers tug upon her skirt. They’re intoxicated and fumbling but that’s not making any of this less exciting as he takes one of breasts into his hand and slide his tongue across her nipple.

Has he mentioned how much he loves the way she’s tugging upon his hair as he takes it into his mouth? He definitely loves that too—those someone elses aren’t causing these reactions. She’s in his apartment, on his lap, and god, she just said his name.

His whole body is peaking at that simple breathless drop of his name. Pulling her upon the bed gives him just the angle he needs to yank that skirt finally from her thighs and toss it across the room. Those pale pink strands are so pretty across her shoulders and back as she keeps herself on all fours looking back at him from. His imagination had been wild leading up to this moment, but they have nothing on this—with her ass in the air and just a simple pair of black panties separating him from where he wants to buried.

He’s more than ready to go as his thumbs hook upon the sides of her panties and then the curiosity grabs his already foggy mind. He only sees the way her pale green widen for a moment before he’s tugging them up and running his tongue against her. Her ass is raising higher to give him better access and he’s loving the way her voice becomes muffled within his sheets. The quake of her legs has him licking harder and faster. Those cries are filling his room, and every little sound is exactly what he wants to hear.

He pauses for just a moment raising up to catch a glimpse of her face pressed against his bed. The halt earns him a frustrated whine and the turn of her head giving him those pale green looking back at him as he runs the back of his hand across his mouth. Just as with that skirt, and corset he wants to see them off her. He doesn’t want to tease her anymore.

Quick and fluid he’s sliding the wet material down and to her knees. He’s about to slide the already unbuttoned shirt off before she lets out another noise full of disapproval.

“Keep it on.” it’s heated and laced in demand.

He wouldn’t have thought her to have a thing for uniforms. For a girl who seemed so innocent she was far from it—he’ll likes that, god, does he like it.

There’s no stopping the harsh swallow that simple request makes him produce, and as a reply he simply bends back down sliding his tongue against her. The slide of his tongue between her folds makes her quake once again. It’s got him hungry and it’s got him wanting more as she fights between raising higher to give him more access and thrusting against his tongue.

Her voice is higher and then he’s all to aware of why. He can’t continue otherwise he’ll go before he’s even begun, and so even when she lets out a whine full of dissatisfaction he can’t help but let out a grin. He loves listening to how pleased she is when he does things to her, and that’s why even though he has to be careful not to lose control he slides his fingers in slow, and deep eliciting the those sounds he loves once again.

The pace he sets is built up. It’s not all at once, and god, she’s just so wet and warm. Oh, yes, he likes this. He loves this. He wants more of this.

He can’t believe he didn’t go over the line before now. There’s no excuse for torturing himself like this.

The light his desk lamp gives off makes him love it even more. It’s just enough to let him see the way she’s gripping his fingers as they pull out and go back in, and that’s enough visual stimulation to make him bite his bottom lip and let out a low groan.

He should have taken her the night he took her to dinner after teaching her how to parallel park. He should have taken her that time in his kitchen when he thought someone else had gained her interest. He should have taken her when he brought her back to his place after she confessed.

He should have. Could have. But he didn’t—he is now, though.

This isn’t how he had foreseen it. This isn’t how he imagined it. But he’s more than okay with it. He’s definitely glad he agreed to go with her to that party.

He can make all the excuses for his hesitation all he wants, but she was definitely his then, and all the times before it if tonight has taught him anything.

The drag of his zipper isn’t heard with the moans she’s letting out with each pump of his fingers. The pull upon his pants doesn’t bring them too low—no, he just lows them as far as necessary so he doesn’t have to stop what he’s doing.

The loss of his fingers inside her makes her push up upon her elbows and push her ass back against him. He can’t help but tease her over such a response, “So impatient.”

He doesn’t even give her the option to respond before sliding gripping himself and begin pushing himself in. It’s just the tip at first as he slides deeper pulling upon her hips to grind deeper and against her. His own shudder is unable to be kept at bay, and there’s no missing the way her voice has become muffled with the help of her hand.

This is where he can’t stop himself. This is where he’s lost himself. He’s firm in his grip upon her hip, and her waist. He loves the way she’s so warm and wet. He loves the way she grips him. He loves the way she—

“Sasuke-kun!”

Oh god, he definitely loves that even more.

He’s trying to remember to be easy with her, but then he thrusts harder, and hits inside her deeper. He had liked the way it looked as his fingers went in and out of her. He loves the way it looks when he slides out nice and slow slick with her before pushing himself back in to enjoy all that warmth.

He barely picks up on his own voice joining her own, or in the way he’s building up speed. He’s overcome with those wonderful wet sounds coming with every thrust. Harsh and deep he’s slamming against her.

Fuck—is there anything he doesn’t love about her in this moment?

Even the way those pale pink slide and move with each thrust has him reeling, and so close to the edge. The way her hips buckle and she’s pressed against the bed doesn’t halt him in the slightest. Deeper, and deeper. Harder, and harder. Faster, and faster. That’s all he can think.

She’s that ten shades of red he loves. She’s definitely has always been his. She’s never been someone else’s. She’s a classic, and far too fine to not be his.

He wants to hear the way she comes. He wants that hand off her mouth, and that’s exactly what he’s going for when he presses his cheek against hers and groans in her ear. That hand falls away from her mouth allowing her fingers to curl against his pillow and then it’s one thrust, two hot breaths, three begs, four high pitched whimpers, and on thrust five she’s over the edge and tight upon him.

