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nashibirne · 3 years

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Intellectual Stimulation

This is a follow-up to my first Mike fic (My Best Mistake), which was a huge flop 🙈 but I hope you like the second part better...if so, please leave me a comment, reblog or like 💜 You can read this without knowing part 1 though!

Pairing: Mike x y/n

Summary: Mike wants to impress his girlfriend by being a little more sophisticated

Words: ~ 1.8 k

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, unprotected sex, dry humping, vaginal sex, creampie, creampie eating

NO BETA! English is not my mother tongue, so expect bad grammar, wrong spelling, chaotic punctuation and clumsy language. All mistakes are mine…

Credits: I don’t own anything related to Hellraiser: Hellworld! A huge thank you to @nix-akimbo for the edit of Mike with glasses. I loved using it for the moodboard, the other pics are from pinterest. I don't know who invented Professor Cavill, but credits to you too because I briefly mention him in this story. I quote parts of "The Picture Of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde.

You can find my other fics on my masterlist.

Taglist (please let me know if you want to be added or removed)

@lunedelorient @inlovewithhisblueeyes @willkatfanfromasia @hell1129-blog @mis-lil-red @agniavateira @kebabgirl67 @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @summersong69 @taebfada @xxxkatxo @artandotherdelights @notabronte @littlefreya @luclittlepond @eldarwen333 @meowpurrbooks @marantha @liliumdream @enchantedbytomandhenry @greensleeves888 @witcherfan @margauxmargaux07 @radaofrivia @m07belzen @a-little-counter-esperanto @starstruckkittyangel @mary-ann84 @sillyrabbit81 @emelinelovesjc @wheretheriversrunintothesea @lam0ureuxq

Off we go...

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Premise: Mike and his girlfriend have been together for a few months now and everything could be perfect if there wasn't that one little problem called Professor Cavill. He's y/n's lecturer in English literature and she talks about that boomer with the good looks and the tweed jackets and the dad jeans way too often. Plus Mike has seen the way the old debaucher looks at y/n when they meet him on campus. So in short, Mike is annoyed with the guy who seems to be some kind of intellectual superman, especially because he can't keep up with him. Not a bit. When he met y/n for the first time he impressed her by reciting a poem but unfortunately it is the only poem he knows. He isn't sophisticated and although y/n keeps telling him she doesn't care he feels bad and decides to do something about it.

I take a look around the room one last time and yes, everything looks perfect. It's clean and tidy, I made the beds with fresh sheets, I placed some very pretty flowers on my desk and most importantly, I bought a huge box of vintage books plus a special item at a rummage sale. The books are strategically placed in the room in little piles - beside the bed, on the shelf, on the little table beside my sofa and on the floor in the corner of the room. The special item is sitting on my nose and I really hope y/n is not going to burst laughing when she sees me.

Where is she anyway? Late of course, as usual. I take one of the books and open it to read the first pages again. I want to be prepared in the best way possible. The book is old and the cover looks strange but cool. Antiquated of course but still somehow modern with the half-rotten scull and the snobby looking guy printed in black and gold on it. Very avant-garde, Professor Dickhead would say I guess, artsy-fartsy I say.

When I hear the key in the front door I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and turn around with a big smile.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm late. I missed my bus." She returns my smile, hardly looking at me because she has problems with removing her key from the lock. "You really have to change the lock, baby. One day my key will break off."

"Sure. First thing tomorrow, sweet cheeks."

She looks at me, surprised by the enthusiasm in my voice and now, on second sight, she sees it.

"Mike! Oh my god…", she says, covering her mouth with her hands, "what the fuck? You look great!"

"You like it?" I give her a smirk and step closer to greet her with a soft kiss on her pretty lips.

"I love it! But why? I mean...you don't need glasses. I'm confused." She laughs light-heartedly and I grin. "It's just clear glass. I thought you might like me looking a little more sophisticated." I wiggle my head with a grin and she smiles, cupping my face with her hands. "I love you just the way you are, but I have to admit the glasses are damn sexy on you." She gets on her toes to kiss me and I hug her tightly.

"So what are we up to tonight? You said you have special plans for us?"

"Just take a look around, I'm sure you can figure it out." I plop down on the sofa and look at her expectantly.

"Umm...well. You tidied up your mess…"

"Yep. But there's more."

"Fresh sheets...wait...the books. You don't have so many books," she giggles before taking a closer look at one of the piles. "Out of Africa?" She raises her eyebrows and I grin.

"Some are for the heart, some are for the brain." I grab the artsy book and show it to her.

"Ooh...I adore Oscar Wilde. The Picture of Dorian Gray is my favorite!"

"I know, you mentioned it when you were talking about Professor Know-it-all's class the other day."

She rolls her eyes and it looks fucking cute. No, wait, it looks absolutely enchanting! I should adapt my vocabulary to my new look.

"Is this about Professor Cavill? Are you still jealous?"

"I'm not a bit jealous but I thought it wouldn't hurt to broaden my horizon by reading some classics and if you want to, we could read some stuff to each other and talk about it? Like our own private book club. What do you think, babe?"

"That's a great idea. Count me in." She kisses me again before cocking her head, looking at me with a smirk. "Fuck, these glasses really suit you, baby. You look so hot..."

"Please, Miss. Show me a little respect. I want to be desired for my keen intellect, not for my extraordinary good looks", I joke with an exaggerated frown.

"Idiot!" Y/n laughs out loud and nudges me playfully, "so you're all brains today, huh? Then bring it on. Read to me like one of your french girls." She plops down beside me and I snicker at her Titanic reference. I love the movie -don't you dare tell anyone-, and she hates it because she finds it boring but she still watches it with me whenever I'm in the mood for it. Okay….she usually falls asleep with her head in my lap after 15 minutes but it's the thought that counts and in return I do some cultural stuff with her, exhibitions and such. We went to a vernissage last week and to a reading in a bookstore the other day. So, you see... it's high time for some intellectual stimulation.

"Of course. Let's see what we've got here", I splay my fingers in an affected manner and grab the frame of my glasses with my thumb and middle finger to adjust them before I clear my throat and start to read, putting an extra dark timbre into my voice.

"The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn."

I look up from the book to see that y/n obviously likes my reading voice. She seems captivated and I like the way she gazes at me so adoringly. "Go on", she says softly and I continue.

"From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs;"

I read the first few pages and I start to like both, the book and the growing erotic tension between me and y/n. She moves closer to me with every paragraph. After I turn the pages for the first time I feel her hand on my thigh, after I do it for the second time she starts to stroke me through my jeans and I sigh before I concentrate on the poetic words again. While Lord Henry and Basil Hallward talk about bane and boon of extraordinary talent, brains and beauty, I get hard under her touch. I stop reading to kiss her but she shakes her head and nods at the book. "No. Go on, Mike. Read." Her voice is thick with desire now and it turns me on even more but I give her what she wants.

"“Harry,”said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself."

I moan when y/n decides to straddle my lap. She hitches up her boho style maxi skirt before she sits down and all that's between my hard-on and her sweet pussy now is the delicate lace of her panties and the thick fabric of my jeans. The sexy crochet bralette top she wears is not really helpful. Just Oscar Wilde separates me from her spectacular breasts right now. I'm about to put the book aside but she stops me again. "Keep reading." She rubs herself over my boner and looks me in the eyes with a teasing smile. I think this is a promising start to whatever is going to follow and so I go on and on. She's dry humping me now with slow motions, rolling her hips, riding me with closed eyes. I moan again, I'm so turned on I can hardly speak anymore but I try my very best to keep my girl entertained.

"I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself."

And that's it. That's the moment of escalation. We are no longer able to control ourselves and y/n takes the book from my hands and throws it away carelessly before she starts to kiss me with a passion I've never tasted on her tongue before. While we make out like love-crazed predators she opens my belt and my fly and she lifts her butt to allow me to get rid of my pants and boxers. She takes off her top and I push her panties aside, feeling how wet she already is. Wet and eager to take my cock. She sinks down onto my dick slowly and the feeling of stretching her tight pussy is as sensational as ever. I grab her ass and knead her juicy cheeks while kissing and sucking her boobs and her hard nipples. I know how much it turns her on when I bite those little rosy buds and caress her breasts, one time she even came when I took real good care of her tits while she was jerking me off.

But today she rides me and I thrust into her hot core with strong movements, rocking my pelvis rhythmically, and we kiss passionately while my hands roam all over her body. I can tell she's about to come by her breath that's going fast and by the naughty little things she whispers hoarsely into my ear. "Yes, babe...fuck me hard, fuck me rough," and "deeper, Mike, I need your dick deeper" or "I'm so close. Can you feel how close I am?" When she stops moving because she cums with a long, drawn sigh, her body trembling, her cunt clenching around my dick, I hug her tightly, pressing her down, forcing her to take even more of me and after a few fast thrusts I cum too, filling her up with my seed and I can't wait to see it drip from her pussy.

I know it sounds a bit pervy but I love to see the mess I've made and to taste our mixed juices on my tongue. She climbs down from my lap and lays down beside me with spread legs and I bend down to lick her dripping cunt clean, lapping everything up with slow, sensual licks while y/n plays with my dark curls, enjoying the sensation of my tongue between her legs.

When we are lying in my bed cuddled up at each other a few minutes later y/n kisses me tenderly. "I'll need you to read to me like this every day now." I smirk and wink at her. "With the glasses?"

"With the glasses", she giggles and her soft laughter sounds the bell for the next chapter of our intellectual stimulation.

#henry cavill #cavillry #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fanfiction #mike hellraiser x ofc #mike hellraiser #hellraiser: hellworld #mikey hellraiser #smut #mike hellraiser smut

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swan-of-sunrise · 3 years

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Taking Care of Business (Chapter Fifteen)

Summary: (Y/N), Din and Grogu arrive on Tython, and everything goes very wrong very fast.

Pairing: Din Djarin X Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Fifteen The Tragedy (Previous Chapter)

“We really…we really should stop, Din…” (Y/N) spoke in between kisses, a little breathless as the Mandalorian’s lips began brushing along her cheek and down her neck. “We’re supposed to be…ah…we’ve gotta work on some repairs…”

She could feel Din smirking against her collarbone as he replied, “Yeah? Then why’re your arms still around me?”

Sure enough, one of her arms was wrapped securely around his back, her hand clutching at his cowl, and her other arm was slung around his neck, her fingers carding through his soft hair over and over. At his teasing question, she felt her face begin to warm in embarrassment. “You’re such a mir’sheb.” Trailing her hand down to the side of his face, she coaxed his head up and clumsily sought out his lips in the dark but before she could kiss him, one of the ship’s alarms rang out. “Dank farrik!”

Din chuckled, the deep timbre of his voice causing her heartbeat to quicken; his unmodulated voice was intoxicating, so clear and strong, and she knew that she’d never grow tired of listening to it. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before extricating himself from her embrace and putting his helmet back on; a moment later, the lights inside the cockpit flickered back on to reveal her beskar-clad partner leaning over one of the control panels. “We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace in a few, alor’ad.”

“Okay, I’ll go wake the little guy up.” (Y/N) patted Din on the arm before turning and making her way down into the cargo hold, a small smile on her face as she went.

For the past two days, it was as if she and Din were the only two people in the galaxy; they’d stolen kisses from one another in the darkness of the cockpit while Grogu slept and while he was awake, they’d resign themselves to lingering touches and soft-spoken words. She didn’t know what to classify their evolving relationship as and to be honest, she didn’t really care; she was happy with Din, truly happy, and that’s all that mattered to her.

“Hey there, little guy. Did you have a good nap?” With a smile, she picked the cooing child up out of his hammock and carried him up the ladder, setting him down on one of the passenger seats and handing him the small metal sphere. “There you go!” His large eyes widened in delight as he clutched it in his clawed hands and she chuckled, moving to stand beside the Mandalorian in the pilot’s seat. “Okay, I can take over now.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got it covered.”

(Y/N) arched a brow. “But it’s my turn to fly, remember?”

“I told you, I’ve got it covered. Why don’t you take a seat and relax a little?” There was something different about her partner’s voice as he spoke but she shrugged it off, turning to go sit in the other passenger seat. Din’s gloved hand suddenly shot out and latched onto her wrist to stop her and when she turned back around to see what he wanted, her jaw nearly dropped in shock; he was patting his beskar-covered thigh with his free hand and although the visor of his helmet was facing forward, she had a sneaking suspicion that he was closely watching her.

With her heart hammering in her chest, (Y/N) sat down on his thigh and wrapped a tentative arm around his shoulders. “…This is new.”

“Do you…um, do you…like it?”

Din’s newfound uncertainty made her smile and instead of answering, she reached down and positioned his free hand onto her waist before resting her head against the side of his helmet. His gloved fingers flexed and pressed firmly against her, holding her secure in his lap as the ship dropped out of hyperspace. “There’s Tython.” (Y/N) was silent for a moment, debating whether or not to say anything before finally making up her mind. “Do you think that any Jedi will come?”

Her partner exhaled through his nose, his fingers beginning to drum against her waist. “I don’t know; Ahsoka made it clear that hers is a dying race.” Rotating the seat around, they both watched Grogu as he played with his silver sphere and (Y/N) was struck by how innocent he looked. “But I hope one will, for the kid’s sake.”

“You mean Grogu.”

Upon hearing his name, the child’s head shot up and he cooed as his eyes widened in happiness. (Y/N) and Din both chuckled and when the child glanced back down, Din called out, “Grogu?” The child looked back up and as he chuckled again, she tried and failed to suppress her amused grin; with a glance at her, Din moved his hand away from the controls and towards Grogu. “Give me the ball.” The child looked unimpressed and immediately tried hiding the sphere. “Grogu, give me the ball. Come on.”

“Not used to dealing with someone as stubborn as you, huh, Din?”

“I deal with you, don’t I?” The Mandalorian’s dry retort made her grin only widen and as she watched, Grogu finally handed the sphere over. “Okay, here we go.” Din held the sphere between his thumb and forefinger just as he had back on Corvus. “You can have it, just like before.”

(Y/N) nodded in encouragement while Grogu began to raise his tiny clawed hand. “Grogu, come on. You can have it, little guy.”

The child raised his other hand and his eyes began to squint with effort; Din’s voice was impossibly soft as he spoke, “Come on.” In a flash, the ball flew out of Din’s grasp and into the child’s waiting hands. “Dank farrik!” He exclaimed in excitement, slapping his other thigh while (Y/N) pressed a happy kiss to the side of his helmet; the child dropped the ball down into his lap and cooed sadly, seemingly thinking that the two of them were angry, and her eyes widened in panic as Din hastily shook his head. “Hey, no, we’re not mad at you! You did good. I just…when the nice lady said you had training, I just…” (Y/N)’s elated mood dampened as she watched Din reach for the metal sphere and hand it back to Grogu before rotating the seat to face forward again. “You’re…very special, kid.”

With a heavy heart, (Y/N) gave Grogu a fleeting smile over Din’s shoulder. “We’re gonna find you that place you belong and they’re gonna take real good care of you, little guy.” She turned her attention back to Din, who was making himself look busy by pressing at different buttons; sensing his sadness, she made to get up from his lap but his hand tightened on her waist, preventing her from getting up. He doesn’t want anyone else to leave him, she thought to herself, moving her free hand to rest on top of his. “Din…”

“This is Tython,” Din announced to Grogu, his tone clipped and reserved. “That’s where we’re gonna try and find you a Jedi. But you have to agree to go with them if they want you to; understand?” He briefly glanced over his shoulder at Grogu before returning his gaze to the viewport in front of them. “Plus, we can’t train you. You’re too…powerful. Don’t you wanna learn more of that Jedi stuff?” (Y/N) didn’t look, but she could hear the child’s disgruntled coo. “I agreed to take you back to your own kind, so that’s what I need to do.” It almost sounded as if her partner was trying to convince himself rather than Grogu. “You understand…right?”

The child cooed again and with a brief moment of hesitation, (Y/N) rested her head against Din’s helmet and murmured, “Everything’s gonna be okay, Din, I promise.” He didn’t say anything, but the hand on her waist pulled her even closer to his side.

Minutes later, they were entering the upper atmosphere of Tython and flying through its sky-blue skies; the planet was made up of rocky mountains covered in sparse vegetation, and it was clear that it was a presumably uninhabited planet. While they continued to fly over the surface of the planet, (Y/N) pointed to one of the larger mountains in the distance. “Looks like that’s the magic rock we’re supposed to take you to down there, little guy.”

Din tilted the joysticks to the left and they circled the steep mountain until he let out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, kid, I can’t land on the top. It’s too small. We’re gonna have to travel the last stretch with the windows down.”

“That…that was a terrible joke, Din.”

“Yeah, but you still laughed at it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once they landed the Razor Crest onto a flat patch of ground, Din held Grogu in the crook of one arm and wrapped the other around (Y/N)’s waist before jetting through the sky towards the top of the mountain. The child squealed in delight while (Y/N) squeezed her eyes shut and clung to her partner; you’d think that I’d be used to flying like this by now, she thought as she bit her lip, silently thanking the Maker when their feet touched the ground.

Opening her eyes, (Y/N)’s gaze was immediately drawn to the large stone before them, taking note of the strange carvings along its side before glancing around. The three of them were surrounded by towering stone slabs, and she had no problem believing that the structure had once been a sacred Jedi temple.

“Well, I guess this is it.” Din let go of her waist and slowly approached the stone. “Does this look…Jedi to you? I guess you sit right here.” Grogu softly cooed as he carefully placed him on the top of the Seeing Stone. “Okay, here we go.”

The child blinked up at them and (Y/N) tilted her head in confusion. “So, how do we know if it’s working?”

Din shrugged. “I don’t know.” He glanced back at Grogu and gestured to the stone. “This is the Seeing Stone…are you seeing anything? Or are they supposed to see you?” She watched the Mandalorian switched on his helmet’s heat sensor and began circling the stone. “Maybe there’s some kind of control or something.”

(Y/N) couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Din, this is a Jedi Seeing Stone; I seriously doubt that they’d need a machine to use their powers.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve met a ton of Jedi in my life.” He replied, moving to stand beside her and sighing in frustration as the child’s attention was drawn away by a nearby butterfly. “Oh, come on, kid. Ahsoka told us that all we had to do was get you here and you’d do the rest.”

The sound of an approaching ship made (Y/N) look up and frown in concern, her eyes immediately spotting a familiar-looking ship flying through the sky; with a glance at Din, she hurried to the mountain’s edge and watched as the ship landed. “Son of a mud-scuffer, Din, this is not good.” Her stomach dropped and she looked over at Din beside her. “I think I know that ship and if it’s who I think it is, then we need to leave now.”

Din didn’t ask for her to elaborate, only nodding and calling out, “Time’s up! We gotta get out of here-!” They both turned and his words died in his throat as they stared at the bright blue Force-field swirling around the Seeing Stone; Grogu’s eyes were closed and his brow was wrinkled in concentration as the Force-field hummed with energy. “We don’t have time for this.” He strode over to the Seeing Stone. “We gotta get-”

The moment Din’s gloved hands touched the Force-field, he was thrown back and landed hard on the rocky ground. “Din!” (Y/N) sprinted over to him and grabbed his arm, helping him stagger to his feet. “Din, are you okay?!”

“Hey! Snap out of it, kid!” He ignored her words as he called out to the child. “We gotta get out of here!”

(Y/N) anxiously glanced over towards the direction of the unidentified ship and back at Grogu. “C’mon, Grogu, we have to leave!”

“I’ve got one being on the heat scanner.” Din dropped his hand away from his helmet and drew his blaster; (Y/N) drew hers and clutched its handle tightly as he glanced over his shoulder at Grogu. “We’ll see if we can buy you some time, but please hurry up!”

The two of them hurried down the side of the mountain, weaving around bushes and ducking behind boulders as they moved. They were a little ways from the base of the mountain when they came under heavy blaster fire; Din shoved her behind a nearby rock and used his beskar-clad body to shield hers as the blaster fire continued. After several long moments it finally stopped and (Y/N) met the visor of Din’s helmet, giving him a slight nod as he poked his head out from behind the rock.

“I’ve been tracking you, Mandalorian.”

At the sound of a man’s gruff voice, they both slowly step out from behind the rock, their blasters leveled at the robed figure before them; strapped to the man’s back was a cycler rifle and gaffe stick, but he had no weapon drawn. “Are you Jedi?” The man didn’t answer and Din’s shoulders remained tense. “Or are you after the child?”

The man reached up and removed his hood, revealing his deeply-scarred head and grim expression, and he began to slowly walk forward. “I’m here for the armor.”

(Y/N)’s breath hitched as her partner coolly replied, “If you want my armor, you’ll have to peel it off my dead body.”

“I don’t want your armor. I want my armor that you got from Cobb Vanth back on Tatooine. It belongs to me.”

Her eyes briefly flicked over to Din before looking back to the man. “Are you Mandalorian?”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched at her question. “I’m a simple man making his way through the galaxy, Captain, like my father before me.”

“Did you take the Creed?” Din demanded, his modulated voice taking on a harder edge after the man’s comment to her.

“I give my allegiance to no one.”

“The beskar belongs to the Mandalorians; it was looted from us during the Purge.”

The man’s nostrils flared in anger. “The armor was my father’s. Now it’s mine.”

Din’s grip on his blaster tightened and (Y/N) felt her forehead begin to bead with sweat. “What’s to stop me from dropping you right where you stand?”

“Because I have a sharpshooter up on that ridge with a locked scope that will unload by the time my body hits the ground.”

“I’m the one wearing beskar. As soon as I see that muzzle flash, my partner’ll be covered and you and your friend’ll both be dead.”

The man looked unfazed. “I didn’t mean she was going to shoot you, or even your partner.” A chill went down (Y/N)’s spine at his words. “My friend’s locked onto that little companion of yours up on the henge…”

“And if you remember, I don’t miss.”

(Y/N) looked up to the ridge to her left to see a figure aiming an MK-modified blaster at the top of the mountain and Din called out, “Fennec?!”

The woman chuckled. “You have a keen ear, Mando.”

“You point that gun away from the kid or I’ll drop you both where you stand.” With a flex of his wrist, Din activated his whistling birds and raised his blaster higher.

Lifting his hands in a placating manner, the man nodded to their drawn blasters. “Let’s all put down our weapons, have a chat. There’s no need for bloodshed.”

(Y/N) kept her blaster leveled at his chest. “Tell her to drop the gun, then.”

“After he puts down the jetpack.”

Din let out a frustrated sigh. “Same time.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the man looked over at Fennec on the ridge and nodded. “Stand down.”

The sharpshooter lowered her rifle and began making her way down to where they stood; (Y/N) and Din exchanged a look before holstering their blasters, and she watched as her partner disengaged the whistling birds and set his jetpack down against the rock. At the same time, the man slowly set his cycler rifle on the ground beside him and a helmet-less Fennec moved to stand next him, quirking her lips as her eyes landed on Din. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“You were dead.”

The man nodded. “She was left for dead on the sands of Tatooine, as I was. But fate sometimes steps in to rescue the wretched.”

“In my case, Boba Fett was that fate.” (Y/N) stiffened at the mention of the man’s true name as the sharpshooter shifted a strip of fabric and showed them the machinery that was keeping her alive. “And I am now in his service.”

Boba turned away from Fennec to look at them. “I want my armor back.”

“It goes against the Mandalorian Creed.”

“He’s not gonna take ‘no’ for an answer.” Glancing at Din beside her, (Y/N) anxiously bit her lip before continuing. “While I was starting out as a smuggler, I heard stories of a bounty hunter who went by the name of Boba Fett; if this really is the same man, then I seriously think you should reconsider your answer.”

“You should listen to your partner,” Boba remarked. “The armor was given to my father, Jango, by your forebears. In exchange, I guarantee the safety of the child, as well as yours and your partner’s.”

Fennec gestured towards the mountain in the distance. “The bounty on your little friend has risen significantly; you can buy ten suits of armor for the price on its head.”

Her partner shifted his weight as Boba added, “I’d say we’re offering a fair deal under the circumstances.”

Before either of them could say anything, the humming of another approaching ship grew louder and when it flew overhead, (Y/N) gasped in alarm; her time as a Rebellion smuggler ensured that she’d never forget the sight of an Imperial transport ship. She and Din drew their blasters and ran back to the mountain, the threat of Boba Fett and his sharpshooter gone from their minds and replaced with fear for Grogu’s safety; scrambling up the incline of the mountain, they finally made it to the top and saw that the child was still encompassed in the blue Force-field.

“Time to go!” Din ran over to the Seeing Stone and before (Y/N) could call out a warning, his hands made contact with the Force-field and after a moment, he was thrown even farther back than before. His body landed hard on the ground several feet away from the Seeing Stone and flipped over before lying still.