On six he becomes more than determined, and on seven he’s pressing kisses against her ear. Eight makes it’s way hard, and with the ninth he feels himself tumbling over the edge. Ten comes in deep and it’s here he loses himself.

There’s no stopping the way he moans out her name deep, hot, and exhausted. His release is done with the hard press against her as he rocks himself empty inside her. Their covered in sweat, and the scent of sex has soaked the room.

Sluggish and slightly off balance he’s raising trying in vain to catch his breath. She’s in no better shape with the way her lids slowly lift. He’ll clean them up later. He’ll do a lot of things later.

All he’s concerned about right this minute is wrapping his arms around her and them sleeping off the booze. Pulling the comforter out from them has them fumbling before sliding under it. Those arms of hers comes around his waist, and his around her shoulder. He’s definitely more sober than when they started. That scent of vanilla comes with him pressing his nose within her hair.

The smallest of yawns escapes him and he barely has time to note how she’s fallen asleep already.

Lids fluttering down and then when they finally raise again his apartment is flooded with light from the window. He wants to get up and close the curtains but there’s a weight upon his shoulder and it’s slightly uncomfortable—no, it’s definitely uncomfortable, and made his shoulder numb.

A glance down makes it suddenly clear why and then there’s a flutter of his heartbeat. Swallowing thickly he’s trying to place it all together, and it doesn’t take much. He remembers the way he had pounded her into his bed, and the way she cried his name out. He feels his cheeks warm at the thought.

Slowly he eases himself out from under her noting her scattered clothing and realizing he’s still in this ridiculous outfit. His throat feels rough, and the first thing he needs to do right now is get some coffee. He can do this. It’s not like he hadn’t considered it.

Grabbing his glasses from the desk he makes quick work of grabbing a shirt, and sweat pants. Down the hall and into the kitchen he runs a hand through his hair. Fumbling around in the kitchen it’s barely a thought to grab the pancake mix from the cupboard. He’s not complaining about what happened. He’s more than pleased with himself. Clearing his throat he gets the keurig started and their coffee ready.

She’ll want milk with her coffee—if he threw in some chocolate syrup would that make it that mocha she buys when they go to that little cafe? He doesn’t know but at this point he’ll give it a shot. It can’t be that difficult.

His coffee is made first as he works on getting the pancakes ready. The slow way in which he moves makes it clear he’s tired, but again he’s not complaining. Looking back on what he does remember he’s beyond pleased. That flushed face, and those sounds. He feels hot again, and he needs to think of anything other than the way he made her quake beneath him as he filled her up.

Fuck—that’s not how you do that.

A noise grabs his attention, and he swears to god he almost swallowed his tongue. Turning slowly there’s no missing her face in those ten shades of red he just loves. She’s gotten one of his shirts out from his closet, and god, has he mentioned how much he loves her in them?

This is what he had been hesitant about. He didn’t want things to become awkward between them. He didn’t want her feeling embarrassed or out of place. A deep inhale has him settling his own nerves as he stands there with a spatula in one hand and the other on the handle of the pan.

Opening his mouth he immediately closes it. Turning back around he flips the pancake over before grabbing her cup from under the keurig. They don’t speak a word as he pours the milk, and syrup into the cup being sure to stir it thoroughly. She’s made her way to the pan and kept her eyes on the food and it’s here and now he knows he needs to break the silence and ease some of her embarrassment.

He’s extending the cup and then he sees the way she’s got her eyes looking upon the floor about to take it from him. That’s more than enough for him. He’s not sure what she thinks but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find out.

The cup never makes it to her hands as he places it on the counter and then he’s lifting her up with a startled noise falling from her lips as he sits her on the counter. That subconscious habit of licking her bottom lip is not helping right this second—what if she—no, no, focus.

He was so sure last night she was his. He’s not so sure right now and that takes priority.

Clearing his throat he gains her eyes back on him. He’s quiet in his grip of the coffee cup and bringing it back to her hands. That infamous soft thank you falls between them and that helps to ease his nerves.

He only turns briefly to switch out the pancake so it doesn’t burn, and start the next before giving her his attention once more. There’s a soft swing to her legs as she sits there sipping her coffee. Her eyes have yet to leave him.

Standing comfortably between them he’s got his hands firm upon the counter as he brings his face closer to her. It’s enough to get her lower the cup to her lap. There’s no missing the way she swallows.

“Sasuke-kun.”

He only lets out that habitual noise in response. He’s interested to see where she takes this.

“I like you.” her voice sounds so small in that moment, and that’s enough to remind him that, yes, she is definitely his.

The smallest of grins sits upon the corners of his mouth as his own voice finally comes out with the low hum behind it, “Ah—do you?”

That habit of slicking her upper lip happens once again at his response, and that’s what he takes as a sign to let his hands make their way to her thighs and press his lips to hers. It’s nothing like last night. It’s not as firm or challenging.

This woman over twenty was far too cute for her own good, and perhaps that’s how she got him wrapped around her finger the way she does.

Her arms have made themselves around his neck. He has no clue where she’s put her coffee cup, and he doesn’t honestly care. When they pull apart she’s still wearing those ten shades of red he loves—he thinks a few more shades have shown themselves, though.

“Do you want chocolate syrup on your pancakes?” it’s just a breath between them, and then she’s got that smile blossoming across her face.

“Yes, please.”

They’re definitely together.

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku fanfic #ombree:lifetimes #ombree:oneshots

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