“Din!” Just as she had before, (Y/N) sprinted to his side and knelt; she shook his shoulder but he didn’t stir. “Din, c’mon!” For the first time in their partnership she cursed Din’s Creed, as his helmet was preventing her from seeing just how injured he was; thinking fast, she slipped her fingers under the bottom of his helmet and pressed them against his jugular vein, breathing out a shaky sigh of relief when she found his pulse. The sound of distant blaster fire drew her attention away from the unconscious Mandalorian and looking down, she could see a battalion of Stormtroopers exchanging blaster fire with Boba and Fennec. “Shit, there’s too many of them…” She wrestled with her indecision for a moment before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to the top of Din’s helmet. “I’ll be right back, Din, I’m gonna buy us some time.” Standing, (Y/N) glanced over her shoulder at the meditating child before drawing her blaster and hurrying down the mountain.

About halfway down the rocky slope, (Y/N) darted behind a large boulder and watched as four Stormtroopers came into view; she took careful aim with her blaster before shooting one of them square in the chest. The dead Stormtrooper fell to the ground as the other three began firing their blasters in her direction and if she were in any other situation, she would’ve rolled her eyes at their typical poor marksmanship. They exchanged fire and in no time, all four Stormtroopers lay dead as she continued down the mountain towards the sound of heavy blaster fire, only pausing to watch a second Imperial transport ship land beside the first.

“Dank farrik!” (Y/N) exclaimed, watching in disbelief as another battalion of Stormtroopers ran out of the transport. Hearing a noise behind her, she ducked and rolled behind another boulder as blaster bolts hit the ground where she’d just been standing; she had enough time to fire off a shot towards the Stormtroopers closing in on her before running and jumping down off the edge of the ridge. She landed on her feet and was surprised to find herself standing beside Fennec, who spared her a brief glance as she fired her blaster rifle. “Where’s your friend?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Fennec replied as they both began backing away from the approaching Stormtroopers. “And the child?”

(Y/N) dodged a blaster bolt and returned fire. “Safe for now.” The two women quickly found themselves with their backs to a large boulder, and the Stormtroopers immediately began surrounding them.

“Give yourselves up!”

“We don’t want you, we want the child!”

(Y/N) bit her lip, watching as more and more Stormtroopers began closing in on them; she’d been in plenty of tough scrapes, but this one looked impossible to escape from. Just as she was debating whether or not they should try fighting their way out, a noise behind her made her quickly turn her head. Din was standing atop the boulder behind them, his blaster raised and his whistling birds already flying through the air towards the Stormtroopers.

“Okay, let’s move in.” Jumping down from the boulder, Din took the lead while (Y/N) and Fennec flanked him, all three of them aiming and firing at the charging Stormtroopers.

Fennec glanced over at (Y/N) as a blaster bolt dinged off of Din’s beskar armor. “This isn’t looking good.”

Din shrugged, his blaster sweeping over (Y/N)’s head as the two of them switched sides. “I’ve seen worse. You can get out of here, I owe you from last time; take (Y/N) with you, I’ll buy you some time.”

“We had a deal.”

(Y/N) shot him a hard glare while he moved in front of her. “And I’m not leaving without you.”

Blaster bolts rained down on them and while Din’s armor was able to block most of them, it couldn’t block them all; (Y/N)’s left side erupted in pain and she let out a strangled yell, her free hand clutching the wound as she continued firing. Just as things were beginning to look dire, a grenade fell out of the sky and exploded, sending several Stormtroopers flying back; an armored figure flew down and as he landed on the ground, (Y/N) instantly realized that it was Boba Fett wearing the Mandalorian armor they’d retrieved from the Marshal of Mos Pelgo.

The bounty hunter backhanded the nearest Stormtrooper and shot them before turning towards the approaching Stormtroopers, and (Y/N) watched in awe while he fought through them all single-handedly. I guess all those stories about him were true, she thought to herself, her eyes wide as Boba Fett strode after the retreating Stormtroopers; they ran into their transport ships and quickly took off, but that didn’t deter the bounty hunter. Boba leaned forward and activated the missile strapped to his back, watching as it flew through the air and hit one of the transport ships. The burning ship hit the second and the falling debris exploded against a mountain as the bounty hunter turned to look at them.

“Nice shot,” Din quipped as the three of them walked over to Boba.

“I was aiming for the other one.”

(Y/N) chuckled but just then, a deafening blast filled the air and a red-colored bolt sped downwards, hitting the Razor Crest and instantly destroying it in a fiery explosion; her jaw dropped in shock and disbelief, and while she was aware of talking and movement around her, she couldn’t focus on any of it. The ship she’d grown fond of flying and considered her home had been demolished in the blink of an eye.

Shaking herself out of her grief, she looked over at Din as he stared up at the sky; his body stiffened and he suddenly shouted out, “The kid!” He turned and ran back up the mountain with (Y/N) and Fennec following close behind; her blaster wound ached but she didn’t stop running, even when she spotted the four black droids land down on the top of the mountain. The three of them reached the ridge in time to see the droids flying up into the sky with Grogu in tow.

“No!” (Y/N) gasped, the four droids blurring as her eyes filled with tears. “Grogu…!”

Boba Fett’s ship flew overhead in the direction of the droids as Fennec spoke into her comm link. “They’ve got the baby, don’t let them get away.”

“Affirmative. I have a lock.”

“Stop it,” Din ordered, his voice teetering the line between stiff and panicked. “I don’t want the child hurt.”

“Abort pursuit, disengage. Do not harm the child.”

“Copy. I’ll do a loose follow, see where they’re headed.” The three of them stood and watched Boba’s ship climb higher into the sky; (Y/N) holstered her blaster and as soon as her hand was free, Din latched onto it, the worn leather of his glove digging into her palm. Moments later, the bounty hunter’s voice came through the comm link. “They’re back.”

(Y/N) tore her eyes away from the sky and met Fennec’s confused gaze. “Who?”

“The Empire. They’re back.”

Din’s grip on her hand tightened and (Y/N) looked over at him as her eyes widened in fear; they both knew exactly what Boba was seeing, but Fennec didn’t. “That can’t be. The Outer Rim’s under the jurisdiction of the New Republic.”

“This isn’t a spice stream, I can see the Imperial cruiser with my own eyes. Heading down.”

Shoulders sagging, (Y/N) leaned against her partner’s side and squeezed her eyes closed in grief. Moff Gideon and the remnants of the Empire had Grogu, one of the last Force-wielders left in the galaxy, and she and Din had failed to stop them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Ouch, that one hurt to write :/ Be prepared for lots of angst next chapter! Thank you guys so much for reading!

Mando'a Translations: Mir'sheb-Smart-ass Alor'ad-Captain

Chapter Sixteen

Taking Care of Business Masterlist

Tagging: @remmysbounty @sinon36 @seninjakitey @thatonedindjarinfan @ginger-swag-rapunzel @mostclevermiss @momc95 @welcometothepedroverse @sarahjkl82-blog @zukoyonce @itsnottilly

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #din x reader #mando x reader #grogu #the child #baby yoda #boba fett #fennec shand #moff gideon

106 notes · View notes

consumedkings-archive · 3 years

Text

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eight: the living sea of waking dreams

word count: 10k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: emotional manipulation/some weird humiliation tactics (joseph is a fucker), some weird/uncomfortable relationships getting dredged up, john is a jealous little shit. some spooky scaries go on, blood and body horror (i think? tagging just to be safe).

notes: we've got some ~things~ going on here in this next chapter. i feel really excited about where this story is going and how we're going to get all these little threads put together, but mostly, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! we've got a lot going on but i promise, it will all (hopefully) be worth it in the end. and also, a tiny reprieve: some soft elliot, as a treat, because we deserve it.

thank you to everyone reading and giving me your feedback!! i love hearing from yall <3 special thanks to @shallow-gravy and @vasiktomis for listening to me slog through this chap : ))))

“Knock-knock!”

Isolde took in a deep breath, closing her eyes and willing patience to the forefront of her mind. It had only been an hour or so since she’d left the chapel, Joseph’s words ringing in her head, a death knell.

Not after the things I’ve done for you.

Even still, even now—he knew how to get under her skin. She thought she’d never wanted to kiss and throttle someone in equal amounts, in the entirety that she had known them; to think that once, she had let Joseph take her in an embrace, sweep the hair from her shoulder and bury his face in her neck and whisper sweet things into her skin.

He wasn’t the same, anymore. And neither was she.

“Come in, Santiago,” said Arden, from where she had set up her little space across the cabin’s modest room. The heater on the floor rattled laboriously, clicking and chugging away. Isolde swept her eyes over Arden’s space—a small makeshift bed on the couch, the table stacked with a few books and a notepad she was scribbling dutifully on. Isolde had politely offered her the bed, even though she didn’t want to, and the woman had waved her off and said it was no trouble at all, that she often fell asleep on the couch at home anyway.

It was still weird, thinking that someone was—with Jacob. For a long time. But, she supposed if there was any Seed boy she thought would be in a long-term relationship, then—

The door to the cabin swept open, revealing the dark-haired boy from before. Well, perhaps not boy, but young man. Certainly too young and good-looking to be wasting his time with the likes of Eden’s Gate, wasn’t he?

“You don’t have to babysit me anymore, do you?” Arden asked, not once looking up from her writing.

“No, no. Unfortunately, our time together has drawn to a close.” Santiago lifted his arms, spread in defeat. His eyes, a vibrant blue, turned to Isolde. “I am actually here for you.”

“Me?” Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“Joseph has asked me to fetch you.”

“And you’re a good boy, so you do whatever he says,” she replied tartly.

Santiago flashed a grin that was all teeth-pearly, perfectly bleached teeth. He was far more groomed than any of the others she’d seen trawling about the compound. “I am nothing if not loyal, princesa.”

Isolde sighed, passing a hand over her face as a headache began to fester and bloom behind her eyelids. She thought she might have been more willing to kick up a fuss if she thought it was worth the drama—but it probably wasn’t. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Joseph was right; she couldn’t be of any help to them if she was being contrary just for the sake of her own spite. Even if she didn’t know where Joseph got off summoning her like she was part of the peasantry.

“Coming,” she sighed, picking her coat up off the bed and sliding it back on over her shoulders.

“A sweet word, coming from even sweet lips.”

“Alright, Romeo.”

She trudged out after Santiago in the snow, casting a quick glance around the compound. Though evening had fallen, the fluorescents surrounding lining the edges of the compound cast a cold, brutal light across it, highlighting every single pore of the place, every ragged inhabitant shuffling into their bunkhouse as watch switched and folks went to retire for the evening. Some of the roofs sagged with the weight of the snowfall, which trundled on without any kind of end in sight. Isolde couldn’t remember when she’d seen real, unadulterated sunshine last. In Georgia? Had it been that long?

None of it was anything like what John had told her. Of course, she had expected some differences—the man liked to embellish, to be sure—but the members of Eden’s Gate seemed to have lost their fire. They were wayward, adrift at sea, among waves of freezing cold water and what now seemed to be a resurgent threat that they had hoped to be rid of.

And Joseph, having comforted them so very little.

“Icy,” Santiago warned, offering her his hand as he opened the door inside with his other one. “Careful.”

“Thanks,” she muttered dryly. She took his hand anyway, pulling herself into the sputtering warmth of the chapel where—at the front—the silhouettes of Jacob and Joseph stood.

The two of them were suffused in a warm amber glow, but there was nothing warm about the mood in the room; the closer she got, she could hear Jacob’s insistent words—the firm, assertive gestures of his hands, the words, just didn’t feel like it was pertinent at the time, coming out of his mouth—the more she thought, I shouldn’t be here for this. Whatever they’re arguing about, whatever it is that’s gotten them to this point, I’m not supposed to be here.

Joseph didn’t respond to whatever it was that his brother was saying, but instead turned to look at her as she approached down the center aisle of the chapel. Despite the rattling warmth coming from several heaters placed throughout the chapel, Isolde felt a chill sink deep into the marrow of her bones.

“Thank you for coming,” he said by way of greeting. He lifted one hand and beckoned her forward when her feet slowed.

“I just hope this is something I need to be here for,” Isolde ventured cautiously, her gaze flickering to Jacob’s face. The redhead’s expression was drawn tight and hard, and not the way it normally was; it wasn’t calm and focused, but strained, like he was holding himself back from saying something to Joseph that he thought he might regret later.

She had never known Jacob to bite his tongue very much, but from her own experience with Joseph, well—he was apt at bringing out the worst in people.

“Did you know?” Joseph asked when she had finally come to a stop. “About my brother’s...” He wet his lips for a moment, his gaze darting across the empty space of the floor as he looked for the word he wanted to say. And then he landed: “Pursuits?”

Isolde blinked. “If you mean the woman he says is his partner—”

“Yes,” the blonde interjected, before she could finish—a thing he knew that she hated but he seemed unable to refrain from doing. “I do.”

Sol’s eyes narrowed. When she turned her gaze from Jacob to Joseph, she was greeted with the typical unreadable expression; as untroubled as the blue sky over a sunny sea.

But there were storm clouds. Somewhere, in there, on a horizon Joseph would not let her reach now and perhaps had not ever.

“I only knew of her today,” Isolde replied after a moment. “After we saw our little hunter out in Fall’s End, I imagine he felt it pressing that he retrieve her sooner rather than later.”

Joseph made a low noise. It was like a hm, but threatening. Hm, he said, interesting, that. But what it was he felt was so interesting about that particular line of information, Isolde couldn’t only venture a guess; and if she had to venture a guess, she would have said that it would probably be that he felt it was interesting that something was going on that he had not been aware of.

If there was one thing that she knew about Joseph, affirmatively, it was that he did not like not knowing.

“Isolde, why are you here?”

A familiar spark of anger lit, hot and fetid, in her belly. “Pardon me?

“Why are you here? In this compound? In Hope County?” Even as he spoke, Joseph’s gaze was fixed on the eldest Seed, the lines of his face peaceful and serene despite the idle venom burning in the timbre of his voice. “What did John send you here for?”

The anger burned up into soot, into dread, and sat just there, curled at the base of her neck. Isolde could not shake the idea that she had been brought in here to make a point, and that she really shouldn’t be there—that this was something Joseph and Jacob needed to settle between themselves, but that was never how Joseph had operated: fair had never been a stratagem in his playbook.

“Isolde,” Jacob said, his voice a low caution when she looked at him, shaking his head very slightly. It’s not worth it, he was saying, fighting, it’s not worth it.

“Joseph, this,” she plunged on pointedly, “is not something that I need to be a part of. I’ll go, so the two of you can—”

But when she went to depart, Joseph lifted his hand and pointed at her and ground out between his teeth, “Stay. Put.”

The poison in his voice was so potent it almost made her flinch. Almost. And then the indignation started to bloom: who do you think you are, to be talking to me like that? But they wouldn’t come; the words wouldn’t come, because when she lifted her gaze to Joseph’s and saw him looking at her, it was—

“I want you to say it, out loud, in front of Jacob,” he continued, the muscle of his jaw flexing viciously. “Tell him why John needed you here.”

Jacob said, raising his voice a little, “We all know why—”

“Because you are useless unless you are aware of what’s happening. Every detail. Isn’t that right?” he prompted. “Isolde?”

She felt her molars grind. It was clear, now, why he had asked her here. “Yes.”

Joseph turned his gaze to Jacob. “Is that what you want us to be? Want me to be? Ill-informed?”

The redhead was silent for a long heartbeat. He sucked his teeth, and said, “No, Joseph, I don’t—”

“No. More. Secrets.”

The blonde’s voice had pitched so low that she nearly couldn’t hear him, so close and low and intimate was it that he was speaking to his brother, so little space between them. Joseph looked to be controlling himself quite tightly; so very little of the leash available to himself, digging the choke chain deeper and deeper into him in an effort to remain intact.

“Joseph,” Jacob began, “I only—”

“A whole year?” the blonde bit out viciously. “An entire year you spent devoting your time to this—this—”

Isolde was familiar with the precipice at which Joseph was teetering. Right on the edge of saying something vicious and mean and unendingly cruel. She had pushed him there a few times before, in their brief few months together—had seen the way he pulled himself back time and time again, seconds away from grinding out some wretched insult.

“I won’t,” Joseph bit out, lifting a hand as though to temper himself, “tolerate it, Jacob.”

Silence stretched between the three of them for a moment, pulled taut as a rubber band. Though she knew why Joseph had wanted her here—to make a point, but also to put someone there to witness the verbal lashing—looking at the two of them now, she felt more than ever like an intruder on a world she knew so very little about.

John had done nothing to prepare her. He had given her the rosy version of the story, and even that included the cult and the killing and the residents of Hope County. It still hadn’t been enough.

The silence broke when Jacob said, “I understand, Joseph.”

For a second, there was nothing; just Joseph, sweeping his gaze over Jacob for a long moment, like he was trying to wring out any deception or sign that Jacob was being disingenuous—and of course, he could find none, and that meant there was only the tense, uncomfortable silence wadded up between them, in their own fists.

Finally, Joseph said, “That will be all,” and turned, tilting his face to the lukewarm light of the candles at the front of the chapel and closing his eyes.

The eldest Seed lingered for only a moment longer before he left; his eyes met with Isolde’s for a heartbeat before he made his decision, turning down the center walkway and heading for the doors. It wasn’t until they clicked shut that Isolde felt a tiny bit of relief—if only because the source of Joseph’s ire had now departed, and she could get a better look at him.

It was her job to make sure things were under control. John had asked her here for that exact reason—and this kind of in-fighting would be the kind of thing that would, eventually, be their unraveling if they didn’t get it under control. She had only seen Joseph so angry once before, almost over a year ago now, back before he was the Father of Eden’s Gate. Back when they had been—

There are things that I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a wife—

��Joseph,” Isolde said, leaving the memory somewhere else—somewhere dark and deep she would never find it again, “what’s going on?”

The blonde did not open his eyes when he replied, “I cannot have secrets kept from me.” After a moment, he added, “And in that vein of thought, I should get in touch with our wayward brother.”

“Do you really think it’s that big of a deal?” she prompted again. “To have started a fight with Jacob over a woman that he—”

“Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.” His eyes fluttered open, the flicker of dark lashes illuminated by the amber glow, and he tilted his head to look at her. There was a hardness in his voice when he said, “God is perfect in knowledge, and I cannot be less. Not when He speaks directly to me.”

An unpleasant little thrill crawled down her spine when his eyes fixed on her, darting over her face like he wanted to savor her. “Then don’t use me as the whip you want to lash your brother with,” she snapped. “I’m not a humiliation tactic. You do know better than to do that to me.”

Joseph let out a little sigh. The corners of his mouth ticked upward, the shift in mood almost palpably changing the energy in the chapel—just like that, it was different. Not lighter, not better, but different.

“You’re right,” he agreed after a moment. “I do know you better than that.”

Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Deciding to forego that comment, she took a step forward, cinching her jacket in more securely around her waist. “You know what you cannot be, Joseph?” she asked. “You cannot be fighting with your brothers. Especially not the only one that’s here. Your people out there are disgruntled, and scared, and you can’t afford to be picking fights with the people who are the most loyal to you.”

“They are all,” Joseph replied, “loyal, Isolde." And then, after a moment of watching her: "Is this what you want to be doing? Herding us? Mothering us?”

“My professional opinion is that the image of your convent is severely lacking,” she bit out, once again ignoring the bait, “and the last thing you need to do is have them noticing that there’s a rift forming between the ones in charge. And yes—that is the only thing I can do for you lot at this point, and like an idiot, I agreed to come here and do it.”

Because I can’t say no to John, something tired inside of her said. Because I couldn’t say no to any of you, even if I wanted to.

The blonde reached up, and it took that gesture for Isolde to realize how closely they had drifted—it was so little effort, so little time between the movement of his hand and the time at which his fingers made contact with her cheek, brushing the hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. He moved so confidently and leisurely that Sol couldn’t think to pull back; and when she didn’t, the calloused fingertips trailed down the pillar of her throat, his eyes following their journey.

It was intimate; too soon her brain said, even though it had been so long since they had been in the same room, let alone regarded each other in even a passive capacity. But it was too soon enough that her brain fizzed out, the air moving thick as molasses in the journey between her mouth and lungs, the violent flashback of their closeness overwhelming her.

She said, “Joseph,” in a don’t kind of voice, and he dropped his hand from where it had come to a stop at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

“It was smart of John, to ask you to come and shepherd us in his absence,” Joseph said, blithely ignoring the desperate little barb in the way Isolde said his name.

“I always thought you’d make a perfect Mother.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It had been several days since their conversation in the hallway that night, and John had barely seen hide nor hair of Elliot.

Honestly, it would have been impressive how quickly she could make herself inaccessible, were it not so frustrating. He couldn’t help but wonder what the implications there were—had she known she could do this all along, and had been indulging in him for some reason? Had she simply decided to be done and that was it, meaning that she hadn’t been done before?

Not that she was done now, anyway. Not if John had anything to say about that. But for a few days, she barely spared him a glance—passed him in the hallway when she got home with a muttered greeting on occasion. She woke before him, left to the stables without him, and left him alone in the house. Left him alone without her venom, without her eyes on him. With her mother, no less.

Scarlet was, on paper, exactly the kind of woman that John felt confident in his ability to charm. Single, wealthy by inheritance, a little older and always with a martini in hand by ten? If he couldn’t impress her, he had to be doing something wrong. But in a way that seemed to be very typical of the Honeysett women, Scarlet remained veritably unimpressed and even disdainful of his presence—even though she had insisted he stay with them.

More and more, he was becoming convinced that it was not going to be to his benefit.

“Good morning, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet greeted him from where she sat at the table, perusing her magazine. Not once did her eyes lift to meet his, and not once did an ounce of enthusiasm enter her voice. “You are missing from the stables again today, I see. Not a horse person?”

“I might find myself to be one,” John replied with a leisurely sort of bitterness, “if Elliot would only allow me to come.”

“Yes, it’s very annoying, isn’t it?” The blonde mused idly, over her cup of coffee. “To not be handed exactly what you want when you want it?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, pouring himself a cup of coffee and trying to remind himself that this was all temporary. This house, this town, Scarlet and Sylvia and Wyatt—it was all temporary, and soon enough they would be the least of his concerns. All of his time and attention would be wrapped up in Elliot and the baby, and what their lives would look like once the end had come.

Because it would come, and then she would see. She would understand that everything he’d done had been for them, for her and their baby and—

“I only want to spend as much time with her as I can,” he replied, managing to keep his tone pleasant. “Before I go back home.”

“And when are you?” Scarlet idled. “Going, I mean?” And then, in what he could only think was a stretch of graciousness: “Not that you’ve overstayed, because I am sure you would never, and Delia is quite taken with you—”

“Surely.”

“—as is Elliot, despite her best efforts to act otherwise.”

“What?” John’s head snapped to where Scarlet was still browsing her magazine, and he cleared his throat at her arched brow to try and gather his scrambled thoughts. “What I mean is, has she—said anything to you about me?”

The blonde at the table, swathed in her silk robe and curls primly pinned back away from her face, made a sound that might have been amused. Might have been, anyway, had he not turned to look at her and seen the way her face remained serene and unexpressive.

“I am not blind, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “It takes very little investigation to find that my daughter is fond of you, against my wishes and her own.”

Before John could open his mouth to respond—and press for more information while his stomach did victorious little somersaults—she turned her head to the window, when the sound of a vehicle rolling up the drive spurred Boomer on to barking in the front room.

“Oh, would you look at that,” she murmured with a little sigh. “My prodigal child, returned home at last.”

He glanced out the window to see an unfamiliar car pulling up, a black truck that took the fresh snow of the unplowed drive to the Graves-Honeysett home with ease; from the driver’s side hopped a familiar face.

“Didn’t Elliot drive there this morning?” he asked, frowning as he watched Wyatt jog around to the passenger side despite Elliot’s waving from the front for him to stop. The man had been nothing but polite—even enthused—to meet him at the bar the other night, but that didn’t mean John had forgotten the way he’d gotten comfy enough to try and touch Elliot’s face and her hair. Even now, the man grinned, all sunshine, as he opened the passenger side door for her and offered her his hand.

Scarlet replied, her attention already having departed the window, “What a silly question to ask out loud, Mr. Seed. You're not stupid, so I would beg you—try not to give me that impression.”

His eyes darted to Scarlet for a moment, briefly grateful that she wasn’t looking at him to see the spark of irritation winding its way across his face; he could feel it furrowing his brows, drawing his mouth into a hard, tight line. Setting his coffee cup on the counter, John made his way out the front door just as Wyatt and Ell were nearly there.

“Oh, hey John!” Wyatt greeted him. His eyes swept over him briefly. “Boy, you’re really put together any chance you get, huh?”

“You can never be overdressed,” John replied as amicably as he could. “Watch the steps, Ell, they’re—”

“Icy, I know,” Elliot said. She puffed out a little breath of air and brushed his offered hand aside, instead favoring the railing with one hand and the top of Boomer’s head with the other, still refusing him the courtesy of meeting his eyes. It had been days. She had never once held such a grudge against him—not really, not where he couldn’t at least get her to give him the time of day.

“Where’s the Jeep?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit tighter than he would have liked as she brushed past him. “Surely you didn’t have Wyatt ferry you out here for fun.”

“Tire’s flat,” she snipped. “Would you prefer I walked?”

“You could have called.” He took in a sharp little breath, willing the accusation away. “I would have been more than happy to pick you up, Ell.”

“Don’t have a cell phone,” Elliot replied flatly. “And Wyatt was already there.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Wyatt interjected hurriedly, smiling at John with pearly whites on display. “I had to come into town anyway, and it was gonna be hours before the mechanic could get out there.”

“Well, it was very kind of you all the same,” John said with a smile that felt like it pulled too tight across his face, a smile that was harder and harder to maintain with every passing second that Wyatt West put his baby-blues on Elliot. And that was often; the blonde looked a little sheepish when his gaze met John’s, drawn away from the redhead who was readily retreating into the house.

“Like I said, wasn’t any trouble. Always happy to help,” the blonde insisted, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yes,” John replied pleasantly, “I can see that.”

Wyatt blinked, flushing. “Anyway, uh...Have a nice day, John. And you too, Freckles!”

He waved before turning on his heel and heading back to the truck. As soon as the driver’s door closed and he was starting to pull away, John turned to see Elliot watching him, her eyes narrowed.

“‘I can see that’?” She scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, are we talking now?” His brows lifted, head tilting. “So kind of you, to grace me with eye contact when you’ve been storming around the last few days—”

“Don’t be a fucking baby,” Elliot snapped. “My life does not revolve around you. Especially when I can’t seem to figure out why the fuck you drove all the way here just to sulk around.”

“Perhaps it should at least be in my orbit,” John replied tersely, “considering that we are having a child together.”

“You—”

Elliot sucked in a sharp breath, clamping her mouth shut as she looked at him. There was a very brief moment where she looked like she wanted to say something, and very badly, but instead, the corner of her mouth ticked upward and she turned on her heel to walk inside without saying a word.

“It’s a cute nickname,” John continued tartly as he trailed after her. Don't walk away from me, don't, you owe me at least your attention. “Freckles. Do you prefer that one over Miss Honey?”

She closed the door behind her, promptly and without hesitation, letting it rattle in the door frame and in his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, passing a hand exhaustedly over his face.

Impudent. Surly. Ferociously, viciously, wretchedly stubborn. He knew this about her—had known this about her—and yet at every opportunity, she proved his idea of her correct, and he found himself getting more and more frustrated. It wasn’t fair, that even those moments of her attention still felt good, that the sting of her venom held some satisfaction for him, like he was addicted to it.

If she would just, came the thought, rolling over and over. If she would, if she would just, if she would just—

But just what? Just stop being that way? Would he have even liked her if she were not this purposefully obstinate problem to solve?

“No,” he sighed to himself, raking his fingers through his hair. “No, I wouldn’t.”

The reward would just have to be all that much sweeter in the end.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three hours later, Elliot had forced herself to come to a decision.

She waffled on it for a while—going back and forth as she showered, scrubbing her hair and trying to let the hot water ease some of the growing aches and pains—and did her best to ignore the way something a little wicked chattered happily inside of her at the knowledge that John’s eyes had been sparking with jealousy. It felt immature, to like watching him squirm; more apparent than ever, too, was that old habits died hard.

There was a sick kind of satisfaction that came with finding John’s buttons and pushing them. It had felt the same way, back in Hope County—when he’d been burning with irritation and jealousy that Joseph had gotten her confession, not him, that she wouldn’t tell him what it was, pushing and pushing and jamming her finger into that button until he finally snapped and—

Kissed her.

That’s not what I’m trying to do, she thought, a little defiantly as she looked at herself in the mirror of the bathroom; tracing the WRATH scar, looking down to realize that there was, in fact, a baby bump. Oh, God, wasn’t that something fucking dreadful? Too real, but even still she’d known it was coming—worn looser, heavier clothes. She’d tried so hard not to look at herself in mirrors as of late that doing so now made her feel like she was looking at a stranger.

I’m not trying to get him to kiss me—the opposite, actually, I’m just trying to get him to fucking lay off for a minute—

And yet, as she found herself standing outside of the door to John’s room, her chest felt a little tight and her heart was doing that funny thing it liked to do when he was around; fluttering, leaping against her ribs, begging for attention. Elliot could have argued that it was just muscle memory at this point, that she had spent enough time around John letting him touch her and kiss her and say sweet things into her neck that her body was only working off of its basest instincts, and that was why she was feeling this way.

Clearing her throat, Elliot knocked on the door and said, “John?”

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side, and then his voice drifting to her: “Yes, Elliot?”

“It’s time for my appointment,” she managed out lamely. It felt even more stupid, saying it now, after she’d made such a big show of marching off after he’d committed to his display of jealousy. “Since the Jeep’s still waiting to get the tire fixed, do you think you could—”

The door swung open; John’s eyes flickered over her for a moment, his head tilting just before his mouth curved into a pleasant little smile that was two parts triumph and one part spite.

“What’s this?” he asked. “You need my help with something?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be an asshole, John.”

“I would never.” He propped himself up against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Wyatt’s taxi services currently unavailable?”

Already, she was regretting her decision—it had felt important, to have him along, but now she thought maybe she had been too forgiving for having forgiven anything at all.

“The appointment might be the one we figure out the baby’s gender, fuckface,” she snapped, “and since Wyatt’s not the baby’s father, I figured maybe you’d want to come in for this appointment, because it wouldn't feel right not to at least ask if you wanted to. Don’t worry though, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

“Wait!” The exclamation stopped her mid-turn from his door, the feeling of his fingers brushing the palm of her hand making her jerk out of his reach instinctively. John exhaled through his nose, and when she looked him with narrowed eyes and her arms crossed, he said, “I do want to—I want to come.”

“You sure aren’t acting like it.”

“I—Ell, I haven’t heard the baby’s heartbeat a single time,” he insisted, a little frantic. “I’ve respected that you didn’t want me there the last time, and you know, when I wasn’t here before is another thing, but finding out the gender and getting to hear the heartbeat—” He stopped, sighing. “I’m...”

Though there was a bit of pain stinging in the cavity of her chest at his earnesty, Elliot steeled herself, keeping her expression tight. “You’re what, John?” she prompted. She half-expected another blow-up; I’m the baby’s father, that baby is mine, I deserve this, it’s mine.

But instead, John’s mouth twisted and he said, “I’m—sorry.”

Elliot blinked. Had she ever heard John apologize? For anything, ever? And sincerely? She couldn’t recall a day or time in memory—and though her memory was spotty at best these days, she thought for certain that was something she would have remembered. Even when they’d been going to bury Joey, she wouldn’t let him get the words out.

“Uh,” she said very intelligently, “what?”

“I’m sorry,” John repeated, appearing a little frustrated at having to repeat himself. He shifted on his feet. “I want to come to the appointment. I mean—” And then, in what surely must have been pure agony: “Please let me come to the appointment.”

It felt so odd to hear the words coming out of his mouth that she could only blink rapidly and say, “Um, okay,” before turning and quickly heading down the hall and to the stairs. It had been her intention all along to ask John if he wanted to come to the appointment, to see the baby on the screen and find out the gender together—because despite his petty jealousy over someone he didn’t need to be concerned about in the least, and despite his insistence that he was the only person capable of loving her, she did see him making an effort instead of yanking her all the way to the other side. Even if it was a minute, tiny effort; it was an effort nonetheless.

“We’ll have to take your car,” Elliot said uneasily over her shoulder, pulling on her coat quickly. “And it’s soon, so—”

“Making haste,” John agreed from beside her. He reached over her shoulder to pull his own coat off of the rack. It wasn’t lost on her, then, that weeks ago he had gone to reach for her shoulder and she’d about jumped out of her skin; now, the smell of his cologne and his voice close to her ear was almost comforting, in an entirely self-indulgent way.

If she just broke it down to the piece of John she loved the most—his voice and the way the cologne smelled when it was on him, and the way it felt when his hands traced the scars on her hips, and the boyish grin he’d flash her—then maybe it could work. Then, maybe, things would have been fine.

But that’s not love, something inside of her said, as she made her way out the front door and to the car. John says he loves all the wretched things about you. Did you forget?

No. No, she had not forgotten the way John had kissed her when she had blood on her mouth, or the way he’d said, I would’ve fucked you there, or how it felt when he buried his face into her neck and said her name in a voice so broken she thought she might be holy.

“Too hot?” John asked, and she realized she was sitting in the car—that she had checked out halfway out the door—and they were now down at the end of the drive.

Elliot swallowed. Her face felt hot, and now it was not only because of her mind’s wanderings but also because she had been caught daydreaming.

“No,” she said, sinking back against the passenger seat. “No, it’s fine.”

He watched her for a moment before pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. She took a quick glance around the car; it was older, and sort of a beater. The kind of shitty Honda civic she’d see peeling out on the highway at 3AM because some idiot teenager thought she wouldn’t pull them over if the roads were empty. He’d probably lifted it on his way out of town to keep a low profile.

Her foot nudged something solid as she stretched out. Over the sound of the radio rattling and fuzzing tiredly, she heard a dull thunk. She squinted. It was a book. Unconditional Parenting.

“Jesus,” John muttered, “for a town this small, this traffic is a nightmare.”

“What?” Elliot asked, quickly averting her eyes from the book, feeling like she’d just rifled through someone’s personal drawer. “Oh, um—it’s a tourist town. People come here for the Christmas lights. They do like a whole lighting festival with that big tree in the square every night for weeks before Christmas.”

“And that’s why I can’t find parking.”

“That’s why you can’t find parking.”

He shot her a wry smile, taking a second loop around the square and a bit slower this time. Elliot turned her attention back out the window, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it—Unconditional Parenting. How long had he been reading baby books? Why was he so confident he’d get the chance to be a parent, anyway?

When he finally pulled into a parking spot, he let out a breath of relief. “How are we on time?”

Ell glanced at the car’s radio. “Ten minutes early,” she replied after a moment. “Right on time.”

“Great.” John paused. When neither of them moved to get out of the car, he cleared his throat and said, “So, what do you think?”

“About?” Elliot prompted. “The lighting festival?”

“What do you think baby is?” he clarified. Absently, he worried his thumbnail into the rubber of the steering wheel. “The lighting festival in a tourist town is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Well, it should be on your mind,” she replied, a little petulant. “I think it’s nice, for the record. All of the vendors come in from out of town and even though the traffic’s a nightmare, it’s good business for the town and everyone’s always been respectful of it. Plus, the lights are nice.”

She paused, and when she looked at John, he was grinning at her. He seemed to be enjoying her firm defense of the lighting festival.

“And I think baby is a boy,” she added after a minute, pulling at a loose thread on her sweater. “Just my gut feeling.”

He seemed pleased by her answer, but if he actually was she couldn’t have said why; it was nearly impossible to read John sometimes, but especially in moments like this, in uncharted waters for them both. She lingered for a moment before she unbuckled and said quickly, “Anyway, we should probably go,” pulling herself out of the warmth of the car and into the chilly afternoon.

She wanted to go back to being angry. She wanted to go back to hating John, to being disgusted by him, to relishing in making him suffer, even just a little—but it was like her brain had reverted back to her neanderthal roots. Baby daddy reads parenting books, makes him a good father.

The sooner the moment was over and done with, the sooner she could go back to wallowing on the ways John had wronged her, instead of the ways he made her happy.

By the time they were back in the room, Elliot sitting on the end of the little bed and John in the chair under a pregnancy poster—Pregnant or thinking of getting pregnant? 3 things to discuss!—she had nearly steeled herself. If she just sat there, and replayed the last three months in her head, and reminded herself of all the reasons why she had left John behind in the first place, she would be just fine.

And then the door opened, and Dr. Harding stepped inside, and looked between Elliot and John with surprise.

“Hello, Elliot,” Harding greeted. “I see we’ve a guest today?”

“This is John,” Elliot said, trying not to sound too miserable given the riotous state of her brain. “This is the, uh—he's the father.”

John stood quickly, holding out his hand. “John Seed.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Harding,” she said, reaching out and shaking his hand. “Excited? Elliot’s told you we might find out the gender today, yes?”

“Yes and yes,” John confirmed, sounding more and more like the kind of man she had fallen for and less like the egotistical psycho she’d turned in to the government. Right, the one that had lied, and coerced, and perhaps knowingly drugged her. She couldn’t afford to forget that bit.

As Elliot went through all of the normal questions—have you been eating well, yes, I see you haven’t lost weight, yeah, how is the sleep, it’s fine—she held on tight to that little thread of knowledge. John was here because she was letting him, not for any other reason, and it did feel good to know that this whole time he’d played by her rules. As much as he could have, anyway, showing up at her house unannounced.

She settled back against the propped back, grimacing as she shimmied the hem of her sweater up and Harding put a generous amount of gel on the swell of her stomach. Between doctor’s appointments, it was easy to pretend like maybe she wasn’t pregnant. The morning sickness had faded, her appetite had come back, she was getting fine enough sleep; if she didn’t look at herself in the mirror, if she ignored the pervading aches and pains, the roundness to her features then she could pretend like things were normal.

But then John pulled the chair over to the side of the bed, his fingers brushing hers, and nothing felt even remotely close to normal.

“Alright, let’s take a look at baby, shall we?” Harding said, settling in as she began to glide the instrument across Elliot’s stomach.

“Okay,” Elliot said, feeling uneasy. John’s eyes flickered to her, and while she chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers curled around his—a thoughtless, absent-minded gesture, like she was a heat-seeking machine and the only heat that would do was his.

He didn’t say anything, but laced their fingers together just as Harding said, “Oh, there’s baby!”

The dull, steady heartbeat echoed. When she stole a glance in his direction, John’s eyes were transfixed on the screen as Harding went over where the features were, pointing them out on the screen to him.

“Your little one is about the size of a peach right now,” Harding was saying, “and let’s just see here...”

Oh, God, she thought, feeling her stomach roll. It was so real. Too real, to be laying there, after all of this time feeling so disconnected from her own body—like a vessel, but now with John’s fingers tangled with hers and the baby’s heartbeat and a fruit analogy regarding the size it felt too real. She could no longer act like it wasn’t happening.

“It looks like we’ve got a perfectly healthy baby boy,” were the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth when Elliot’s eyes drifted from John’s face. “It might be a bit early, but that's my educated inference. Congratulations, Elliot. And daddy too, of course.”

A boy. A boy. I’m having a boy.

A perfectly healthy baby boy.

The room felt a little like it was swimming, her throat tight and a steady burning behind her eyes and nose. She sat up a little and swallowed thickly. John had come to a stand too, to get a better look at the screen, but when she squirmed and moved he looked at her.

“Ell?” he asked, sounding very far away, or like he was talking to her underwater. His hand not interlocked with hers came up to her face, and she couldn’t find it in herself to pull away—not only because of the effort it would take, but because of the way it felt to have him right there when she thought she needed him the most. “What’s wrong? Hey, baby, are you—”

“I’m okay,” Elliot managed out, her voice thick and wobbly. “I’m f-fine, I just—um—”

I’m having a boy. Oh, God, it felt so fucking real, too fucking real, but in a good way—for once, her nerve-endings felt alive, and not with anxiety and dread but with happiness.

Sounding panicked, John tilted her face up and asked again, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, a wet, raspy little laugh bubbling out of her, “nothing’s wrong, I’m just—I’m just really happy—”

It took his thumb sweeping wetness from her cheek for her to realize that she was crying. Some unshed emotion hiccuped in her chest, and she swallowed thickly, fingers wrapping around his wrist in what she understood too late was an effort to keep his hand there; skin to skin, pulse close to pulse.

I want a home with you, she’d said to him, that night, and he’d looked at her and said, You have it, Ell, I told you.

He’d said, I’m all yours.

He’d said, Take what you need from me.

Dr. Harding was saying something, speaking softly to John. It was another reminder that it had been idiotic not to let him come in the first place—there was something so inherently endearing about John mmhming and nodding along, listening raptly as the doctor went over what they would be expecting in between this appointment and the next while his thumb swept affectionately over her cheek. She was sure that she heard the reaffirmation that she needed to be getting good sleep, staying as relaxed and unstressed as possible, but she couldn’t think about that. Her brain was going on loop, on repeat.

I’m having a boy, she thought, a perfectly healthy baby boy. My baby.

When Harding patted John’s shoulder and said, “I’ll give you two a minute,” before exiting, she felt John’s fingers threading through the hair at the nape of her neck; in a gesture that was painfully intimate, his forehead pressed to hers.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “I can’t believe that—”

“I know,” she said, sniffing. “I can’t either.”

“You were right.” He grinned, their noses brushing, giving her hand a squeeze. So close to a kiss; she felt her lashes fluttering, the warmth of his hand spreading along the slope of her neck. “We’re having a boy. My God.”

Yes. We are having a boy. A perfectly healthy baby boy. Without her permission, the thought populated, permeating her brain.

Our baby.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Yes, I have him right here.”

Staci blinked. A quick intake of his surroundings reminded him that he was sitting in the cab of one of Eden’s Gates trucks—lifted from the F.A.N.G. Center. Footage of him with the cultists—the other cultists—would now be available. Footage of him walking past the corpses of Jacob’s gutted chosen would now be available.

Jacob is going to kill me, he thought, lifting his eyes from the back of the seat to look at Helmi. The woman was watching him as she spoke on the phone, with Dani sitting next to him on the backbench. Helmi had been on the phone with someone for quite a while; he’d stopped paying attention what felt like eons ago. If he just let his brain drift off, he wouldn’t think about the bodies. Fucking God, their bodies—

Jacob’s going to fucking kill me.

Helmi's hand moved. On instinct, Staci flinched, and she rolled her eyes.

“Say hello, doggy,” she said, shoving the phone against his ear. He fumbled with it for a minute before he swallowed thickly.

When he looked at Dani frantically, she frowned, her brows furrowing, and she whispered, “Don’t embarrass me, Staci.”

“Um, h...” His mouth was painfully dry. “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Staci Pratt?”

The voice on the other end was painfully pleasant. She had the same kind of accent Dani did—Norwegian, maybe, or Swedish—but her voice was a bit deeper, a rich timbre to it.

“I am,” he replied uneasily. “I-I mean, yes. It is.”

Helmi had faced forward in the driver’s seat again and started pulling away from the F.A.N.G. Center, turning the heat down low. As the truck pulled out onto the snowy highway, she flicked the headlights off and slowed to something close to a crawl.

“S-Sorry, but—”

“You do not have to apologize to me, Staci.”

“I just don’t know—um, who you are,” he managed out. As soon as he said the words, Dani dug her elbow into his ribs; he barely stifled the yelp, looking at her as she mouthed something he couldn’t understand.

She hissed, “I told you, she is—”

“My name is Kajsa. Helmi, and your Dani, and many of our brothers and sisters are...” Her voice trailed off, and she made a thoughtful hum. Pratt tried to ignore the way she said your Dani made his heart jump in his throat. “They are my charges. It is my responsibility to take care of them.”

“Oh,” Pratt said. “So what...What do you want with me?”

“Helmi says that you have made a very good impression,” Kajsa replied sweetly. “You have important knowledge, and I want to make sure that you are safe, and taken care of. Just as I would any of the others.”

He fought back a grimace. The words sounded sweet and enticing, but he couldn’t shake the way Dani had looked at the gutted corpses on the screen and said delightedly, It will happen to us all. If we are lucky, Helmi will be the one who does it for us.

Pratt’s gaze darted up to the front. Helmi’s dark eyes fixed on his in the mirror, like she had been watching him all along.

“It is my understanding that the Seeds have not endeared you to their cause? That you know what your colleague did, that your friends have left?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “I mean—that’s right. Um, I was working for Jacob, but it was more like—”

“Do not trouble yourself with recounting. I believe you,” Kajsa interrupted. And then, gently: “It must have been horrible.”

His chest tightened. Oh, no, he thought, shaking his head and pressing the heel of his hand against his left eye. No, fuck no, don’t listen to her, Pratt, you fucking idiot.

“By now you must have some grasp of what is going on,” the woman continued, “but in case you do not, I will tell you. Are you listening, Staci Pratt?”

Pratt’s head pressed against the back of the seat. He didn’t want to; he didn’t want to listen to her sweetness, her sympathy, the way she clicked her tongue and the timbre of her voice warming him down to the marrow of his bones when he felt like he’d been freezing this whole time.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m listening.”

“We are well-armed. We are organized. We have a common enemy with you. And a common friend, too.” She paused, and he thought that he could hear a smile in her voice when she said, “I can tell that you want to live, my darling. That you don’t want me to have Helmi pull over and gut you open, leave you for the crows and the wolves and the woods to take you.”

Opening his mouth did nothing to inspire the words to come out of him. Nausea rolled violently in his stomach—but there was nothing left to puke up, even if he’d wanted to.

He did want to live, but not like this. Not terrified. Not. Like. This.

“I want you to live too,” Kajsa murmured on the other end.

“But you’re going to have to do something for me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Elliot opened her eyes, it had gotten dark outside.

It took her a minute to collect her bearings, sitting up in a bed in a dark room. At her feet, Boomer huffed and sighed at the disturbance, and then she remembered; she was in her bed. Back at home. John had driven the both of them back to the house, and she’d said that she needed to lay down—and he’d let her, without protest or complaint. He hadn’t even tried to insinuate she could use a napping companion.

Pulling herself out of bed, she rubbed her eyes tiredly and glanced out the window. Everything felt a little foggy. How long had she been sleeping? Had she really been out until late into the night?

She reached absently to her bedside table, blindly fumbling for the lamp switch; after what felt like an eternity of not being able to find it, Elliot sighed and skimmed her hand over her face, looking out the window. The night outside was brighter than it had been in a while, with no clouds in the sky and the moon illuminating the snowy landscape in an unforgiving blue-white, stretching out far and far and far until it hit the treeline.

Something darted on the horizon. She blinked rapidly, taking a step closer to the window and pushing on the glass pane until it started to slide up, grinding laboriously. The longer she looked, the longer Elliot thought maybe she had just been zoning out—but then she saw it again; a flash of something, pale and long, like spider bone-white in color skittering up the dark wood of a tree in the distant treeline.

A glimpse of pale limbs. Tangled, dark hair—she couldn’t make out the color, it was too dark—but it looked wet, it looked matted, like someone had hurt it. Like someone had blown its skull open.

Something metal rattled. The trash can, she thought, her attention snapping to the front of the house. When the sound of metal crashed in the night, the motion-activated light in the front kicked on. A shadow stretched along the snow, cast long and deformed by the warping of the light.

“Hey!” Elliot shouted, but the shadow did not twitch or move in response; just the sounds of rustling, like whoever it was found themselves too preoccupied with digging through the trash can. Her heart was pounding violently in her chest; the terror that had been knotting in her stomach was doused by something hotter, redder, angrier.

Rage.

She pushed herself away from the window and out the door into the hallway. As her feet hit the stairs, there was almost no noise—just the rushing of her movements as she pushed the front door open and hurried down the front steps, turning the corner to where the garbage can sat.

“Hey, listen to me!” she snapped, propelled by the anger when she saw the figure hunched over the garbage can. “You can’t be in—”

The figure lifted its head. From the back, her eyes swept over what looked like fur, a tail, up and up to the back of a head that had two ears perched on it, until the figure’s head turned—

Fury disappeared. It was now only dread, only pure, cold dread and terror sitting in her, gutting her, washing her out as the dog with a man’s face turned and looked at her and smiled.

The square teeth, gapped and pearly, oozed with the same dark liquid as she had thought she’d seen before. In the yellow light from the porch, it glittered dark as garnets, dropping into the snow and spreading out crimson.

Move, she thought, I have to move, I have to fucking move, I have to go I have to run I have to—

“Hey!”

It was her voice. It was her voice, but it wasn’t coming out of her—it was thrown, echoing from somewhere in the trees, the dog with the man’s face spreading its mouth wider. Somehow, she knew deep in the marrow of her bones that It was making that sound.

“Hey? Listen to me?”

The pitch was all wrong. Elliot felt a moan bubbling up in her, and It turned on its hind legs, feet hanging loose around its ribcage, and faced her fully. She managed one step back before It tilted its head, as if to say, where are you going?

“Hey, listen to me!”

There was something else in its teeth. Something else, wiry and golden, and even when she willed herself a step back

(whereveryougowhereveryourun)

her body would not move; she was trapped, frozen, watching as It stepped closer

(ItwillwaitforyouItwaitsforusall)

she realized that it was hair, in It’s teeth

(ITWAITSFORYOUITWAITSFORUSALLITWILLHAVEYOU)

her hair.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she screamed.

When she lurched and twisted around, she was not met with a familiar face. It was a woman, hair dark and bundled up in winter clothes, watching her with concern furrowing her brows as the headlights of her car made Elliot squint. She immediately jerked away.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked, her hand dropping back to her side. She was tall—she had to be at least six feet tall, and her face was sharp and angular, her eyes nearly black without any light to show their color.

“Where—” Glancing around wildly, Elliot forced a swallow. She was not in front of her house. She was not even close to the front of her house. She was all the way at the end of the drive, standing in the—

“—found you in the middle of the road,” the woman said, the lilt of her accent jarring Elliot back to reality. “I was on my way home when I nearly hit you. Are you quite well?”

Her gaze snapped back to the woman. The dog; where was the dog with the man’s face? Where had she—

Every nerve-ending felt fried, like they had become pure static; she felt like she was vibrating. She stared at the dark-haired woman with the strange, rich accent, wondering why it itched at her. Weyfield was small. Too small for her to not know about someone with an accent living there.

“Who are you?” she asked after a moment, nails digging into her palms. “You don’t live around here.”

A smile stretched across the woman’s face. She had pearly teeth, and the kind of full mouth that looked pretty, sculpted—but in the smile, Elliot only thought, broken glass, her smile looks like broken glass.

Vaguely, she was aware of John’s voice; he must have heard her scream, or seen her down the driveway, the headlights of the unfamiliar car illuminating her in the dead of night. And yet, she couldn��t shake the feeling. Paranoia spread along her spine, worming into her lungs, a most effective parasite.

“I know you don’t live here,” Elliot managed out, her voice trembling as she took a step forward. There was a tiny pinprick of relief when she realized she’d regained her mobility. “Why are you driving around this neighborhood? Who are you?”

The woman turned and headed back towards the driver’s side of her car, hands tucked politely into the pockets of her coat.

“You should be more careful of your sleepwalking. Someone else might not have been so kind as to stop,” she called over her shoulder. “And—”

The woman paused, the smile still rooted firmly on her face as she opened her car door.

“I hear stress is bad for the baby.”

Something wretched and vile twisted in her stomach, hot as a branding iron. The panic that shot through her system was so vicious, so potent, that for a second she felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs; it crashed over her in a wave so powerful that her vision swam and she thought, I’m going to pass out.

But there was another thought, too, squirming around in there, blinking its little emergency light:

My baby, my baby, you stay away from my baby.

“Ell!”

John’s hands landed on her before she thought think to pull away, even if she’d wanted to, as the headlights of the woman’s car turned away and began to drift down the drive. The idea that she ought to chase the car down occurred to her, but the tremble in her legs and the hitch of her breath reminded her that it would only serve to make her feel worse.

The brunette frantically checked her over, panting and out of breath as though he’d just sprinted down the drive; when his hands finally came to a stop, they were cradling her face, his eyes searching hers. Over his shoulder, she watched the receding red light of the woman’s car drifting in the dark, aimless in a sea of inky black, and she wanted to throw up.

“I heard you scream,” he said, breathless as his brows knit together at the center of his forehead. “What are you doing all the way out here? Baby, look at me, what’s wrong?”

“She knew,” Elliot managed out. Her voice felt like sandpaper grinding out of her lungs. “She knew I—she knew about our baby.”

“Who?” John looked over his shoulder, and then back at her, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. “Elliot, who?”

I don’t know, but the words wouldn’t come.

I don’t know who she is,

but she knew about our baby,

and she has a smile like broken glass,

and a mouth as red as blood.

#my writing #fic: witching hour #john seed x female deputy #john seed/female deputy #far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #tw blood #tw body horror #uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #ch: isolde khan #ch: joseph seed #ch: jacob seed #s/o to santi and arden one day your time in the sun will come #also: poor staci #that is all i have to say on THAT #: )))))))#thank u thank u thank u!!!

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thestruidora · 4 years

Text

The Renegade

Supernatural Fanfiction

Rating: Explicit

WARNINGS: This story will contain but it’ll not be limited to explicit 18+ content including Obsessive Behavior, Smut, Car Sex, Shower Sex, Edging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Fluff, Oral Sex, thigh riding, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Love Triangle

Category: F/M

Pairings: Sam Winchester/Original Female Character, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character and Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester/Original Female Character

Summary: An angel is a spiritual creature, who dwells in heaven and serves as a messenger between God and the human race. They have no desires of their own, that is to say, they have not been given free will, as with men, and were created with the sole purpose of giving glory and fulfilling their Lord’s plan. For this reason, Eva would always be a renegade amongst her kin. A fallen angel receives no compassion or mercy, it is a black sheep strayed from its flock.

Author’s notes: Ok, so, I know, it has been a minute. Bear with me.

Chapter Three

The Times They Are A-Changin’

“The battle outside ragin’ Will soon shake your windows And rattle your walls For the times they are a-changin’” — Bob Dylan

“Witness? Witness to what?” Sam inquired in the midst of the confusion, the dust from Bobby’s living room being risen due to the strong winds.

“We need to go somewhere safe.” Bobby said before Eva could answer, gathering as many books as quickly as he could while he felt the atmosphere get cold, the breath he let out visible in the suddenly chilly air. “Follow me.”

They moved fast, trying to cover their eyes from the harsh air with their hands. The older man in front, guiding them as they went down through a flight of stairs into a lower level of the house that neither Sam or Dean had ever seen before. Opening a strong, tick iron door, Bobby allowed the three to enter into a special room before he got in himself, closing the door behind him.

The basement room was made entirely of iron and covered with pentagrams and Devil's traps. Sam and Dean took a good look around, not believing in what they were seeing.

“Bobby, is this...” Sam began, moving in to touch one of the walls.

“Solid iron. Completely coated in salt. 100% ghost-proof.” Bobby responded, a proud look on his face as he started to lay down the books he held on top of a small table nearby.

“You built a panic room?” Eva asked, sounding genuinely impressed, her eyes inspecting the writings on the walls.

“I had a weekend off.” Singer replied, shrugging while focused on the literature in front of him.

“Bobby.” Dean said, eyes landing on a poster of a swimsuit model that had been plastered on the wall around all other anti-supernatural symbols.

“What?”

“You're awesome.”

“I don’t know how awesome I feel right now, boy.” Bobby sighed, fixing the cap on his head and turning from his reading to the boys, receiving a puzzled look from them as he frowned in weariness. “There’s a bunch of angry ghosts out there and we can’t stay here forever.”

“We won’t have to.” Eva murmured in a distracted ton, seeming concentrated on the writings on the walls still, unaware of her hold on the three man’s attention on account of what she had said.

“Care to elaborate on that by any chance?” Bobby spoke when he realized she would not.

“Oh.” She finally acknowledge them, brown eyes darker in the low lighting of the panic room, a nonchalant report in her features as she proceeded to explain. “I know a spell, but I will need some things from the kitchen and the spell has to be cast over an open fire.”

“The fireplace in the library.” Sam was quick to suggest, looking fixedly at the way Eva kept trying and failing to remove the curly hair of her bangs from her forehead, as if unaccustomed to the feeling.

“Perfect.” The angel let out, giving up on the task and bringing her hands down in a frustrated motion.

“Hey, hold on a second there, Chief.” Dean’s voice filled the small area, bringing Eva’s attention in his direction, a slight grin of irritation forming by the side of her lips and in the gleam in her eyes. “My brother here is clearly infatuated by your…” His hazel orbs scanned her body up and down before he continued. “Godly attributes. But before we go anywhere near that door, risking our lives for a spell that you just pulled out your ass…”

“Oh my God.” Sam closed his eyes, head tilting up in disbelief.

“I’ma need some answers from you.” The dirty blonde haired man finished, crossing his arms on top of his chest, the muscles expanding in volume by the change in posture and creating a more imposing figure.

“Sure, Denny. I’m an open book.” The sound of Eva’s timbre was sweet and upbeat while she offered Dean two good blinks, a sarcastic smile adorning her face.

“Alright.” The older brother’s tough exterior faltered a bit as he was surprised by the angel’s cool demeanor, but taking a quick moment to clear his throat, he pulled through. “Let’s start with these ‘witnesses’. Why are they here?”

“They’ve been risen. That’s why it’s called the Rising of the Witnesses.” She responded, short and condescendingly, but the dark-skinned woman’s allusiveness was not lost on Dean.

“Who rose them?” He inquired.

“I’m not sure, but whoever it was, they did it on purpose.” The hunters shared a look, an intrigued frown in their features. “See, these ghosts, they were forced to rise. They are called Witnesses because they have witnessed the unnatural. None of them died what you'd call ordinary deaths. They woke up in agony. They're like rabid dogs. And the fact that they are all people that hunters, like yourselves, couldn’t save, it’s not a coincidence.”

“So you’re saying that who did this was targeting us?” Sam questioned.

“Most probably. Y’all do have some unfriendly acquaintances out there.” The way that she said it, so full and heavy with irony, plump lips moving around the words so slowly, finally became apparent to the taller Winchester, who gave out a puzzled look.

“And that’s why you’re here, Little Angel? To protect us?” Dean’s tone was challenging, provocative.

“Not quite.” Eva answered, punctuating her syllables. “Whoever did this had big plans. These ghosts being here is just the beginning. They are a prophecy, a sign.”

“A sign of what?” The siblings spoke together, their voices blending into each other, the same apprehension in them.

“The Apocalypse.” Her guise didn’t shift the slightest, keeping a serene composure while uttering her reply.

There was a sepulchral silence in the room. Bobby lowered his head and let out a long breath, a kind of recognition in his features, as if he already suspected that to be the truth. Sam’s eyes grew twice their seize, and he kept staring at the angel without blinking once, as if waiting for her to reveal that she had been joking. Dean’s mouth formed and reformed words that were never pronounced, his lips agape in a circular shape, brows knitted together in deep thought as he processed the repercussions of what was said, before he finally spoke.

“Apocalypse? The apocalypse, apocalypse? The four horsemen, pestilence, $5-a-gallon-gas apocalypse?”

“That’s the one.” Eva smiled an empty smile.

“So that’s why you’re here.” The shaggy-haired man said, a hint of accusation as he fixated his gaze at the girl. “Angels finally come to Earth and it’s the end of it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to stop.” She crossed her arms, tucking them underneath her breasts, sounding unaffected by the way that the Winchesters were reacting to her news. “There’s still time, but you two gotta be prepared.” She gestured to both of them, a superior air about her when she continued. “Big things are afoot.”

“Do I want to know what kind of things?” Dean was quick to ask.

“I sincerely doubt it, but you need to know.” She tipped her head to one side, her curls stirring gracefully with the tiniest of movements. “The Rising of the Witnesses is one of the 66 seals.”

“Okay. I'm guessing that's not a show at Seaworld.” Dean muttered from under he’s breath.

“Think of the seals as locks on a door.” Eva explained.

“Right.” Sam agreed, ears and eyes very open as he focused on everything she said. “Last one opens and…?”

“Lucifer walks free.” Her voice faltered for the first time in front of them, and all three hunters realized how her gaze didn’t met theirs.

“Lucifer?” The eldest Winchester said it way too fast, stuttering a little as he licked his suddenly dry lips. “You mean… Satan, the Ruler of the Underworld… The Devil? That Lucifer?”

Sam began to wander along the space, hands messing with his hair from the roots to the ends in a mechanic, stress reliving manner.

“He’s been locked in a cage for a long time now, and I believe that it would be in your race’s best interest that he stayed that way.” The curly-haired woman realized that she needed to regain control of the situation, upping the volume of her timber so that it resonated trough their emotions. “And in order for that to happen, I’m going to need you and your brother’s collaboration. Got it?”

“This is crazy.” Sam blurted out, hands still ruffling his hair when he stopped moving to face the angel again.

“Look, this is not some ‘monster of the week’ bullshit no more, ok? You guys have entered the big league now.” Eva’s deep brown eyes stared back at the light-colored ones with intention, reaching somewhere inside the hunters, somewhere that had been deemed dormant by them a long time ago, somewhere where their fears lived. “Welcome to the end of times.”

They had prepared themselves to leave the panic room as well as they possibly could, filling up many salt rounds to load their weapons with. The atmosphere in the place was cool and professional, almost sterile. The group worked in silence, the humans showing concern in their faces after the news that the angel had presented to them. She, in the other hand, helped to make the bullets in a steady pace, moving seamlessly and caring no emotion whatsoever in her features.

“So,” Dean began, once he realized that he couldn’t take the silence no more. “Since when do angels need guns to fight off some ghosts?” He looked over at her, realizing that she had progressed in the chore much quicker than he had. “Matter of fact, can’t you just snap your fingers and make them go back to rest?”

“If I could, I wouldn’t be stuck down here, stuffing cartridges with a condiment.” Eva didn’t make eye contact, focusing on the rough white substance that she handled, lips pursed together lightly while she felt it getting more and more under her fingernails.

“Are you always this delightful or today you’re in a special mood just for me?” Dean snapped back, finishing up and beginning to assemble his gun.

The woman let out a breath, closing her eyelids for a couple of seconds, seeming to be gathering her patience before she looked up at him with a much softer semblance.

“If they were normal ghosts, I could deal with them much faster, except they were risen to fulfill a specific purpose, in a specific way that renders my powers obsolete towards them.” Her tone wasn’t nice per say, but it was definitely more polite than what the men had grew accustomed to up to that point, and Dean found himself without knowing what to say next, before she finished off. “Happy?” The last word had such a subtle, corky mischievousness to it that made the blonde want to laugh, and he looked over at Sam for acknowledgment, receiving it right away as the younger brother was already smiling.

“Peachy.” Dean responded, deciding to give up on taunting the angel for now.

“Alright.” Bobby said, gathering up his things while the others did the same. “Cover each other. And aim careful. Me and Eva are going to need some backup to find everything we need for the spell. You boys don't run out of ammo until we’re done, or they'll shred you. Ready?”

“Not really.” Sam replied, little humor in his voice as him and Dean marched towards the door and got ready to open it. “Are you sure you know how to use that?” He asked Eva, who was holding on to her gun in a nonchalant manner.

“I saw humans discovering gunpowder, I think I can handle this.” The brunette gave the tall man a quick grin, not changing her posture in the way the held the weapon.

“Ok, then.” Dean let out, kind of enjoying the frown that was forming in his brother’s face the more he noticed the girl’s sarcastic and brass demeanor, right before he opened the door and they went on to fight some ghosts.

As it turns out, Eva’s deep knowledge of the human race’s history wasn’t enough to translate the theory of fire gun’s usage into practice. From the minute they left the panic room, all the enraged ghosts from the Winchesters' past attacked them with a vengeance, and the angel proved herself to be a terrible shot when dealing with them, not being able to once aim her weapon correctly. To the point of when the ghost of FBI Special Agent, Victor Henriksen, came upon them in Bobby’s kitchen, trying to stop them from gathering all the ingredients needed for the spell that would set the risen Witnesses back to rest, the woman almost got Dean while attempting to shoot at the flitting spectrum. Thankfully, his reflexes were quick and he was capable to dodge the projectile before getting hit, while Sam aimed straight into Henriksen’s chest, making him vanish into nothing.

“Ow!” Dean exclaimed when he jumped out of the bullets reach, noticing the small tear they created in his brown leather jacket, right at the arm. “Easy there, Tiger, don’t help us too much.” His hazel eyes glowed in a light, electric green, showing anger as he looked down at the small brunette, and he extended his hand out to grab the gun out of her fingers in a harsh movement, a disapproval in the way he stared, but she only shrugged.

“Ok, let’s just… Try not to die before the world ends.” Bobby said, irony in his voice as he rolled his eyes and kept moving fast, collecting everything that could be used in the spell provided by the angel.

As it were, the incantation worked, but nothing could be done about the seal that had already been broken. Eva left them as soon as the spirits disappeared, with only the sound of wings flapping to announce her exit. And the three man wondered, without actually saying it out loud, if they could trust the yet mysterious being, and if they could, who had been the one to purposefully break that seal and send those furious ghosts towards them?

The last answer came to Dean, later that day, when the sun was already out and they all slept. In his dreams, Castiel came to him, giving encrypted answers to all his questions, expect one.

“Who did the spell? Who rose the witnesses?”

“Lilith.” The blue-eyed angel responded, hard, firm features that seemed to be sculpted in marble, making Dean ask himself if that was a perpetual quality in all ‘Lord’s soldiers’. “Those seals are being broken by Lilith.”

“And what about your little friend, your work college? Showing up here out of nowhere and helping us out. What? You guys felt sorry for us all of the sudden?” Dean inquired, not understanding the puzzled look that Castiel gave back to him. “Eva? Sam’s guardian angel?”

There was a strong recollection that passed through the man’s face after Dean uttered his final words, and the hunter was about to probe more for information, but Castiel quickly moved his hand up to touch the human in the forehead, waking him up from his dream and ending their conversation.

The very first thing that the blonde saw once he opened his eyes was the dusty ceiling of Bobby’s old house, when he woke up in the sofa of the living room. Letting out a shaky breath, Dean closed his eyelids once again, relaxing back into the uncomfortable cushions, mind racing through the events that were dominating his and his brother’s lives. But the moment didn’t last long, as the full voice of the impertinent lady that kept reappearing in his thoughts made itself present in reality.

He moved way too quickly to look up from his laid down position, vision still blurred from sleep as the image of the curly head of the short, dark-skinned angel started to form clearly and he saw her there, leaned against a wall in Bobby’s kitchen with a bottle of water between her thin, long fingers, head pointing almost completely up as she managed to look at Sam, with who she was talking to. The scene seemed so surreal, so out of place to Dean that he had to blink a couple of times, rubbing the tiredness out himself as he got up from the sofa and slowly made his way to the kitchen’s entry, eyebrows frowned when he noticed the way Sam smiled a cheeky smile after being told something by the girl.

“Hem.” He oldest sibling cleared his throat, calling out their attention.

“Dean, look! Eva’s back.” Sam gave out a tight laugh when he realized Dean’s presence.

“Yeah, I see that.” The man stared at her up and down, intrigued by the fact that, differently from Castiel, Eva had changed her clothes from the last day.

“Good morning, Princess Di.” Her makeup clean face turned to him with a sarcastic smirk, dimples showing in her cheeks now that he saw her clearly in the light of day.

Dean laughed shortly after hearing the nickname, the provocative tone in her voice not lost on him.

“So, are you going to give us another mission, Charlie, or you just couldn’t stay away?” Dean leaned against the entrance, mimicking hers stance, his muscles rippling from under his thin sleep shirt and there was a challenge in the way they stared with one of their brows raised, without batting an eye.

“What, and miss your midwestern charm, Kansas boy?” Eva nipped back, her grin widening into a smile as they sized each other up.

Sam laughed openly then, finding the clear tension between his brother and the angel genuinely funny, especially in the way that the woman seemed to consistently come up with better comebacks at every turn.

“Can I speak to you for a second?” Dean asked her, a sudden seriousness taking over him, surprising both Eva and Sam. “Privately?”

“Oh,” She gathered herself quickly, putting her mischievousness facade back on, a smile so big adorning her face that they could see her straight white teeth then, as if she knew what he would want to talk to her about. “Sure, lead the way.” Her medium sized, unpolished, yet feminine nails tapped a couple of times on the lid of the water bottle she held, her thin writs catching Dean’s attention for a second too long, as he thought about how fragile she looked on the outside, at least until she opened her mouth.

The hunter gestured with his head towards one of the corridors that lead to the living room of the house, where they could be alone without anyone being able to hear them. Eva nodded, making a beeline towards the indicated place, and Dean shared a look with the taller man, noticing that he was puzzled by his older brother’s request, but nothing else was said, and Dean followed her to the corridor.

“Whats up?” She fixed her hair out of her eyebrows, trying to keep the curls of her bangs from her forehead, fingers going nail first into the roots and shaking the threads upwards, creating more volume to the mane that framed her face.

“You knew it had been Lilith this whole time, didn’t you?” Dean went straight to the point, crossing his arms upon his chest, shoulders seeming to expand with the motion.

“Yes, but I thought it would be wise to refrain that information from your brother.” Eva didn’t seemed to be faced whatsoever with his question, beginning to play with the plastic bottle in her hands, the sound of the water stirring side to side in the container attesting to that.

“Excuse me?” Dean wasn’t ready for her unbothered veneer, and his hands that held onto his on arms tightened visibly, knuckles withing with the pressure.

“Listen, during the time that you’ve spent away,” Her voice dropped in volume then, her soft spoken tone sounding so melodic and calming that it was almost capable of camouflaging it’s true purpose. “Sam has been venturing into some very dangerous activities. You know, with a demon.”

“Ruby?” Dean took the hint soon enough.

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded her head, lips pursed in irritation with the mention of the name.

“Look, whatever he has been up to with…”

“Some Basic Instinct type shit, Dean.” Eva interrupted him, voice low but harsh all of the sudden.

“Wait, you mean…” The man was clearly confused, trying to place the pieces of the conversation back together as they went, the idea that he was going to the one using an accusing tone in the exchange long forgotten.

“I don’t care what he’s intentions have been to engage in any of this.” Eva stopped him mid sentence once more, dropping her arms to her sides and walking a step closer to Dean, brown meeting hazel in an intense way, but she kept on, practically whispering but knowing she was being heard clearly. “All I know is that he believes he’s doing the right thing because of Lilith, because of this obsession with killing her he has gotten himself into. But let me tell you, ain’t nothing good about what he’s doing, and since I can’t be one to put the fear of God into him due to fucking free will, you’re going to fix it. Alright?”

Dean didn’t said anything back, didn’t seemed to be able to. His irises scanned her entire face, finally finding some real emotion coming out of her, but it was anger. And the man swallowed whatever he could possibly say to her then, because the realization finally dawned on him with it’s true force now.

They’re weren’t dealing with the same beasts no more, there was no diary that could break down the strengths and weaknesses of these beings. They were all-powerful and all-knowing, and they could see right through his and Sam’s armatures, to the point of seeing everything they ever did or ever thought. And know, one of them was specifically telling him that his brother’s choices might lead him to a terrible ending.

So Dean simply stared at her, not knowing what to say next, so she did.

“Good talk.” Eva’s serious features contoured into a joyless side grin, and she tapped him in the shoulder twice before walking down the hallway back to the kitchen, hands working on unscrewing the lid of her water bottle before taking a long sip, and Dean’s mouth fell agape when he realized how Sam’s eyes lighted up when he saw her get back.

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nightofnyx8 · 5 years

Text

I’d Still Choose You (Part 2)

Well, in honor of the new Titans trailer coming out today, I finally added another part to this story. And remember how I said the first part was going to be the longest? Well, I lied. Also, I’m not sure if this will have just three parts, or four. Sometimes when I write the story takes a life of its own! But here you, Part 2! I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think!

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

The perks of being the adopted son of a billionaire? You could get whatever kind of international coffee you wanted, as long as it was 99% caffeine.

As much as Dick appreciated Rachel's herbal tea, he had been asking for Arabic black coffee every time he came over to Wayne Manor. Alfred would usually protest against this, but lately he only had to look at the dark circles under Dick's eyes to know it was probably for the better.

"Master Dick, you are sleeping, are you not?"

Dick drunk deeply from the steaming hot mug. "Yes. Maybe just, not the amount of hours I'd prefer."

Alfred sighed as he took back the cup. "I do worry, that is all."

"I'll be alright, Alfred."

The older gentlemen gave him a pointed look until he finally relented to the question in Dick's eyes.

"Miss Kory is already waiting for you out in the gardens."

"Thanks Alfred."

Dick had been coming out to Wayne Manor every day for the past two weeks. He spent most of his time with Kory, taking her on walks to get her out of the house while simultaneously answering all of her many questions. This morning was no exception, as an hour later they found themselves strolling along the harbor in the brisk autumn wind. Today's topic was none other than Batman himself, as Kory had seen Bruce leave the manor many times in the later hours of the evening.

"So…the Batman is Bruce Wayne." She stated emphatically.

"Yes."

"And you also participate in the saving of others in a costume and mask."

"Yup."

"And…I do this as well?"

Dick laughed. "Yes, you too. Let's just say that Earth has…problems. And when there's bad people who are too big for the law, that's where we come in."

"So, we are as a league of protection?"

"Something like that."

Kory smiled and shook her head. "What a strange life."

She leaned over the edge of the dock railing to see the ocean better, letting Dick rest his head on her shoulder. She seemed to be becoming more comfortable with Dick's presence these days. To the very least, she had gotten used to the idea that she was special to him.

Dick closed his eyes, enjoying her silent company before finally summoning up the courage to ask her the question that had been on his mind all morning.

"Kory?"

"Yes?"

"How would you feel if we um, stayed out a little later tonight? You and me?"

She gazed curiously at him. "What are you implying?"

"I would like to take you on a date."

"A date?" She questioned skeptically.

"Yes. Would you, Princess Koriand'r, do me the honor of accompanying me this evening?"

Kory sighed and bowed her head, staring at the rotting wood below them. Dick knew she was still wary of the fact that she was married to a man she didn't know anymore. After all, who wouldn't be in her situation? Maybe he was moving too fast, and maybe he should have been backing off right now.

But every moment he wasn't with her, he felt something ache terribly inside of him. He missed her laugh, the way her face lit up when she saw him. He missed her gentle kisses and tight embraces, and just how free she made him feel.

You don't just give that up.

Kory had resolved to playing with the tips of her hair. "I don't know, Dick."

"Come on, Kory. Just to get out and have a little fun."

She glanced over at him suspiciously. "Fun?'

Dick put up his hands in mock surrender. "I promise I'll be a good boy and behave. I'll even get you home before midnight so Alfred doesn't ground you and come after me with a shotgun."

She laughed. "That is not why, I promise. It is only that…"

She trailed off, her unspoken words building up under her pained expression—an expression that Dick recognized. The very same one she wore in that cave long ago, when she had asked him how she was to know how he felt about her. Obviously, she didn't remember that conversation. But he did.

"Hey." He took one of her hands and squeezed it gently. "I know this is hard. But you've always taught me it's okay to take some chances, even if we might get hurt along the way."

"I did?"

"The Kory I knew was never one to be hesitant." He said reassuringly. "Maybe, maybe it'll help your memory a bit. But for tonight, let's just try to get to know one another again."

She smiled softly at him, the sunlight shimmering off the curls of her hair. "Alright, Dick. I can take a chance."

"That's my girl."

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

He drove up to the entrance of Wayne Manor around eight. (How ironic it was to be picking up his own wife for a date from the very house he grew up in). He tugged restlessly at the open collar of his leather windbreaker. Why was he so nervous?

But all of that melted away when he was greeted with the sight of his wife as she opened the door. He had brought over a bag of her clothes a few days ago, along with some other personal belongings she might have needed. For tonight she had opted for a simple white blouse with jeans, her long red hair tied back in a high ponytail.

"You look beautiful." He said simply.

A red tinge appeared on her cheeks, and she looked down with a small smile.

"Thank you. You, um, you too."

"You trying to tell me I look beautiful?"

She looked up mortified and started to protest, but Dick just laughed and took her hand.

"Come on,"

"Where are we going?

"You'll see."

He led her down the driveway, revealing a sleek, blue motorcycle parked near the edge. He positioned himself in the seat and looked to see Kory standing awkwardly near the side.

"Well, jump on." He chimed.

"Is it safe?"

He laughed again, extending his arm towards her. "Quite."

She climbed onto the back cautiously, wrapping her arms around his waist for support.

"Hold on tight."

"Do I have a choice?" She managed to squeak out before he hit the accelerator to maximum speed.

Gotham was an excellent place to ride a motorcycle. Dick rounded the corners quickly, weaving effortlessly between the crawling traffic. He really didn't need to take the long way there, but he loved hearing her small gasps of surprise whenever they took a sharp turn. She laughed with delight as they sped alongside the water, bringing a smile to his face.

At last they stopped along the edge of the pier, the water reflecting the Ferris wheel lights along the surface.

"Where are we?"

"See for yourself." He replied, helping her off the motorcycle.

She looked around, the carnival buzzing with activity. Children chased each other with neon glowsticks while booth keepers encouraged loudly for families to try their luck at the games. The air smelled of buttered popcorn and smoky ash as colorful fireworks burst into the air above them.

Kory turned to smile at him, but instead found him offering her a cone of bright pink cotton candy. She took a bite cautiously, letting out a small laugh as she savored the taste.

"It's wonderful!"

Dick grinned. "Come on, I want to show you something."

It took a little bit of convincing, but he finally got her to join him on the old, rickety booth that glided slowly upward until they reached the top of the Ferris wheel. They had a perfect view of Gotham City, the skylights gleaming in the distance. Kory leaned forward and stared curiously at the scene in front of them.

Dick, meanwhile, had stretched out his arms behind him. "You loved being here." He said casually. "I'd always take you here every time the carnival came into town."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It was at a carnival like this one where we actually talked to each other for the first time."

He gazed off into the distance, lost in the memory until he heard Kory clear her throat tentatively.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked with a nervous timbre.

He looked back at her. "Yeah, anything."

She took a deep breath and bit the inside of her cheek. "How did we meet?"

"Oh." Dick leaned forward in the booth and tried to think. Where to begin? "Well, when the Gordanians took you from Tameran, eventually you escaped, and the first planet you came to was Earth."

He looked over at her. She was listening silently, staring intently at him.

"And then well, the Gordanians started attacking Earth since they were looking for you, and you kind of ran into us."

"Us?"

"The Titans. You remember Rachel and Garfield from the manor, right? They were in Jump City as well. And there was also Victor, you know, that cyborg who visited you last week and brought you that music box."

"Ah, yes." She mused, as if recalling the soft Tamaranean lullaby Victor had installed within the trinket.

"Well, you ran into us, since you were um, destroying the city. But we finally got you to talk to us and I uh…introduced you to the language."

He glanced over at her to see if she reacted. She said nothing, so he continued.

"You became part of the team, and you and I got closer over time."

"Closer." She repeated carefully.

"Mmm, I would say it took me forever at least. Not that great at talking about how I feel. But, one thing led to another, and after a few bumps in the road, we finally got married."

Of course, there was a lot more than that to the story. Different teams, different costumes, and even different planets accompanied a tale of two lovers who seemed to take forever to make up their minds about each other. There were so many midnight flights and dancing on rooftops that made him fall deeper in love with her every time. And obviously, there had been fights and misunderstandings as well. His stubborn and secluded disposition would ignite her fiery temper and their fights only ended much later when he played the piano to call her down the stairs, the notes speaking the apology much better than his own words (well, that and the kisses that always came after). How could you possibly "sum up" a relationship that had extended over ten years?

Kory seemed to have closed up all her words, and Dick allowed a comfortable silence fall over them as they sat there, watching the fireworks bloom above them in red and gold sparks. He placed his hand over hers on the wooden bench between them, and she allowed it to stay there. Small victories.

"How would you feel if I took you out again next Friday?" He asked, breaking the silence.

"You mean, on another date?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "I mean, still lots to learn about this Boy Wonder, right?"

She pursed her lips, but her eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. She considered the idea for a minute before finally relenting.

"Alright. As long as you buy more of the vanishing cloud candy."

Small victories indeed.

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

Kory was already regretting her decision. She couldn't believe Dick had talked her into this. Gear up in her Tamaranean attire, sure; shoot some starbolts, why not? But to take down criminals as part of Bludhaven's vigilante superhero team? What had she gotten herself into?

"I am not certain that I am exactly comfortable with this." She stated, picking nervously at the hem of her skirt.

Dick shot her a sideways smile. She had not anticipated his uniform in the slightest when he had emerged on the roof half an hour earlier. He was clad in a jet-black bodysuit that made him almost as black as the night itself. Electric blue stripes cut through his chest and down to his fingertips, the color matching the dangerous electricity that sparked from two iron sticks sheathed onto his back. "Come on, Kory. You do this all the time with me."

"Do I?" Kory looked over the skyline, letting the cool night air tingle her bare arms. It wasn't fear that rushed through her veins. No, she was used to defending her planet from unwanted invaders. But this was something different altogether. She felt her emotions swirl inside of her. Uncertainty, restlessness, and…excitement? Her heart raced with anticipation and her body tensed, as though jumping off a twenty-story building was just a normal, nightly routine.

She caught Dick watching her carefully. His blue eyes were now hidden by the inky mask he had donned, making him look more sinister as he turned up the corners of his lips.

"You look…different in a mask." She decided.

"Well I certainly hope so. Kind of the point of a secret identity."

Right. No one else knew Nightwing was really Dick Grayson, just as no one else knew that Starfire, the name she was apparently known by on Earth, was really Kory Anders (her other, other name). She shook her head in disbelief. Starfire, Kory Anders, Koriand'r: no one wonder she ended up with a headache whenever she tried to remember her past. She couldn't even get her own name right.

Dick was filling in Rachel and Garfield (sorry, Raven and Beast Boy) on the patrol positions. Both had volunteered to help look after Bludhaven for a little while, as recent events had somewhat interrupted Nightwing's usual routine.

"Alright, the night's not getting any younger. Raven, stake out on the right side of 8th Avenue with Beast Boy. Two weeks without any supervision and this city is making Gotham's criminals look like harmless angels."

Beast Boy spoke up. "Does that mean Joker's been demoted? Because I think Batman's out of a job then."

Dick scowled. "Just get the job done. And no arcade stops this time."

Beast Boy stuck out his tongue. "Killjoy." But he complied with Raven's huffs of exasperation and transformed into a crow before they both sailed out into the city.

Dick turned to Kory. "Starfire, you and I will take the left flank of the city. We'll set up watch from the news tower until trouble arrives."

She nodded, resisting the urge to bolt right past him and straight back to Wayne Manor.

He must have noticed her hesitation, because he took her hand and squeezed it with assurance. "Don't worry. Just be yourself. You're a natural at this, I promise."

She smiled slightly and allowed him to lead her towards the edge of the building. Dick prepared to release what looked like some sort of zip line when he stopped, receiving a line of communication in his earpiece.

He looked annoyed as he answered. The words he chose were not exactly kind, so Kory assumed he was talking to Bruce. After a few minutes of banter, he looked towards her and gestured towards the tower. His message was clear: I'll meet you there.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. At least flying was nothing new to her.

One. Two. Three.

Kory took off into the night sky, letting go of all the fear and confusion that had built up from the past two weeks. The wind rushed through her hair as it billowed all around her. Climbing higher and higher into the sky, she laughed in delight. Oh, how she had missed this! Allowing herself to fall for a few moments, she closed her eyes and let time stop, pure happiness welling up inside her like a balloon. Glowing, bursting happiness! Moments before reaching the roof of a particular tall hotel, she stopped and landed gently.

She had overstepped their meeting place. The broadcasting tower stood tall and dark in the distance. She prepared herself to launch again when she caught sight of the night sky above her.

The void was inky black, glittering with thousands of twinkling stars. Her Tamaran was up there somewhere, and oh how she longed to see it again.

"Enjoying the view, are we?"

She jumped, turning to see the owner of the voice, but saw nothing.

"Nightwing?"

The voice laughed, sending chills up Kory's spine. The voice was smooth, like velvet, but held a sinister tone as though it were enjoying watching something die slowly.

"Who are you?"

"Really my dear, I would have thought that by now we would have known each other quite well."

Realizing too late, a bulging figure materialized behind her, holding her in an iron grip. Fear clenched her heart, her strength leaving her in a moment of weakness.

"Let-let me go!"

"Oh dear, you're trembling." She flinched as he crooned in her ear. "Not too good for you. Fear and confusion do tend to block certain abilities of yours, now don't they? But there's no need to be quite so scared, Starfire. I come only with a message."

She tried to gain control of her pounding heartbeat. "W-what do you want?"

"You seem to be having some memory issues. I can help you with that."

"And why would I need anything from you?" She protested defiantly. "My friends are already helping me."

"Are they your friends, my darling? How do you know you can trust them? After all, you don't remember them anymore better than you remember me."

"You don't know anything about me."

She recoiled to the sound of his ragged laugh. "I know all that I need to, sweetheart. As for your friends, do you really think they're all so innocent, so good? Even after all this time, you're still so incredibly naïve."

"You're wrong!" A hot pull burned at the pit of her stomach as her alien strength returned. She wrenched herself out of his grip and charged a starbolt to face the monster before her.

The greenish glow of her energy orb revealed a man who stood over six feet tall, his whole body clad in heavy armor. The white eye slit in his orange and black mask was the only opening, giving off a cruel aura in every way imaginable.

But the figure only laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of fighting you alone, Princess. But my offer still stands. And if you ever want to have your memories back, you will meet me here in one month, the exact same time."

"Never!"

"Well then, I suggest you get used to being entirely, hopelessly clueless for the rest of your life."

"SLADE!" A defiant voice yelled. Both turned to see Nightwing standing on top of the water tower, his iron pipes charged to the maximum. Raven and Beast Boy flanked his sides, both tensed and ready to attack. Kory had never seen Dick look so angry.

"Leave her alone!"

"Oh my, such an improper greeting. I would have thought, old friend, that you would have had better manners by now."

"I said, leave her alone!"

"Relax, Robin." He said calmly as Nightwing flinched. "We were just saying hello, weren't we, my dear?"

Kory said nothing, her starbolt still crackling in the night air.

She couldn't see his face, but she could have sworn she saw him grin under the mask.

"Well, until later, dear Princess." He said as he disappeared into the darkness, but she thought she could still feel his eerie presence watching her every move.

Nightwing jumped down from the water tower and took her gently by the shoulders. "Kory, are you okay?" He brushed her hair out of her eyes, taking her face in his hands.

Kory nodded. "I am unharmed."

"Did he say anything to you?"

You think they're all so innocent, so good? How can you possibly trust them?

"No." she replied shakily. "Just…introducing himself."

Dick cursed under his breath. "Come on, let's get you back to Wayne Manor." He was breathing heavily, his hands shaking as he sheathed his escrima sticks. Raven and Beast Boy didn't look any less relaxed.

"Dick?" She stated tentatively.

"What is it?"

"Who was that?"

He stared straight at her, his mask hiding whatever emotion he conveyed in his eyes. For a moment, they stood there in silence, letting the night air suffocate the distance between them before an answer finally detached from his lips.

"No one, Star. No one you need to remember."

#dickkory #robstar #fanfiction #writing #teentitans #dickgrayson #koriandr #nightwing #kory anders #starfire #enjoy!

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masaru2042 · 5 years

Text

Hippity Hoppity, Stay off Railway Property!

Told as an r/entitledparents style parody. What the engines really do have to deal with when it comes to entitled passengers.

So, I’m Dana. I’m a driver of a sapient steam engine on a particular island that was made famous by a preacher writing a bunch of children’s books. I’m the driver of the NWR #4 who pulls the Wild Norwester, aka the Express, a 4-6-2 Gresley A1/A3 Pacific known as Gordon. Just a little background for those of you who don’t know who that is. Gordon was the prototype for the A1 Pacifics designed by Nigel Gresley in 1922. The only other A1 Pacific built in Doncaster by Nigel Gresley is Gordon’s younger brother Scott Gresley, aka the Flying Scotsman. The reason why Gordon is now an A1/A3 is due to a rebuilt restoring him to his original shape as ordered from Doncaster, removing his straight Sudrian, white frame, and providing him with a Kylchap double exhaust to optimize fuel and water efficiency. He also was outfitted with corridor tenders and his Sudrian frame and Fowler tender are now on display at the Sodor Railway Museum in Vicarstown.

And me? Well, I’m a transplant from Tennessee if anyone wonders why I’m not spelling in the English style, or using British slang. Or BR and NWR terminology. And Gordon’s fireman is a funny guy named Josh with an equally funny boyfriend named Brian. They both act like my big brothers. And Gordon tends to act like my no-nonsense grandpa...among other things. But we won’t get into those.

And just in case some of you still haven’t caught on. Yes, he’s that big huge jerk from the Thomas and Friends show with the models.

Well, during the summer months, we get a lot of vacationers (holiday goers for you in the UK), and yes, lots of tourists. Thanks to those books and the show, people do come from all over the world to actually see what the real engines are like. And a lot of time, there’s a lot of dissonance from the fans who are expecting the engines to act like they do on the show. They don’t. None of them do. Henry isn’t a hypochondriac that complains about every little thing he’s feeling sick over, he’s in fact a very calculating, and intelligent person who pretty much knows secrets about everyone...even me when I had first come to Sodor! Seriously, he’s really creepy! Especially when he’s asking questions in a way to phish for information. If Henry had a computer and actual hands, I have a feeling he might try to get into every government server on the planet just to see what personal secrets he could find. Henry should be working with INTERPOL not the Northwestern Railway.

Thomas is very mellow thanks to his age, Percy actually can’t stand it when people think he’s a kid when in reality he’s older than Edward! And he acts like it too. The only one the show actually got accurate was James. Yes, James is very full of himself. Not as much as he is in the show, but he loves puffing around like he’s the king. And Edward is pretty much a down to Earth guy. And Emily acts like that older neighbor your mom knows who’s been around the world and back again and loves asking about your sign. Yeah, that older neighbor. The one with the bead necklace, the incense, and flowers in her hair. I swear to God, she’s been to San Francisco. Interesting little tidbit, Emily is the original Flying Scotsman! No joke!

Well, it was a rather steamy and hot, summer day on the Island of Sodor, and yes I know what that sounds like!

We weren’t pulling the Express at this moment, we were actually just doing a tour excursion. This is normal, it allows the tourists to ride the engines belonging to the “Steam Team” as the kiddies call it. Something the engines belonging to this “Team” roll their eyes about the label. And not in the comical way the models did. The “uh-huh, whatever” kind of eye roll, and just chuff on by, not really caring.

So, it was our turn to take the train around, letting the tourists feel what it’s like to ride one of the fastest non-streamlined steam engines in the world. And the one who actually did win the Great Race, even if he nearly killed himself doing so...beating out a diesel-electric and breaking his safety valve in the process. This is something Gordon doesn’t like talking about, despite setting a world record in the process. But still, we did give the guests a proper ride.

Best way to describe Gordon gliding down the rails. He’s basically like an antique expensive roadster. You can tell the moment you tap your foot on the gas that he’s gonna floor it and show you what speed really feels like. Not your grandma’s station wagon, I’ll tell you that! Gordon, much like all the other engines, is always kept up to specs. He pretty much runs as good as the day he popped out of the factory. You wouldn’t have guessed that he’s nearing 100 years old. Unlike his brother who is feeling his age no matter how many rebuilds he’s had. If you haven’t come out of the coaches noticing your body made a dent on the seat, Gordon feels like he hasn’t done his job in making you feel his speed.

That is the power of a Gresley Race Horse.

We were cruising around, well...the train equivalent...and given that Gordon has two corridor tenders now, we could cruise for a long while. Though we did have to stop a few times just for the passengers to get out take pictures of the scenery, that sort of thing. Only this particular excursion was allowed to stop on the line. Gordon was of course outfitted with special lamps to show that we had such permission to stop and were given proper notifications from our conductor of when it was safe to stop. And when we stopped the guests were ordered to either stay in the coaches, or stay back from the train and rails themselves for safety reasons.

No standing on railway property, basically.

No standing in front of the engine on the rails.

Do not get in the way of workmen and crewmen maintaining the engine.

We were making sure that folks understood this.

If they got off for pictures, they were only allowed to be on the grass. And only when they were ready to return to their coaches were they allowed to approach the train again.

Any questions they had, they could ask any of the service personnel and attendants.

And we all had radios.

We stopped, pulled over onto a siding. And just in case he needed it since there was a lot of stopping and starting and that’s when he uses a lot more water than when he’s running, we stopped on a siding near a water tower. Josh was filling up Gordon’s canteen and I turned on that little electric fan I clipped on above my station. It ran off of Gordon’s dynamo too, and I was grateful for it.

I grabbed a cold bottled water from the cooler we had stashed near the main tender and pressed it to my forehead. Already I could hear some of the kids asking “why doesn’t Gordon produce smoke from his funnel?” or “why does he smell like fish and chips?” And well, that made me laugh. A few months ago, Sir Topham Hatt converted Gordon into a waste vegetable oil burner. So, that explains the fried food smell. Honestly, it was a good thing because it often made the passengers even more hungry, which means they’d buy more food off the food cart in the Express. Josh liked it too, he didn’t have to shovel coal anymore, just playground sand with a tiny, toy shovel into a little opening in the firebox to help keep the fire tubes from getting clogged from the oil being atomized. And Gordon liked how much cleaner he ran.

I heard a few oldtimers snort about how that’s not a real steam engine anymore because of the oil burning rather than coal and then hear Gordon personally retort back: “You better tell Duck that, then! The GWR went to oil in the 1940s due to coal shortages! And don’t get me started about the poor caloric contents of today’s coal. The wasted veggie oil actually is better for me. Even Welsh coal is barely usable now. No wonder the BR switched to diesel the way it did.”

And that’s why Gordon’s a WVO burner, folks! And if any of you are wondering, yes! He can run off of diesel fuel if he has to. Which he did once, and no, unlike in the show, the real Gordon doesn’t bitch about the smell or look down upon diesel locomotives.

Well, enter our entitled family.

I wasn’t the one who first spotted this family doing something they were instructed not to do by the attendants in the coaches. That was Josh. Gordon, on the other hand, was concentrating on what the maintenance workers were doing. Tightening a lug nut, checking the mechanical lubrication injector, the lubricant levels, his exhaust steam injectors. Clearing any debris out of the way, checking the fuel levels on the coaches. Yeah, the coaches are diesel powered now. Hatt went all out! Servers were handing out drinks to the workers and the passengers.

I heard Josh call out: “Oi! You can’t stand on that! Step away from the track!”

The mother said: “We’re trying to take a group photo!”

I felt the cab tilt to the right just slightly. Gordon’s attention was now on the family as well.

Josh: “I said, you can’t stand in the middle of the track. Get back on the grass!”

I went to the fireman’s side of the cab, stuck my head out the window to see a very plump family, a rather large man, his equally large wife, and their cherry-red faced, plump kid in a horizontal striped T-shirt. I also could see the patches of sweat under their armpits. They were sweating more than I did just by stepping out of their coaches.

Then, Gordon spoke up with that big, booming, baritone voice of his. Seriously, he should moonlight as a radio host, he’s got the timbre for it!

“You heard what my fireman said, stay off the rails! It’s for your safety.”

Well, I hopped out the door from the cab and wiped my hands on my jeans.

The family wasn’t willing to listen to Gordon, no matter how commanding he made his voice sound. The father was standing on the grass with his smartphone out, taking a picture of the boy and his mother standing in between the railroad ties. He was angled in such a way to include Gordon in the picture.

“You should smile!” said the entitled father.

Gordon growled and just sneered. He wasn’t having any of it. And if I hadn’t set the main brake, he’d probably jut forth just to scare the entitled mother and entitled brat off the track as a lesson. I could hear a clacking sound, though, Gordon was flexing his friction brakes against his wheels, his way of tensing his muscles in his frustration. His jaw was set, his teeth clenched, and his brow furrowed.

“Hey!” I called. “What the hell do you think y’all doin’? Get off the track!”

I don’t think they liked my east Tennessean accent because the mother just turned and looked at me with disgust. Like she was looking down at some dirty farmhand.

I guess Gordon saw that face too, because the moment she made it, I heard a low groan from his wheels. He sounded like he was trying to fight against the brake keeping him motionless. The moment we met, he’s been rather overprotective of me. It’s cute. I could always count on him to have my back. There was an expulsion of steam from the sides of his cylinders. And he was rearing to open up his cock valves wide just to give them a good blast of hot vapor.

But the mother stood firm.

“We’re trying to get a photo! Now go back to your food cart, little missy!”

“Release the brake,” Gordon whispered, tilting towards me.

“No,” I said.

“I’ll run them over.”

“No you won’t.”

“They’ll be a bloody smear on my buffers.”

And they would once he started off. Gordon had a lot of torque in him, he could start off in a burst like a motorcycle if he wanted. And the last thing anyone wanted was 200 tons of locomotive racing for them.

“It’s not worth it.”

“How dare that harpy talk to you in such a manner, Dana!”

“It’s fine, sugar,” I said, laying my hand on a buffer. “Just breathe.”

He said aloud: “That’s my driver! She’s not a serving girl!”

I heard the father laugh: “Girls can’t be drivers.”

I get that a lot!

And the clacking sound returned.

“You’ll ruin your pads doing that,” I told Gordon.

“And I’ll need to be looked over for hypertension,” he said. “Because I can feel the pain in the back of my smokebox already. This woman…and her oaf of a husband...”

“Just breathe...in and out, Gordon.”

He took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It wasn’t helping, though, as I could still hear the clacking of his brakes.

Josh had jumped down from the canteen and walked over.

“You heard what they said, off the rails, please.”

They actually listened to Josh. I tend to get that a lot. They don’t want to listen to me because they think I’m some food cart lady, despite not being dressed like one, but Josh...he looked like he belonged where he was. So, he had a more air of authority than I did. I guess it was my accent and how I try to put on that Southern sweet tea charm, you know. So, they don’t take me seriously.

I’m a redneck to them, that’s all they care about.

Obviously, they were done taking pictures.

Then, the kid turned and darted for the switch.

Points on the rails are set by switches that are either manually moved into positioned, or automatically moved into position, or done so from a signalman’s box. Here, considering the remote location of this particular siding, the point had to be set by the conductor with a lever at the side of the railroad track after the conductor got the OK from RMC (Railway Mission Control) that the track was clear for Gordon to proceed. Though this siding was on the mainline, it was quite a ways from a signalman’s box, so that’s why it had to be switched by hand from the conductor.

And yes, I realize they’re called Guards in the UK and Sodor. But I did say I’m from the US...so...conductor. And Gordon loves correcting my terminology.

Well, that kid bolted for the switch, and started messing around with it.

Gordon, me, and Josh all lurched forward.

“Step away from that, kid!” I shouted.

“Don’t touch that!” bellowed Gordon.

“What are you doing?!” Josh shouted.

The point was set so that any train needing to pass this siding could. But the boy grunted and turned the point, setting the switch to the siding. This would allow Gordon to exit the siding back onto the mainline. And that was a bad! This meant any train coming through would derail from the track being set improperly.

“NO!” all three of us cried.

I darted forth and tossed the kid from the lever. Considering I worked with steam engines for a good portion of my life, I was pretty muscular and toned. And I could toss around guys bigger than me with ease. The kid hit the ballast and obviously skinned his elbow. But I wasn’t worried about that. My concern was the switch.

Whatever train would be passing by, could very well be derailed!

Who cares about a little brat and his skinned elbow? But the EM was furious.

“How dare you assault my baby!”

Baby? That lard of a kid looked like he was 8 years old!

And Gordon was cross. (Because of course I had to put that there.)

“Baby?” he asked. “Your little piglet just very well might cause a terrible accident!”

There was vitriol dripping from his words.

“He’s only playing!” called the mother. “Let him play! He’s not hurting anyone. He’s a good boy.”

“Get that crotch goblin away from the switch!” Gordon bellowed out. “Wesley!”

Crotch Goblin. God I love you, Gordon, I thought.

Wesley was our conductor. And he was a bit of a pushover especially with how Gordon boxed the poor kid’s ears with that voice of his. Wesley was kinda new to the job and most of the times he was regulated to excursion duties. Rarely did he ever serve on the Express due to his inexperience.

I could see him fiddling with his whistle, trying to straighten his hat. He was a mess. All the while, I was jerking back and forth trying to get the switch unstuck and set back correctly. These switches sometimes got stuck because of the heat.

“Y-yes, sir, Mr. Gresley,” said Wesley.

Just a little fact that many of y’all don’t know. You think we’re the ones in charge here? The show seems to make you think that, don’t it? Nope. The engines are. Especially engines with seniority like Gordon. And he made sure everyone on his team knew it. And again, the kid’s a pushover.

“Go help Dana with the switch!” Gordon barked.

The boy was already bawling like it was the end of the world. And entitled mother was leaning down to comfort him. The noise was enough to attract the other passengers to the commotion.

“What happened?” asked Wesley.

“Kid pulled the lever,” said Josh.

“She assaulted my baby!” said the entitled mother.

“I should have you all fired!” the entitled dad shouted. “And that metal monstrosity scrapped.”

“I beg your pardon!” Gordon rounded. “Don’t spit indignation at me, sir! Your piglet has endangered lives. Wesley, is there a train coming?”

“The Express, Mr. Gresley.”

“Damn…” Gordon seemed to deflate and the color left his cheeks at the sound of a familiar, high-pitched whistle. “Henry’s coming! This is the Flying Kipper all over again. Hurry!”

Oh, god...I heard the stories of Henry’s crash. Of course I knew of it from the books, and from the show. But the real story was much more gruesome. Awdry may have said that his driver and fireman survived for the sake of the kids, but that was far from the truth. They were dead, both of them. The driver’s head was bashed into to Henry’s controls, thrown from his seat. Henry’s pipes were covered in his driver’s blood. The fireman died moments later, crushed ribs and internal bleeding from the impact. And Henry was lucky to have survived at all to be rebuilt into a Stanier Black 5. He was a changed “man” after that. Much sterner than when he arrived on the island.

“Sir,” I shouted. “You’re about to force an engine who just lived through a horrible wreck involving a point set wrong to relive that nightmare again. And endangering everyone he’s currently pulling in his coaches. When this is over, I’m making sure Hatt kicks you and your family of pork rinds off the NWR. Have fun takin’ the bus for now on! Or walkin’. Y’all look like you need a good exercise anyhoo.”

The bus on this island was terrible. Just a little FYI.

Already, Wesley was radioing the conductor on the Express, hoping to get Henry to slow down before he derailed. The whistle was even louder.

Josh and I were pulling the lever as hard as we could. A creak, and at last the lever budged. The point reset to allow Henry to pass through safely. A final whistle and the green NWR #3 came speeding on passed Gordon with the Wild Nor’wester. I collapsed upon my butt and gasped, sweat stinging my eyes. Josh did the same, patting me on the back.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I will be,” I said.

The conductor still held onto the entitled father and entitled mother, and they held onto their sniveling kid. While he was holding onto his elbow.

“Wesley,” I said, looking up at the conductor. “Escort those three to the brake coach and keep an eye on them. The first station we’re stopping at, I want them off the train and in the station master’s office.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “This way, please.”

“I should have your job!” the entitled father called.

“Get the first aid kit, and wipe the little porker’s booboo,” I said. I slowly rose to my shaking feet. “I should leave y’all right here! Have you hoof it to the next station. Maybe if I’m lucky, y’all be arrested by our security guards for trespassin’ on railroad property!”

“Leave them here,” said Gordon. “Especially for that sodding ‘scrapped’ remark!”

I really didn’t give two shits about Gordon’s language here.

So many of Gordon’s brothers had been scrapped thanks to the modernization of the British Railways. So, of course he would take that insult quite personally.

“You hear that?” I continued. “Gordon wants to leave you stranded. And I’m inclined to agree with him. But I’m not petty like y’all are.” I turned to him. “No. Follow the rules, Gordon. As much as we hate it. Turn them into the station master and they’ll be banned from riding any of our coaches again.”

“I suppose that shall suffice,” he said. It didn’t sit happy with him, though. And it was understandable why he said that. Gordon’s jaw was still tensed, set tightly. I reached up and patted him on the running board and he seemed to unwind just a slight, his frame coming to a rest.

“Wankers,” he at last said to relieve any emotional steam still pinned up inside. “The lot of them. Completely gobsmacked those types exist.”

“Yeah,” I said with a huff.

“You two finished taking the piss, or are we getting this bloody train a-moving?” Josh asked.

Gordon and I laughed. That finally got the last kink in our collective spines untied. I took a deep breath and rounded Gordon, only to climb in on the driver’s side. We waited for Wesley to come back. He no doubt already ordered the other crewmen to keep an eye on our entitled guests. He maybe a pushover to us, but not to the passengers. Especially the unruly ones. He took out his pocket watch, glanced at it, and then dropped it back into his pocket. He pulled out a radio, calling for the signal to switch the points. The passengers were already on board.

A few of Gordon’s valves began to move just slightly. The cock valves in his cylinders opened up with a hiss. I pinched the brake lever and pushed it forward and Gordon clenched his friction brakes to compensate. Then, the conductor whistled and signaled for the all clear. Gordon steamed forwards slowly, relaxing the brakes. As he pulled up, Wesley took hold of the railing and climbed into the cab.

Gordon sounded his low whistle twice and he was off.

And if y’all are wondering about what happens to the points after the train passes them. It is weight sensitive, and there’s a mechanism that puts the points back once the train clears it. The conductor normally will see if the point had reset by the signal’s position. And it did. Only the lever got stuck, not the mechanism itself.

By the time the train pulled into the station, there were security guards waiting to escort the entitled family to the station master’s office for a stern talking to. On the other platform was Henry with the Express, waiting to load his passengers. I suppose he noticed the security guards escorting the still bickering entitled family, because he spoke up.

“Gordon, what the bloody hell happened?”

“You almost had another wreck, Henry,” Gordon replied. “No thanks to that family of pigs over there.”

“Eh? What were they doing?”

“Messing with the points.”

“So that’s what my driver was acting all frantic about,” he said. “I thought the man was having a heart attack.”

“Nope, you nearly had a wreck like the one back in...what was it…‘36?”

“Was ‘35, actually.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Gordon said. “1935. Bloody snowstorm.”

“I should know, I was out in it, unfortunately. Then the Thin Clergyman decided to put my rebuild at 1951. Don’t know why he’d did that. That was getting close to the year Beeching was proposing his modernization plan.”

“Dreadful man.”

Gordon never liked Richard Beeching. With good reason.

A whistle from the platform sounded and Henry got his signal to move on.

“See you back at the sheds, Gordon!” he said with a whistle, pulling out from the station.

I came walking out onto the platform, stopping right beside Gordon’s smoke box.

“I think I’m gonna go home, prop my feet up, get out a tub of chocolate ice cream and watch a stupid chick flick tonight,” then I turned to him. “Wanna join me?”

“Well, you did leave that tub of ice cream in the freezer back at the sheds,” he said. “What stupid chick flick do you want to watch?”

“How about Sex in the City?”

“Oh, that’s a ripe cabbage, isn’t it?” Gordon asked. “Brilliant. We can both yell at the movie.”

“Hey, Josh, wanna join us?”

“Nah,” he said through the window. “Dinner night. Brian’s cooking.”

“Have fun with that,” I said. “Hey, you make sure you share some leftovers. You know how much I love Brian’s cooking.”

“And how much I love smelling it,” said Gordon. “I swear, if it kills me, I’ll figure out how to eat, someday.”

“I promise, Gordon,” began Josh. “I’m sure he’ll have some leftover wasted vegetable oil. We’ll put it in the strainer and give it to you.”

“Good enough.”

Well, we all returned to our posts and continued the excursion.

Movie night was fun too.

The next day, we were back on Express duty. Sir Topham Hatt came to tell us that family was banned from any excursions and any service on the railway. Like I said, regulated to riding the bus for now on. They were also severely fined. Like severely, made to do some community service as well.

Funny note on that family, apparently, it wasn’t the first time that hog brat messed with the switches. We stopped for a connection with the Skarloey Railway. And in came Sir Handel with his passengers. Word got around quick about the family. And Handel knew all about it.

“They pulled that stunt with us here on the narrow gauge,” said Sir Handel. “The fat twat of a boy started messing with the points. Rheneas saw what was happening, screeched to a halt as best as he could...and derailed. No one was hurt, thank heavens.”

“Why the bloody hell was that family allowed to ride my excursion train, then?” Gordon asked. “If that boy pulled the same stunt as before? And caused a wreck.”

I was out standing on the walkway between the narrow gauge track and the standard one, looking dumbfounded by what Sir Handel had said.

“The little piggy bolted away when he heard his mum calling him,” said Richard, Handel’s driver.

“Aye, greasy bugger, that one,” said Handel. “Before the security could catch up, I suppose he must’ve gotten on your train, Gordon.”

“What the actual fuck,” I said, shaking my head.

“But the security cameras caught him in the act,” said Richard. “I suppose after the second stint he caused, that was enough to ban the whole family. He was also causing some mischief with the Smallies too. Was trying to tip over poor Mike, calling him a toy. Mum encouraged it too, saying ‘he’s only playing’.”

“Bloody strong, if he could attempt to tip over Mike,” said Handel. “Smallies may be small, but they are heavy.”

“Each of them weigh as much as a car,” I said.

“He could tip over your Mustang if given a chance,” said Gordon.

“Like I’d let him have it!”

Gordon chuckled.

“The Small Controller kicked the mother and her brat out,” said Handel. “Filed a report on it. Then, they came here. And started more trouble.”

“And then they came onto my train,” said Gordon. “Lovely, isn’t it? We have a connection with the Arlesdale Railway. Should let the Small Controller know we got the brat and his parents banned from all of the railway.”

“I’d say for that boy, he’s…” began Handel. “How do you American’s say it, Dana? He rides the short bus, seems like?”

“That’s what we say, Sir Handel,” I nodded in agreement. “And his parents probably spoiled him rotten because of it.”

I took a glance back and noticed all the passengers were finally filing on board. Turning around, I slowly trotted back toward Gordon’s cab.

“Thanks for the info!” I waved, hopping back in. “We’ll let Mr. Duncan know we had a visit from the Terror Piglet.”

Both Sir Handel and Gordon broke out into a chuckle at the name I gave the kid.

Sad fact of some parents with children that have developmental problems. Sometimes, they just spoil them, let them do whatever they want. Don’t bother to correct their behavior. And this case was one of those. I suppose my name for the kid seemed mean. I should blame the parents more than the child for bringing him up like that. But considering the havoc he raised, putting people and engines in danger, damaging railway property, little regard to what he was doing, and his parents encouraging the behavior, to relieve my stress, the “Terror Piglet” seemed to stick. Judge me for my own behavior, but the kid nor his parents get no leeway with me. I didn’t exactly have a perfect childhood either, but I did learn enough about real life not to act like a “twat” as they say over here.

Along the way, we managed to find that wretched family. There they were, standing at a bus stop in the heat, sweating like the hogs they were. The entitled brat looked up and started to bolt for the fence, ready to lunge himself over. Which would be trespassing again.

I called out: “Hippity, hoppity! Stay off railway property!”

Gordon gave two short, very short, very poignant whistles as he blew on by them. Being around Gordon for so long, I began to learn what certain whistles meant depending on how the engine sounded them.

Gordon basically flipped that family the bird in the only way an engine could.

Considering what that kid nearly made Henry do yesterday, and the horror that entailed, I didn’t correct him on it. I only smiled.

And now, my mind turned to more important thoughts.

Like Brian’s leftovers in the cooler.

#r/entitledparents #Gordon #gordon the big engine #Henry #henry the green engine #Sir Handel #Island of Sodor #parody #silly fan fic #fanfiction #Thomas and Friends

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haloud · 5 years

Text

take a chance and don’t ever look back -- chapter 3

ao3

Ten miles west of Lubbock, Michael takes the exit and turns around. His good hand white-knuckles the wheel; his bad hand burns on the sun-baked sill of the window. He merges on the eastbound and wonders what the fuck he’s doing. It’ll still be light out when he makes it back to the city. What he’s doing is dumb enough without the extra time for feeling foolish while he waits around for the bars to open.

Thing is, Michael wants to feel again.

Through death and loss and loneliness, his whole world’s just been…white noise. An overstressed processor whine. Nothing fixes it; nothing makes it stop. He’s tried booze, he’s tried acetone, he’s tried turning his trailer into a tourist trap for bored housewives.

None of it worked. Not one bit. So god, maybe it is men. It’s not that Michael’s never looked at a man since Alex, it’s just that when rough hands grab him by the waist, when stubble rasps against his skin, looking at the guy feels like curdled milk and closing his eyes is the kind of temptation that can stop a man’s heart. He’s never gone far enough with any man to start crying out Alex’s name.

Maybe that’s gonna change tonight. If Alex Manes wanted an army wife, he should’ve got down on one knee. It’s been four years. He’s done saving himself for his brave soldier boy, ‘specially when it’s not like Alex ever even asked him to.

(He’d have said yes, in a heartbeat, and then where would they be?)

The ranch doesn’t send him out this far very often, so if Michael doesn’t take this opportunity then it could be months before he gets another. Even so, he almost doesn’t go. What if this is the answer, and Michael just needs to fuck men for a while? Almost better not to know, for all the good it’ll do him. Lord knows you can’t get cock in Roswell without it becoming a federal fucking issue.

But god he wants to feel again.

So he gets a cheap burger and puts his feet up on the dash, and after the sun goes down he pulls into the parking lot of the kind of bar they don’t have in Roswell. Inside, haze clings to every surface, wraps and flows to let the patrons pass. The rumble of voices blends with the bassy music into something that tastes a little like drinking whiskey and a lot like kissing after. A crowd mills around the bar, calling out for drinks, leaning on each other; a larger crowd mills around the floor, dancing, grinding, talking real close. Men and men. Women and women. It’s like every bar he’s ever been to. It’s like the snap of a bungee rope that pulls him out of freefall back to safety. Michael takes a deep, steadying breath, flexes his ruined hand, and struts inside like he belongs.

He doesn’t even make it all the way to the bar before a man in a white hat is tipping the brim at him and drawling, “Buy you a drink?”

Michael drags his gaze from the man’s feet up to his face. Tall and broad, with a wide chest and thick shoulders, this is a man who could lift Michael one-handed, hold him down, toss him around. Michael licks his lips and feels…

Nothing.

Well, not nothing. His hindbrain perks up the same way it does when he winks a woman over the hood of her car and she slides a little closer. So at least that’s one thing answered. This is for him. This is him. He could give this man a smile and a little of his time; he could slide into this man’s truck and go on his back and get a taste of forgetting old-fashioned style.

He just doesn’t really want to, and goddamnit that’s the problem.

Still, there’s something new and delicious about being looked at by a man in a crowded room, so Michael won’t brush him off. He tilts his chin towards the bar and says, “Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got this round. Maybe I’ll see you around some other time?”

The big guy shrugs good-naturedly and ambles back to a table, where his buddies laugh and tease him for striking out. A pang of envy flashes through Michael and he breathes it out like all other useless regrets.

Drinking. Drinking is a good idea. This is an unfamiliar environment; a stressor. If he loosens up and finds his rhythm, maybe he’ll get more into it. He shoulders past a gaggle of bystanders to plant his elbows on the bartop and orders a beer at random.

As she pops the cap, the bartender, a grizzled-looking woman with thick, graying hair in a messy bun and laugh lines around her eyes, glances at him sideways and asks, “First time?”

Michael blinks, reflexively clenches his hands. He flicks through reactions in his mind—defensive, suave, running out the door and never looking back…finally he clears his throat and manages, “Small town. This’s my last night out here, so I figured…”

The bartender nods and just says wrenchingly simple:

“Welcome.”

And moves on to another customer.

Michael needs to sit down.

He collapses into a newly-vacated stool and wraps both palms around the cold glass of the bottle. This place is crowded and loud in a way the Wild Pony never is. It pulses; it’s alive. Michael’s eyes flutter shut; he searches for his heartbeat inside the rhythm.

He’s jostled out of his thoughts by a bony elbow catching him in the shoulder as some kid—well, probably close to Michael’s age, but he looks young, looks fresh, in a way Michael doesn’t know he’s ever looked—reaches past him to grab a pair of cocktails. Drinks in hand, he floats over to the nearest table, where a single dark-haired man nurses a single drink and sits with his back to the bar.

“Hey, soldier, wanna have some fun?” The kid asks, draping himself over the table’s other chair.

“Sorry,” a wry voice shouts over the pounding bass, “You’re cute, but curly hair doesn’t really do it for me.”

Michael snorts against the lip of his beer. Nerve of some people. Still, there’s something to that voice, a little hint of swagger that makes Michael sit up and take notice, makes him think maybe, makes him think finally, makes him think wanna go for a ride? The bold little twink that just got snubbed sticks his nose up in the air and stalks away through the haze. It doesn’t take him long to find someone else who’ll take the spare drink off his hands and lead him grinning to the dance floor. Michael gestures at the bartender for another beer, and once it’s slid his way he rolls his shoulders to loosen up, rolls his neck to hear it pop, and rolls his hips off the bar to make people look his way. The guy at the table, of course, doesn’t get the benefit of Michael’s performance, but it’s still an unexpected rush to be seen, now that he’s got a challenge to meet.

Soldier, the kid had said, and this guy may be out of uniform, but Michael can see it. His firm posture; his close-cropped hair. The measured way he curls his hand around his glass, takes a sip, and puts it back in the exact same place. A ready smirk teases Michael’s lips as he makes his way over.

“Soldier, huh?” He says aloud, putting the beer on the table with a thunk. “That a line you get often or the real thing? You gonna show me some discipline?” A flush revs the engine in his veins. He doesn’t know if he’s gunning for a fight or for a fuck, but he’ll take either one so long as this feeling doesn’t slip through his fingers.

Until the screech of chair legs on the wood floor drowns out all other sound. Everything but the ringing in his ears.

Because Alex Manes is looking back at him.

Shattering glass would hurt people. Chairs flying in every direction too. React too strongly and you’ll bust something important, maybe start a fire. Hold it together. This building has three exits and a fire door as well as a storage room with a lock behind the bar and probably cellar access. You have a clear line of sight to the bathrooms if you need a place to hide or panic. You are not trapped. No one here wants to hurt you. Your truck has enough gas to make it back to Roswell without stopping. There is no need to panic.

Count back from ten. A safe release: let the cars outside rock a little on their suspensions. Nine. Stretch the fingers on your left hand. Eight. Breathe in. Seven. Alex looks scared. Six. Do something about it. Five. Breathe out. Four. Put down your other beer so you have both hands free. Three. Say something. Two. No, not yet. One.

Alex.

He’s walking away.

He’d be running if he wasn’t controlling himself so tightly. Instead he takes it at a march, stiff-jointed and robotic. Michael scrambles after him, half-dreaming, ears ringing out a plaintive whine that he stuffs behind his teeth. He chases Alex in slow motion through the crowd and the swirling air, towards the secluded back of the bar and the back door hidden in a little alcove.

“Alex!” He cries, and the man jerks like Michael threw a fist instead. Unable to stop himself, Michael grabs his shoulder with his broken hand, and wheels him around so he can drink in the sight of that face.

It’s him. Undeniably, irrefutably. Michael didn’t recognize his voice over the noise, over the sound of him grown into its depth and timbre. But it’s him, and Michael reaches out his hands like maybe, maybe, he won’t be turned away.

“Guerin,” Alex groans, and Michael bobs his head pathetically, like yes, like please, like help me, like hello.

They collide.

Face pale and set like he’s hunting a ghost, Alex cups Michael’s face and turns them so Michael’s the one with his back to the wall. He marches them forward, and Michael lopes back in step. The rest of the world fades out to a dull throb, an unimportant ache. Michael snatches at Alex’s clothes to drag him in. They’re not moving fast enough. Michael used to think they had time, but now he knows it was never true, and his has never been the hand on the hourglass.

“Aaanh!”

The sound rips itself out of Michael’s chest as he throws himself against the wall, twisting his hand in the bottom of Alex’s clinging red shirt. Their mouths slam together, all momentum. Michael opens his mouth to take Alex’s tongue with a loud moan. Alex hisses in response; his forearms thud against the wall on either side of Michael’s head a millisecond later, bracing himself instead of crushing Michael the way Michael wishes he would. He wants the bruises, wants the bloody lip, wants a clawing, scratching sting he can rub against in the morning.

If he can’t have a dance, he can have this much.

Goading, he shoves his hands under Alex’s clothes and drags his dull nails in the spaces between Alex’s ribs. He’s heavy with muscle now, but he’s still soft to touch like the boy Michael loved in a pale blue suit. Alex tears his mouth away to pant against Michael’s jaw. His fists clench and Michael’s hips twitch at the creak of bone and tendon and power at the edge of his hearing.

“Touch me,” he says, “Alex, touch me,” because what does he have to lose, “Alex, it’s me, it’s you, touch me.”

“I can’t,” Alex gasps, breathy and cracked and tasting like salt, “Oh no, oh God, it’s you, oh—”

“You can. You can.” Michael cups the back of his neck so they can kiss again, sloppy and hot. Alex smells like leather, like metal, like secondhand smoke. Michael’s spent three days in his truck, so he knows what he smells like too—rose petals and gasoline and wax. That’s what Alex is breathing in with every drag of his lungs. Him.

“What are you doing here,” Alex pleads, “Why are you here, I can’t, I can’t—”

“What are you doing here?”

And Alex laughs, rude and wet, a sound from the bottom of his stomach. “Why are we doing this, Guerin? Why’d you even walk my way? Nothing’s changed!”

“Nothing’s changed,” Michael agrees, pressing their foreheads together. He wants to beg Alex to let it be true. But he doesn’t. Used to be there was no need for dignity, here, but maybe some things have changed after all. Michael kisses Alex above each unlined eye, on the bridge of his nose, holds him close to brush his lips on either ear. Still and tense like he’s bracing against a storm, Alex makes little choking noises at every touch of his mouth, and a low cry escapes when Michael pulls back to press kisses to his fingertips.

Nothing’s changed. Alex can shove and cut and hide away whatever he needs to keep himself safe, but Michael can still read the ink beneath his skin. This is it, the answer, the solace he’s been seeking. It didn’t die, Michael didn’t kill it and burn it to ash while the silent stars looked on. Alex just took it with him when he left.

It’s okay to be without it, now, if Alex needs it more.

“Nothing’s changed,” Michael says in a raspy whisper, as he rearranges and recategorizes and everything does.

Instead of replying, Alex bares his teeth and fastens them to the meat of Michael’s shoulder, exposed by the stretched-out collar of his shirt, sending a slick shiver from his scalp to his toes. It’s nothing at all like understanding, but it fills a need enough right now. All his animal instincts roll his head to the side to expose the softest parts of him.

“Guerin,” Alex half-whispers, half-sobs. Michael runs his fingers across Alex’s scalp. He nods. He knows.

Being with Alex has always been music enough to dance to, but tucked away in this corner away from the world, they don’t. They don’t shuffle. They don’t sway.

The world moves on in beat and time, and they don’t move at all.

#roswell new mexico #malex #michael guerin #alex manes

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flourchildwrites · 5 years

Note

Edwin 26 and 92 please.

A/N: Hey, anon! Thank you for dropping this FANFICTION TROPE MASH UP into my ask box. I hope you check back in now that I’ve finally got around to responding. You requested numbers 26 (massage fic) and 92 (kink) with an edwin ship. I’m sensing a theme here, lol. However, I’ve got to warn you that I’ve been in a heavy mood lately, and it’s coming out in my writing. Trigger warnings for chronic pain and sacrilegious undertones. This fic is also lemon flavored below the cut. :P Here goes… something.

Special thanks to @bearonthecouch for the read through!

Read on AO3

Truth was a mixed bag. At least, that was Winry Rockbell’s opinion. In the years that followed the Promised Day, Ed described them as an amorphous being of indiscernible power, a haughty guardian of the veil between the physical and metaphysical realms or alternatively… “That uppity bastard who stole my leg, my arm and my brother’s body!”

Let it never be said that Edward Elric, adoring husband and doting father did not have a way with words.

Nevertheless, on the subject of the past, Winry kept her own counsel. She neither delved deeply into the regrets of the yesteryear nor dwelled on impracticalities like God, Truth or the meaning of life. Like the stalwart woman who raised her, Winry’s very existence was a testament to patience and persistence. And yet, she’d be remiss to deny that, while Truth might have been a capricious guardian of the scales, they were most certainly a shitty surgeon.

Ed’s arm was all the proof she needed. A mangled scar spilled across his shoulder, three inches deep with puckered flesh in all shades of ruddy red, yellow and purple. Nuts and wires had jutted out from his restored skin, and if anything, the internal damage proved permanent. Veins inextricably intertwined with threads of metal, a ghastly union of organic and manmade parts. Secretly and silently, the young automail engineer sometimes wondered if Truth had bestowed Ed with a blessing or a curse.

Bathed in moonlight, Winry waddled down the staircase of the Elrics’ Resembool home with heavy footfalls. One hand clutched her swollen stomach, and the other grasped the sturdy wooden banister. Even in darkness, Winry knew that the walls were pristine, covered in pretty pictures and pastel paints that suited the quiet, country life that Ed and Winry enjoyed when they could get away from the hustle and bustle of Rush Valley. And though baby Trisha’s nursery was only half finished, Winry could see Ed’s labor of love coming together, just as sure as she knew she was having a girl this time.

Winry smiled to herself as she appreciated the work that human hands had made.

“Ed,” Winry quietly called out from the foot of the staircase, careful not to wake little Yuriy.

“In here.”

The expecting mother made her way toward the sitting room and stumbled upon a familiar sight: Edward Elric had, yet again, turned her elegant sitting room into an office. Nevermind the actual study upstairs. Books were haphazardly strewn across the small space interspersed with parchment bearing nearly illegible scribbles in Ed’s native Amestrian as well as flawed Xingese characters. Winry had half a mind to chide her husband, but she refrained in light of the ice pack draped over his right shoulder.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked knowingly, coming close enough to admire the narrow spectacles Ed now wore when reading, the ones he obstinately swore he didn’t need.

“Nothing to worry about, Win,” the blond shot back, injecting confidence into his voice. “It’s just a little sore. The weather is changing, and Yuriy is getting bigger. Besides, I need to get this work done for Al. No time like the present.”

“You mean 3 a.m.” Winry shot back wryly as she placed her hands on her hips, “when our 2-year-old is finally sleeping, and we’ve got a full day of toddler tantrums ahead of us? Why didn’t you just tell me it was hurting again? Not for nothing, but I am one of the best automail mechanics around. I think I know my way around human anatomy enough to ease a few tense muscles.”

Ed chuckled and rose from the couch, a merry glint in his light amber eyes. “Well, not for nothing, but you are 25 weeks pregnant if I’m not mistaken.” He wasn’t. “What kind of husband would I be if I let you take care of me without taking care of you first?”

Ed moved quickly across the small living space and wrapped his arms around Winry. His fingers moved restlessly, seeking purchase in the folds of her lightweight nightgown. With eyes wide shut, she hummed as Ed reached around to massage the tight muscles of her lower back. Winry buried her face in the soft cotton of his shirt, relishing the faint scent of sweat and freshly cut grass. She loved Ed. She loved being tenderly caressed by the warm hands that had never hesitated to pick her up when she was down. To protect her just as she patched him back together time and time again.

Winry reluctantly summoned her wits in spite of Ed’s efforts and a raging case of momnesia.

“Not so fast, Edward,” Winry interjected, gently stepping back and placing a firm hand on her husband’s chest. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder. Then, you can take me upstairs and have your way with your bloated, pregnant wife.”

The glint in Ed’s eyes was inexplicably obscene. “That a promise?”

Winry rolled her eyes despite the smirk on her lips.

“Take a seat, Fullmetal,” she said, gesturing toward the couch with an authoritative edge to her voice. Though he practiced restraint, Ed’s features darkened hungrily as he took a seat on the floor near Winry’s usual perch on the couch, and if she had reminded him of a certain former commanding officer at that moment, he didn’t show it.

…

The bible according to Pinako Rockbell was pretty damn clear when it concerned the intersection of automail and pain. It was merely the body’s way of communicating that something wasn’t working properly. And though Winry still struggled to comprehend Edward’s refusal to dignify the pain he occasionally felt, she was all too familiar with his anatomy, right down to the battle scars hidden beneath the hem of his well-pressed shirts.

The young mother’s hands kneaded and pressed at her husband’s scarred skin, searching for knots and avoiding the places where she knew metal was permanently embedded within his flesh. As her strokes turned long and languid, Winry felt Ed relax under her deft hands. His arm and shoulder began to pulse as she stimulated blood flow alongside delicious friction and finally, she finished with a series of firm taps.

“Oh God, Winry,” Ed gasped. “Do you have to tap it like that? You’re killing the mood.”

“What mood?” she teased. “Between the stretch marks and my swollen ankles, I don’t see how I can be the least bit appealing right now. Then again, you are stuck with me. I guess I can’t blame you for making the best of it.”

Winry’s words carried a self-deprecating edge, and she laughed with a good-natured timbre that belied the harsh truths sugarcoated by her humor. The second time mother knew she’d grown bigger faster this time around. Her ankles were puffy, and the stretch marks on her tummy had reasserted themselves in angry streaks of red. Between her business and Yuriy, Winry found it difficult to think of herself as a sexual being, and honestly, Ed was more a partner in the trenches of childrearing than a lover now.

“Making the best of it? Of our life together?” Ed scoffed. “What makes you think that you aren’t exactly the person I want to be with? Especially when you’re pregnant.”

“Especially when I’m pregnant?” Winry shot back. “My stomach’s big. My boobs are ridiculous. In another month or so, I’ll be unable to see my feet. Enlighten me, oh great alchemist, what’s there to like about all that?”

Ed paused in a rare show of speechlessness as he shifted at Winry’s feet and allowed his eyes to trace the outline of her figure. It had been years since their first sleepless night together, but the way he looked at her was wondrous, reminiscent of their first fumbling time as well as the many happy endings they’d enjoyed after that. Winry felt reborn when she considered herself from Ed’s perfective and saw all that she considered a nuisance as ancient symbols of power, unequaled by modern medicine or other mystic arts.

He took her hands in his and turned them, running his thumbs across her palms. “I see hands that give life,” he said, kissing her callouses. “And strong arms that cradle it lovingly.”

Ed turned his attention to her feet and massaged her ankles tenderly. “I see legs that stood up for me when I couldn’t stand on my own.” Winry shivered as she felt her husband place light kisses up her ankles, calves and thighs. He gently pushed her nightgown up to reveal her round stomach, and as Winry’s pulse quickened, the baby inside her belly stirred. Ed chuckled and pressed his hands against her, grinning as he felt his child’s movement.

“I love you like this,” he stated, almost breathless. “I love seeing our child growing inside you, and you’ve got this raw, powerful beauty that makes me crazy. You’re glowing, Winry.”

She started to tell him that it was just her acid reflux, but with those words, Ed kissed the top of her thigh near the plain white fabric of her panties. Slowly, his tongue pressed against her, and Winry couldn’t hide the soft sigh which followed. She leaned back, enjoying Ed’s attention as his mouth began sucking and pulling at her skin. As was only fair, he repeated the same series on the inside of her other thigh, moving ever closer to her warm center.

As her breathing grew fevered Ed delved deeper, running his lips over the outside of her underwear in a way that made Winry sigh. He sucked the fabric, and his fingers toyed with the low waistband, bowed by her growing baby bump. One hand settled on the width of her hips, and again Ed caressed her belly as his tongue lapped at her through a pesky layer of cotton.

Winry moaned and pleaded for her pleasure until Ed finally kissed her clit.

“Oh, God!” Winry exclaimed, feeling both breathless and beautiful in the eyes of the person who mattered most.

He smirked in response, all humor and bravado intact. “I prefer Ed.”

Winry laughed in a throaty register as she gave in to her husband’s skillful ministrations. Pushing her panties to one side, his tongue set out to do its best, returning the favor for all Winry’s earlier efforts. Ed was insufferable at times, Winry knew, and yet, as he cracked a blasphemous joke and ate her like it was his last supper, she couldn’t help but revel in her good fortune. If no higher power had brought them together during their difficult childhoods or made them as mirror images of one another, being with him was a miracle all the same.

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#you ask i answer #fanfiction trope mash up #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #fma #edwin #parental!edwin #winry rockbell #edward elric #massage #pregnancy kink

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fallen029 · 5 years

Text

Birthday Mayhem

It felt like a typical day, honestly, for most of the guild members at Fairy Tail. In fact, it actually was. There was the typical drama in the hall of so and so arguing with whoever about this or that, but Mira was still there, serving drinks, Kinana tacking up jobs, and Makarov, in his old age, was seated atop the bar as usual, staff in one hand and eyes closed in deep meditation (or sleep; probably sleep). People were milling about the busy hall and things were just...peaceful.

Fairy Tail was, for the first time in a long while, at rest.

Happy, the typically most at ease whether times were stressful or not, did not feel this peace that day. No. Instead, he was wracked with nerves.

"What's wrong?" Lucy yawned a bit as, being such an early hour, she'd come around the hall for some breakfast before taking a solo job (she was really strapped for cash; she didn't have time for Natsu's typical shenanigans that went along with going on one with him). She'd just been served by Mirajane and was about to take a bite of her toast when, suddenly, a blue ball of fur crashed onto the table. She hardly batted an eye at the Exceed though. He, too, was known for his antics. "Happy?"

He took a deep breath in, the feline did, before looking quickly around, as if trying to place someone. Apparently satisfied, he then looked at the celestial mage and informed her, "It's Lisanna's birthday."

"Oh, is it?" She smiled then, Lucy did. Or, well, she was, and in fact was in the middle of replying how nice that was, when Happy reached with his furry pawn to grab one of her sausage links. Quickly dragging the plate away from him, she remarked in annoyance, "What's that gotta do with you shoving your gross paws in my food, cat?"

Defeated (in that portion of things, at least), Happy frowned just as heavily at her. "Lucy, don't you understand?"

"Understand what?"

"It's Lisanna's birthday," he reiterated once more. "Don't you know what that means?"

"Mmmm...that she was born on this day?"

"That she's gonna expect Natsu to know!" The cat shook his head some. "But there's no way he will. Natsu never remembers anything! When I asked him what he was gonna do today, he didn't even mention having plans!"

"Then… Why didn't you just remind him?" Lucy was having a very hard time understanding exactly what the problem with all of this was, honestly. Well, not completely. Sure, it would suck for Lisanna if Natsu didn't remember her boyfriend, but at the same time, with such a simple solution… These were the exact shenanigans she was hoping to avoid that day. "Then he would know and-"

"It won't be the same, Lucy," Happy insisted, exasperated it seemed with the blonde. "If he remembers on his own it'll be so romantic and sweet and-"

"Well, maybe he will."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"Then you should remind him."

"But then it won't be-"

"Happy," she complained a bit, "I had something I wanted to do today. Is this really that big of a deal?"

"It's a huge deal!" He might have even yelled at her, just slightly. Lucy blinked as the cat, considering his tone, sighed some and said, "I just really don't want Natsu and Lisanna to break up."

"Why would they break up? Over this? Especially if you could just tell-"

"Lucy, I know that you have no understanding of relationships like me and Natsu do-"

"Natsu is in a relationship. You're stalking another Exceed who has more than made it clear she's not into you."

"-but this is serious." And the cat didn't sound like he was purposely being over dramatic. He truly was feeling these things. "This is the first birthday that Lisanna is gonna have since her and Natsu got together, like really together, and I just want it to be special for her."

Sighing some, Lucy reached over to pat him on his head. "You're really worked up about all this, huh?"

"Imagine if you were actually attractive to a guy and he forgot your birthday-"

"You're pushing it, fur ball."

"I'd always remember Carla's birthday," he assured Lucy. "If she ever told it to me."

"Well," Lucy sighed slightly as, after a glance over at the request board where, no doubt, there was the perfect job, just waiting for her. "I guess I could stick around and help you figure this all out."

"You mean it?"

Nodding, she said, "But what do you want to do, Hap? If you don't wanna just tell him-"

"We can't."

"Then-"

"What are you losers being so loud about?"

And they were joined at the table then by Gray, who set down with a mug of beer. Lucy made a bit of a face at his typical state of undress, but Happy only eyed who sat down beside him, practically in his lap.

"Juvia," the feline remarked. "You're the exact person to help. And you two, Gray. You both know a lot about relationships."

"Yes," the water mage remarked. "We do."

"We might," Gray complained around his ale, "but definitely varying amount. Separate, varying amounts."

"Lucy here," the Exceed remarked, jerking a thumb towards the woman on the other side of the table, "isn't very knowledgeable in the ways of love. Not like the two of you."

"I wish I'd just gotten my job," Lucy sighed, once more glancing over at the request board. I could be on a train right now, away from stupid cats who are destined to be forever alone-"

"What would you do, Juvia?" Happy asked. "If Gray forgot my birthday?"

"You can't forget," the ice mage replied, "what you don't know."

Juvia considered the question for far longer though. Eventually, she said, "I would be crushed, I would imagine."

"And you wouldn't want that to happen to one of your friends, would you?" the feline kept up.

Suddenly, the blue haired woman's eyes grew darker before, with accusation in her gaze, she glanced between Gray and Lucy.

"My Gray darling should forget every other woman's birthday," she remarked simply. "If this is your idea of trying to stake a claim, Lucy, then-"

"It's not my birthday," she complained with a frown. "And I don't expect Gray to remember it."

"Do you expect Natsu to remember it?" Happy questioned then, glancing at her once more.

"I mean, if he doesn't even remember his girlfriend's, then-"

"Is that what this is about then?" Just like that, Juvia's eyes weren't so clouded and her tone wasn't so harsh. "Oh, poor Lisanna. To have such a forgetful boyfriend. Luckily, Gray would never forget such an important date."

"Again I reiterate," Gray remarked, "you can't remember what you never knew. And hey, Happy, what's up with all the questions, huh? It's Lisanna's birthday today, right? That's what you said? Then just go tell flame breath that it's his girl's birthday and problem's solved, right?"

"You would think," Lucy sighed. "But Happy thinks-"

"It would just be more romantic," the Exceed once more said, this time to the ice mage and the woman still seemingly stuck to his side. "Don't you think?"

"Yes," Juvia agreed.

"I really don't give a shit," Gray replied. "I mean, wouldn't it be more romantic for him to be reminded, Happy, then him completely forget?"

"That's why we have to make sure he doesn't completely forget." He balled up a fist and pumped it a bit. "We're Natsu's closest friends. And Lisanna's too, kind of. Some of us. Maybe. At the very least, we all love them both a bunch, right? So we have to make sure that this goes right for them."

"But how?" Gray complained as Lucy nodded in agreement at the question.

"I think," came a voice approaching the table, "that I can be of much assistance."

And she was there then, finally, as always, to save the others from their definite inabilities to accomplish a job. Erza Scarlet. Titania Erza. Savior of all.

Also, she'd just returned, victorious once more from a difficult job where, following it, she had her praises sang to her for an entire day as the tiny village insisted on her staying to celebrate her banishing the monster from their daily lives. Which meant that she was even more full of herself than usual.

"Really?" Happy asked the redhead. "You'll help?"

"Of course," she said with a nod of her head. "As soon as you tell me what it is that's wrong."

"You mean," Gray complained, "that you didn't even know? But you came over here and insisted that you could help-"

"Is that a problem?" Erza raised an eyebrow and, suddenly, Gray found it much more interesting to stare down into his beer as he only mumbled out an excuse of some sort.

"Natsu doesn't remember Lisanna's birthday," Happy began to tell the woman.

"And," Lucy took over, "the cat seems to think that if we just remind him-"

"Then it wouldn't be romantic," Erza finished and they all stared in shock, but she only had her stoic face on. "Yes, that would be a terribly unromantic thing. What if Lisanna found out then? Hmm? That we just told him? How would she feel? As someone who knows the way of the human heart very well-"

"You do?" Lucy asked. When she got that eyebrow raise from the woman, she was quick to change her timbre. "You do."

"I do," Erza agreed. She was tired of being questioned.

"I think you girls are blowing this out of proportion anyways," Gray griped (though not at Erza). "So he either forgets or he remembers. Lisanna puts up with all his other shit. Will she really be that shocked? Or hurt? And is remembering a date that 'romantic' or whatever anyways? Natsu's a dumbass. His girlfriend knows that."

"Men naturally do not understand the ways of women," Erza asserted. She should know. She was a (self-proclaimed) expert in the ways of love. Yes. "Therefore your opinion is invalid, Gray."

"Happy's a...well, a male, at least," the ice mage complained. "Why is his opinion counted? It's the whole reason we're all even having this conversation!"

"I think, my love," Juvia told him softly, "it is simply because he agrees with her."

Erza gave no glares for that. It was the truth.

"I have devised a plan," she decided then, Erza did, as she still stood before the table in all her armored glory.

"Already?" Lucy voiced her uncertainty.

"Yes." Nodding, the swordswoman said, "It is quite simple, really. The problem is he does not remember and we cannot directly inform him of the day. Well, then we must give him subtle hints."

"Well, duh," Gray remarked. When he, once more, got a glare, he was quick to add, "I just mean, obviously that's what we're gonna do. But Natsu's super dense. He's an idiot."

No one at the table balked at this. Not even Happy or Lucy. They all were in agreement on that.

"Yes, well," Erza kept up, still thinking. She was good at that. Thinking. She was good at most things. "We could...come up with a safety net."

"I dunno," Happy sighed at the thought. "Crafting a big net seems like a lot of work in such short time. And what would be the pay off?"

"I don't think," Lucy said with a look, "that's what she meant, Hap. And I also think you knew that."

Of course.

"Which is?" Juvia asked then, looking at Erza quizzically. While she wasn't the biggest fan of Natsu (which stemmed from her beloved not being one either) she did somewhat like Lisanna. While she was still getting acclimated to the guild, the other woman had returned to it and all it's new quirks, which meant they got accustomed to the place together. She found the youngest Strauss to be quite approachable and fun.

"It's quite simple," she explained. "While some of us spend the day attempting to put the idea back in his head, the rest of us should take to preparing a nice date that, as a last resort, we will lead them on. We'll spare no expense."

"I'm broke," Lucy pointed out. "In fact, I was just about headed on a job-"

"I have a fish head in my knapsack," Happy offered up, patting at his back.

"Yeah, I'm not giving anything to this either," Gray added to which, with a bit of a nod, Juvia had to agree.

"More than our time," the water mage offered.

Erza huffed a bit before remarking, "Then I will spare no expense as, more than likely I fear that this is the direction in which this whole thing shall go. If that does turn out to be the case, the ones who are going to go about hinting him will lead him back to he and Happy's home where, outside of it, the others will have set up a nice dinner and have purchased a cake."

"Their house?" Lucy asked with a bit of a frown. "Are you sure?"

"Your apartment then, will do nicely," Erza decided.

"My what now?"

"Yeah!" Happy was energized at the thought. "They can stay over at your apartment, Lucy, like a nice hotel or something. And you can bunk with me, back at the house."

"I hardly call where you live a house."

"Then I rescind my invitation." Happy frowned. "And to think I was going to share my fish head with you."

"I don't want your stupid fish head anyways, you dumb-"

"The park," Gray spoke up then. "We can set them a nice picnic up in the park."

"Yes," Erza agreed. "That will do."

"Since Lucy is too stuck up to stay over at me and Natsu's house-"

"I highly doubt the two of them wanna bunk at my place for the night anyways, cat."

"So who wishes then," the swordswoman went on, "wishes to do which job?"

"Well, I'm definitely not spending all day hanging around flame breath, trying to convince him to remember his girlfriend," Gray said with a bit of a snort. "I'll help out with the getting stuff together, because I do like Lisanna, but Natsu-"

"That makes sense," Erza cut him off with a nod. "And I will, of course, go to Natsu and-"

"Uh, Erza?" Lucy had her turn at interrupting then. "Not to...disway you, but are you sure that you're really the person for the job? To give subtle hints at something? Subtle is not exactly your strong suit."

"You do not think so?" the other woman asked.

"No, I don't. I mean, if you wanna give it a try-"

"And you're the one 'sparing no expense'," Gray pointed out. "Remember?"

"Ah. Yes." She sighed. She really did like the idea of it, attempting to convince the slayer of the importance of the date. It felt almost like a game, truly, and she was nothing if not someone with a deep competitive drive. "I suppose I could be a part of the preparations instead."

Juvia sensed something and, glancing back and forth between Erza and Gray, she remarked, "The two of you? Partnered together? I must be included in the preparations as well!"

"Why are you yelling?" Lucy griped a bit as she pressed a hand to her head. "And let's see, I guess that leaves me and-"

"Me." Happy looked to her. "You and me. We have to remind Natsu of Lisanna's birthday."

"Do I have to be stuck with the cat?" It was simple, it seemed, for the celestial mage to find something new to complain about. "I mean, come on."

"Like you'll be much help." Happy even sighed. "But I guess you'll have to do."

"I could always leave on a job and let you do it on your own, you know. You're the one that asked me for help, Happy." Finally, now that her food was cold, she didn't put up much of a fight as he took a sausage link for himself. "Don't forget it."

The teams separated then, with Juvia using all her resources now to mostly keep an eye on Erza (the woman was sneaky for sure), while Gray and Erza spoke between themselves over just what sorta things they should purchase for the date. Happy and Lucy, on the other hand, headed in the opposite direction.

"The first thing we have to do," Happy said as he fluttered along above Lucy's head, "is find Natsu."

"Well, where did you last see him? At you guys' house? Do you think he's still there?"

"I dunno," the Exceed said. "But I bet he's somewhere close by."

"Maybe," Lucy hummed a bit, "he's planning he and Lisanna's day and we don't even have anything to worry about."

This, of course, was not the case.

They actually ran into the slayer on his way to the guildhall. He seemed quite pleased to seem them both.

"Hey, Hap, Lucy, I was just looking for you," he remarked as they approached one another on the street. "What are you two doing?"

"Looking for you," Lucy offered up, grinning widely just from the sight of him. "Natsu. On this day. Such a great day, don't you think?"

"Well," he huffed a bit. "It's not raining, at least."

"Ha, Natsu, you're so funny." And Happy practically dive bombed into his chest, forcing the slayer to catch him.

"Hey, little buddy, what's the big idea!"

"I just wanted to hug you, Natsu, that's all," the Exceed laughed as he was, promptly, dropped to the ground by the slayer. "To show you that I care about you. On today. On a day like today."

"It is," Lucy agreed, "a pretty important day."

"All because it ain't raining?" Natsu frowned at the two of them. "And anyhow, I was looking for ya because-"

"Because of the nice day it is today?" Lucy asked.

"And how much you care? Not necessarily about us, I guess," Happy kept up, "but about the people in your life? Who are important to you? Because-"

"What are you two talking about? And hey, what were you doing together anyways?" This time, his eyes were a bit suspicious. "You're not plannin' somethin', are ya?"

"Who? Us?" Lucy tried hard not to look like this was absolutely what she was doing. "No way. Are you crazy?"

"Yeah," Happy agreed from the ground. "What do I look like? Sneaking behind your back to do something with Lucy? I would think you know me better than that, Natsu, but I guess not."

He sighed some, the pink haired man did, before nodding his head. "I guess that's right. What could you two be planning against me anyways?"

No doubt something for his own good.

Always.

"Anyways," Lucy said slowly as, turning, she easily fell in step with the slayer as he began his trek once more. "Where were you headed?"

"Just the hall," he said simply. "I wanted to see if that bastard Gray was around. I-"

"Gray?" Happy tried hard not to be disappointed. "Why would you be bothering with Gray today?"

"That sneaking bastard owes me-"

"Who cares about that?" Lucy asked. "Or about him at all?"

This was usually the right idea for Natsu, but at the moment the insinuation just wasn't cutting it for him. Not when he needed to collect from the man immediately.

"I do," Natsu complained. "I have to find him. Do either of you know where he is?"

They looked to one another then, Happy and Lucy did. They both knew that they couldn't lead Natsu to Gray because there was a possibility that, spying him in the shopping district picking up a cake and such with Erza, that he would become suspicious of their plans and, thus, not be duped either into remembering or showing up at the park without being outright told, but rather being blatantly shown the situation at hand and, wow, when Lucy really thought it out, why didn't they just do that?

"We'll take you to him," Happy said suddenly and for a second, Lucy though they'd come to the same conclusion. "Right this way."

Until the Exceed headed in the opposite direction of where Gray certainly was and, ugh, Lucy was starting to resign to the fact that she was not going to be going out on a job that day.

"Happy," she complained a bit as Natsu, though he was supposed to be the one being led began to take the lead, and the Exceed fluttered close to her. "Where exactly where are we going to take him?"

"Anywhere," the blue cat explained, "that Gray, Erza, and Juvia are not. Hopefully to Lisanna. After he's remembered, of course."

"Of course," Lucy sighed, following along.

They would not find Lisanna, however, as at that moment she'd just arrived at the guildhall, where Natsu had instructed her to meet him that afternoon. She was slightly disappointed to not find him there, but also understanding to his typical forgetfulness, and went straight over to her sister to question where he'd mistakenly gone out on a job that day.

"No," Mira giggled. "He hasn't even been in yet. And did you get the card I left you? On the kitchen table?"

"Mmmhmm!" Lisanna was just as giggly. "'Thanks, sis. It was really thoughtful."

"Well, we normally go out to dinner," the barmaid sighed a bit. "But I'm sure you and Natsu have something going on tonight instead-"

"We can go to dinner tomorrow night. If you're off."

"I can get off," she assured her, but just as quickly, someone was calling out to Mira, needing a refill and, well, duty called and all.

"Oh, Lisanna," Mira called as she headed away. "I almost forgot. Someone did want to see you."

"They did?"

"Uh-huh. Erza for some reason. In the park. She said for you not to arrive until midday though."

Lisanna sighed some, but agreed. Besides, she should be meeting Natsu soon; surely he'd not mind taking a detour there.

At the moment, he wouldn't have minded at all, if he knew that that was the exact location that Gray was. He was griping too, at Happy and Lucy, convinced now that this was just all some sort of big game to them. And, well, he was kinda right at least.

"I really need to find him, guys, so if you don't know where he is-"

"Just a little further," Happy kept up. "And hey, it must be awful important for you to find him. Is there anything else important that you have to do today? Do you think?"

"What are you talking about? Just take me to Gray!"

"Happy," Lucy tried, growing weary of the game they very much so were playing. "Maybe-"

"Just," the cat continued on, "a little further. And why do you want Gray anyways? What could he possibly owe you? On such a nice day? Huh? That's more important than-"

"I've been trying to tell you-" And Natsu stopped so suddenly that Lucy, who was following closely behind him, crashed into him rather roughly.

"Natsu," she complained, rubbing at her head. "What-"

"Wait a minute." He glared up at the sky then where Happy, realizing the others had stopped, was turning to face them in the air. "You guys in on it. Aren't you?"

"In on what?" Happy asked.

"You were looking all suspicious and were together and you guys never hang out together without me!"

"Well, some of us take jobs more frequently than two of us here," Lucy remarked. "So they don't have near the same amount of time to just hang about-"

"Plus it's Lucy," Happy agreed. "Who wants to be alone with her?"

"You know what, cat, I-"

"You're in cahoots! With Gray! Of all people!" Natsu huffed at the pair of them. "I can't believe you. Don't you know how important it is that I find him?"

Happy, exasperated as well (by this point, they'd spent a good chunk of the day going around in circles, searching fruitlessly for Gray while also constantly dropping hints; there was only so much a little cat could take), hurled his own accusation Natsu's way.

"Do you?" he questioned. "Huh? Natsu? How could you not? I thought that you loved Lisanna, but-"

"Of course I love Lisanna!" Natsu found offense in that. "Why do you think I've spent the whole day chasing Gray's ugly mug around town!"

"Surely," Lucy questioned slowly, "for some other reason? Because, I mean, I can't see one."

"Do you know," Happy griped with a heavy frown at his very best friend, "what today is, Natsu?"

At the exact moment Lucy and Happy were waiting for an answer, Erza was finishing up with the touches on her wonderful picnic while Juvia fantasied the idea of her and Gray just totally ditching the whole plan they had in place and, have their own date.

He was not receptive to this idea and Erza was too lost in her own world, marveling over her excellence at helping her friends once more to notice. Not to mention, the cake she'd picked up at the bakery was exceptionally exquisite, and though she had one back at the bakery she planned to swing by and pick up after all this, well, it was hard not to just open the box and at least take a whiff of it's excellence.

Still, in comparison to Lucy and Happy, the trio was far more successful in their portion of the plan. Honestly, no one would have expected anything less. And, when Lisanna arrived in the park, Erza was more than ready to greet her.

"Hi, Erza," she grinned easily, if not a bit uncertain. "And...Gray. Juvia."

It wasn't that Lisanna did not wish to spend her birthday with the three of them...it's just that...well, actually it was that. Erza was far closer to being her sister's friend than hers and while Juvia was alright, Gray, again, was not someone Lisanna considered too close. She figured it was something unrelated to her birthday, honestly, that they needed, and while she was always one to help her guild mates, she did really wanna get back to the hall as quickly as possible.

"Lisanna," Erza greeted easily as Gray gave a bit of a nod and Juvia actually wished her a happy birthday.

"Are you guys… On a date?" Lisanna took note of the blanket spread on the grass, the picnic basket, and the three of them standing before it. "The...three of you? I mean, there's nothing wrong with that, I just-"

"Share my darling?" Juvia, quite easily, turned on the youngest Strauss member. "I could never!"

As Erza frowned at the implication (surely she could do better than Gray and Juvia, if she were on the market in such a way…) and even sighed a bit. Much like her boyfriend, clearly, Lisanna was not the best at reading a situation.

"No," she said simply. "We are not."

"Oh." Lisanna didn't know why she let out such a sound of relief, but she did. The idea of someone else for Juvia to possibly be possessive over was downright terrifying. Err, actually yes, that was the exact reason for her relief. "Well… I'm sorry, but I was wanting to meet Natsu today at the guildhall and he's a little late, but I should really get back in case-"

"That's exactly why we've invited you here," Erza was quick to say. "Or, well, Natsu has. Yes. He wished for us to set up this...date, of sorts, for your birthday."

"Really?" Lisanna seemed skeptical. "That wasn't really what we had plan-"

"Hey!"

And there he was, the man himself, with the loud screech from across the park as he came running over at full blast, Happy and Lucy, of course, tailing behind.

"Gray!" Once more, Natsu hollered as he smash smack into the ice make wizard, tackling him to the ground. "You big phony!"

"What the heck, Natsu? You idiot, get off-"

"You owe me-"

"I don't owe you shit!"

"What," Erza complained as she rushed to grab the cake box before the two buffoons rolled over on it (and just because she needed that whiff before she handed it off to Natsu and Lisanna), "is going on? You two, stop this at once!"

"You guys don't understand." Lucy was there, finally, out of breath and panting. "Natsu...didn't forget...anything!"

"Lisanna!" Happy took to crashing against her, but she was much more receptive towards it than Natsu had been much earlier in the day. "Happy birthday!"

She giggled, the youngest Strauss did, though she was still a bit confused. "Thank you, Happy, but what-"

"I brought you a fish! Well, only if you want it-"

"I mean, if you don't wanna give it to me-"

"Thanks, you're so understanding."

Lucy took the time out to make a face over at the feline before, once more, addressing the others.

"Natsu remembered Lisanna's birthday," she was quick to say. "In fact, he was going to meet up with her after speaking with Gray. Apparently, he owes him-"

"That?" And finally, Gray managed to shove the pink haired man off him. "That's what you want?"

"Yeah! I need it! So hand it over!"

"What," Erza griped, "are you two talking about?"

Gray groaned too as, reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he easily produced a tiny orb which, at the sight, Lisanna squeezed the life out of Happy in her excitement.

"Oh gosh, Natsu, honestly?" she questioned as Happy wondered if he'd ever taste oxygen again.

"Honestly," he said as, reaching over, he easily snatched the little blue orb from the ice makers hand before popping up. "Here you guy, Lis."

She rewarded him with another giggle and a kiss.

"What," Juvia also griped, though hers was rooted in something much darker (it could be construed, after all, in a distorted set of events, that Gray was the one presenting the youngest Strauss with something, "is it?"

"It's a defunt lacrima," Gray remarked. "It was offered on the job I was gonna go on and Natsu told me that I could keep the cash reward and he'd pay me some extra. But I don't-"

"It's the perfect size," Natsu remarked. "I could tell it would be, based off the description on the job. I was gonna take it, but then Lucy and Happy wanted to go on a different one, and Gray was gonna go anyways, so-"

"Perfect size for what?" Lucy asked, apparently not privy to that.

"To replace the one he broke." And Lisanna was staring at the tiny crystal like ball, rolling it around in her palm. "I had one, a special one, from when we were kids. It was attached to a necklace. We got it as a reward on the first job we took together. But he broke it a couple of months ago when-"

"You're the one that left it on the floor," he griped. "So I stepped on it, so what? What difference-"

"I didn't leave it on the floor. You and Happy raided my room when you were board and must have-"

"Oh," Lucy sighed. "I'm so glad to hear they do that to other people as well."

"Then..." Juvia looked between them all. "What was this all about? Any of it? We did all of this for...nothing? Because Natsu was going to go to Gray and get the lacrima and then meet with Lisanna. So why did we go through all of this extra stuff if-"

"Happy," Erza began softly as her dark gaze, finally, after a long day, found its way to him. "You are the cause for ruining everyone's day."

"Me?" He huffed a bit as, finally, Lisanna had released him to the ground. "I didn't do anything! Natsu's the one that said he didn't remember Lisanna's birthday."

"When did I say that?" the slayer asked with a frown.

"This morning! You said you didn't have any plans!"

"I said," Natsu complained, "that I didn't have any plans with you."

"Yeah, but...but… Lucy's the one-"

"Na-ah, cat." She even shook her head. "This is all on you."

"Wait, so what were you guys all doing then?" Lisanna finally glanced around herself. "They said you wanted to meet here, Natsu? Was it just to get this? Because I thought that we were going to go out to dinner. I mean, this is nice, but-"

"I don't what they're all doing." Natsu easily took the woman's arm. "And yeah, we were, after we spent the day-"

"Down by the river. I know," she agreed. "But you didn't show up at the hall-"

"Happy and Luce were leading me on a wild goose chase."

"Again," Lucy intervened, "I reiterate, that's all on Happy here."

The cat frowned then, down at the ground, before whispering, "I just wanted you guys to have the best birthday date ever. That's all."

"And we're going to," Natsu assured him as Lisanna only smiled down at him.

"Yeah, Happy," she agreed. "And thank you so much for caring. An awful lot, at that."

"You have no idea," Lucy complained, still put out by the whole thing.

"Well," Erza was hurrying things along then. "If the pair of you have other plans, I suppose you should be getting on with them, hmm?"

They did then, after thanking everyone once more, and then the five of them were left, the day nearly all but wasted, with a picnic that none of them wanted to share with the other, more annoyed than anything else.

"Hey!" Suddenly, Gray was more agitated than the others. "That slimeball never paid me!"

"Another time." Juvia was quick to pounce on the idea that had been rattling around in her head the entire time. "We wouldn't want to let this feast go to waste, would be?"

"Aye, sir," Happy agreed as, suddenly, he was right out of his funk.

"A feast," the water mage corrected with a glare, "for two."

"And of which I think Erza owns," Lucy pointed out.

"Hmm?" At the sound of her name, the swordswoman looked up. "Oh, yes, the food, right. Well… It shouldn't go to waste. Have at it, everyone!"

"N-No," Juvia tried. "I meant- Happy, shouldn't you be off doing something else?"

"Well, Natsu and Lisanna are on a date and Lucy's here stuffing her face, so where else would I be?" the Exceed asked.

"Uh, you're the only one stuffing their face, cat," Lucy pointed out as she only stood by, her arms still crossed. "And I hope you know that I needed to do something today, but instead of doing it, I led Natsu all over the city for what? Exactly? For you to insult me all day?"

"The reward is not always monetary or even measurable in any way outside of the consciousness of a job well done. Not to mention assisting a comrade," Erza informed her. Them all really. "Which we have all done today."

"How?" Gray asked from his spot on the ground where he still hadn't gotten up, though this was more due to the fact that Juvia was literally holding him there then, having drug him over to the blanket, insistent that she and him at least sit together and pretend as if they were going to enjoy some of the food Happy was quickly working through. "Huh?'

"Perhaps it wasn't Natsu and Lisanna we helped at all," Titania explained. "But, rather, their precious little cat."

For some reason, it was only glares that the others had for him though.

"Apparently," the ice mage complained as, with that nugget of wisdom, the swordswoman made off with the cake and left them behind. "Another reward for a job well done is cake."

Silly, Gray. For Erza, it was always cake.

Still, Lucy only sighed some before asking, "You had a good day though, huh, Happy?"

From around a turkey leg he'd found in the picnic basket, he nodded his head up at the celestial mage. Not only had Natsu and Lisanna, apparently, had plans all along, but Natsu also did something super sweet for her! They were probably going to have the best date ever, also. Because they loved each other. What was better than that?

"Yep," the Exceed said with a grin. "Plus, we got to hang out all day together. What could be better than that? Me and you, paling around the town."

"Uh, you just told Natsu earlier that you would never hang out with me."

"Jeez, Lucy, sensitive much? Can't take a joke?" The cat tsked. "Must by why you'll never get a man."

"I'm not sensitive, cat! And I don't see you sharing this picnic with anyone either!"

"Other than unfortunately," Juvia sighed as, reluctantly, she released Gray so he too could raid the basket, "the two of us."

#Nali #Team Natsu #Happy Fairy Tail #Lucy Heartfilia #Gray Fullbuster #Erza Scarlet #Juvia Lockser #Natsu #Lisanna #Fairy Tail #Fanfiction

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slutty-mcree · 6 years

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!!!! @shoeswithoutsocks

listen, buddy, thank you so much for this request omg.

I really hope you don't mind my song choice! Ring of fire absolutely screams Jesse Mcree and i love it so much, but the song ‘big bad handsome man’ by Imelda May was introduced into my life a few weeks ago, and I haven't been able to stop associating it with Mchanzo since hearing it adsk. You've handed me a golden opportunity i cant pass up. (Seriously if you haven't heard that song please listen and tell me it doesn’t absolutely fucking radiate Mcree energy...)

Anyways! I hope you enjoy <3

—

“You are telling me you can sing..? Seems...unlikely.”

Hanzo could remember just how offended Mcree had looked when he said that; hand clutched over his heart, mouth slightly agape as though someone had suddenly struck him.

“Darlin..sweetheart...my huckleberry pie..you sayin’ you don’t think I got talent?”

“Obviously I believe you have talent, Mcree. Overwatch would not have recruited you otherwise. I am just unsure as to how much of that talent is...musical.”

In hindsight, Hanzo supposed he should have known better. Jesse Mcree, by nature, was never one to withdraw from a challenge. It was proven time and time again—whether it was showcasing a dauntless, unnecessary act on the field or following through on an unsuspecting fool who was not expecting to be taken up on their dare. The cowboy was, without a doubt, the very definition of ostentatious--and evidently, Hanzo’s comment made him feel like he needed to prove something.

Hanzo Shimada had provoked the southern, gun-slinging bear and now he was now going to pay the price for it.

“I cannot believe you helped orchestrate such a ridiculous charade.” The archer scoffs with a tinge of annoyance coloring his tone. He eyes over the homemade flyer in his hand; decorated in obscenely glittery drawings of music notes and tiny cartoon versions of cowboy hats. Big, bold letters spelled out ‘karaoke night: featuring the musical talents of Jesse Mcree’, and Hanzo glances from the piece of paper to the Korean woman in front of him warily.

“Don’t look at me like that, Han! Lucio made the flyers and did the audio set up stuff, all I did was set up the chairs.” Hana defends herself, though the mirthful smile that’s present indicates that wasn’t completely true. “Besides, karaoke is awesome! Look you have a front-row seat and everything!” She gestures to a folding chair that sat front and center to the boxing ring in the training area watchpoint offered (which was now made out to be like some kind of stage.)There were a few more rows of chairs just like it, though that one in particular quite literally had his name written on it. In messy, sparkly blue lettering...

A long, albeit dramatic sigh rolls from Hanzo's chest as he takes a seat, arms firmly crossed. He can practically sense the Meka pilots ever widening smile from beside him, and he vaguely hears her utter something along the lines of ‘mission dragon strike is a go!’ before running off somewhere.

It isn’t long before other agents trickle in, among the small crowd being Genji himself. His brother takes a seat next to him, and Hanzo attempts to probe for any type of information he can about what’s to be expected out of this aside from the obvious. Though, much to his chagrin, Genji offers nothing; the other man just sits there and has the audacity to shush Hanzo all while somehow being able to radiate utter smugness behind his impassive faceplate.

The archer narrows his eyes in return, a quiet huff leaving him as he turns his attention back to the stage with a glower etched on his face. It felt as though everyone was aware of something he wasn’t, which caused an infuriating mixture of concern and panic to flutter in the lower part of his stomach. One would hope his words days prior wouldn't of offended Jesse to the point he was willing to organize an entire ordeal just to embarrass himself or his own lover.

Then again… this was Jesse “once went streaking through the streets during a category five storm because someone told him he wouldn’t do it” Mcree.

Hanzo shrinks at the onslaught of other ridiculous possibilities the cowboys could be subjecting him to tonight; Images of Jesse in nothing but underwear, howling out a song that’s far too high pitched for him is the first thing that comes to mind…

The man sighs, although before his concern could get the better of him the lights of the gym suddenly dim just as a tall silhouette makes its way on stage, causing the soft chatter of the crowd to dwindle into silence. Hanzo makes another huff when forced to squint in the lack of lighting, unable to make out a familiar hat but not much else. A moment passes, then the lights above the makeshift stage suddenly alight brightly once again, illuminating the cowboy now occupying the space with a glow that could almost be called ethereal.

Hanzo blinks, and he finds himself swallowing against the sudden thickness that gathers at the back of his throat.

Mcree, void of his usual gear, is instead embellished in a form-fitting vest with a tasteful dress shirt underneath; which, in Hanzo opinion, was unfairly left unbuttoned a few notches lower than probably necessary. Mcree then smiles, toothy and suave as he gives an experimental strum against the guitar strapped to his torso, dark eyes immediately meeting Hanzo’s own.

The archer fights back the urge to swallow again.

“Howdy, everybody~” The southerner greets in a way that’s somehow so damn provocative it elects a series of whistles and cheers from the crowd. Honeyed laughter echoes through the standing mic, grin never forsaking him. “I’d like to thank everyone for comin’. Got a real special song for a real special person tonight.”

Mcree winks in his lover's direction, and suddenly Hanzo is aware of a dozen cheeky gazes and smiles on him from every damn direction. Despite being able to remain relatively straight-faced, heat burns the tips of the archer's ears.

Much to his own displeasure.

Mcree grins a little wider, before counting down from three. A pre-recorded tune of saxophone and base notes then begin to play from a pair of speakers from behind him, and along with it Mcree begins steady beat with his guitar; the symphony creates a type of rhythm that immediately reminds Hanzo of the old American style songs from the 1950’s his father would occasionally listen to. It's amazing, really; Mcree’s fingers strum against the strings of his guitar with such fluid ease it renders Hanzo shocked at first. Though really what is more surprising than the skillful use of the instrument is the actual sound of Mcree’s voice.

‘The man is tall, mad, mean, and good-lookin', And he's got me his eye. When he looks at me, I go weak at the knees, He's got me going like no other guy. Cause he's my big, bad, handsome man, He's got me in the palm of his hand. He's the Devil Divine, I'm so glad that he's mine, Cause he's my big, bad, handsome man~”

It held a gruff yet ever seductive timbre that resonated Hanzo through his core and sent small bumps prickling the surface of his skin. His jaw drops ever slightly, though he’s only made aware when the icy, metallic touch of Genji's hand pushes his chin up to forcibly close the gap.

“May I get you a something to drink, brother? You are looking extremely thirsty.” The cyborg snickers from beside him. Red rises over ivory skin, and Hanzo turns his head to with a look sharp enough to cut the man in half where he sits--though it’s not a half second later before his attention is brought back to the stage.

‘With his rugged good looks yeah he's got me hooked

Got me where he wants me to be

With his arms so wide, he pulls me in by his side

He's the kind of guy that does it for me’

Cause he's my big bad handsome man yeah

He's got me in the palm of his hand

He's the devil divine, I'm so glad that he's mine

Cause he's my big bad handsome man

Ooh

My big bad handsome man, yea

He's got me in the palm of his hand

He's the devil divine, I'm so glad that he's mine

Cause he's my big bad handsome man

Mcree is staring at him with a wide, far too charming smile as he finishes up the rest of the song. It ends with a long, soulful hum—and the group of ten to fifteen sounds more like a crowd of hundreds with amount of clapping and cheering that goes on. He chuckles, bowing with a polite tip of his hat and signature “thank you kindly” before he exits the stage to allow those next in line (Reinhardt) to showcase their talents. As the boisterous German takes center stage, Hanzo manages to shake away the astonished look of his face and swiftly disperses to the water fountain in the far corner he watched Mcree strut off too.

“I must say that...was impressive,” Hanzo compliments as he approaches. He eyes Mcree as he smiles and leans away from the water fountain to wipe the thin layer of sweat across his forehead with the back of his hand. “Why thank you, darlin.’ Mighty kind of you to say. Gotta admit it’s nice to know I can still surprise ya.” His smile curls into a coquettish smirk, as if being able to read Hanzo’s thoughts the entire duration of his performance. The archer was not always as impassive as he thought he was, that’s for certain.

“Mm…” a subtle smirk of its own tugs at the corner of Hanzo’s lips. He leans forward, adjusting Mcree’s slightly askew collar. “Indeed. Actually, I am so surprised I wanted to ask if you would care to favor me an encore.”

Mcree blinks, chuckling softly and scratching the back of his head. “Encore, eh? Why I don’t mind, but I take it Reinhardt is gonna be a while—“

“I am referring to an encore of a more private sort. In my quarters...” Hanzo interrupts.

“Oh? Oh…” The southern gunslinger grins, clearing his throat as he wraps a well-sculpted arm around his lover's shoulder. “Well sweetheart, I’m thinkin’ that can be arranged.”

#Hanzo rates Mcrees performance an A but hes about to give him a D if you know what a mean #adskj #I live for thirsty mother fucker hanzo #in fact i might....make a part two? this was a lotta fun akdn #i've looked at this for far too long please just take it #apologies for any mistakes i dont have a beta but i read over it like 300 times i tried my bestt #mchanzo #jesse mcree #hanzo shimada #overwatch #my stuff #overwatch fics #mchanzo fic #one-shot #kareoke #mlm #gay #my writing crap

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sleep-silent-angel · 7 years

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Jar Of Hearts

Summary: Jensen and Y/N had a love that happens once in a lifetime, until it slipped through their fingers. Years later, he has moved on, but deep in his heart she will always be the one he dreams of. Y/N returns with a secret he’ll never know.

Characters: Jensen, Reader (Y/N)

Word Count: 2935

Warnings: ANGST, fluff, romance, sadness, guilt, pain, regret, tears…. I could go on.

A/N: originally written for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing‘s Anti-Valentine’s challenge, but got hopelessly delayed. Based on Christina Perri song by the same title. Lyrics are bolded, flashbacks/back story are italicized. Beta’d by the lovely @eyes-of-a-disney-princess and @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid

Tags:

JAR OF HEARTS

You sit at the small coffee bar table all alone, fingers worrying at the cup of forgotten coffee going colder every moment, your knees are pressed tightly together below the tabletop, ankles crossed and one foot bouncing in double-time to the heartbeat you can feel at the back of your tongue. A shadow passes across your hands and you glance up to the glass door and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. Hipsters in their chill wide cropped pants scoff at the new professionals in knockoff Stella McCartney. Still, every one of them has a phone pasted to their cheeks. Sun spots like camera flares from adjoining windows draw the straggling hopefuls in to see and be seen. Everyone chooses their part to perform. Great. This makes it easy to get lost in the slew of fake laughter and too-wide eyes.

‘This is pointless. Why did I even bother? What do I hope to accomplish?’ you whisper to yourself as your eyes range over the table top and the usual spotty utensils strangled in a paper napkin next to your elbow. A presence stops next to the chair opposite you. Without raising your head, you take your hands from the cup and curl your fingers into fragile fists, eyes clenched shut in a silent prayer for mercy. With the contained effort of purpose, you lay your trembling palms flat on the surface in front of your cup. Only then do you open your eyes and turn your face up. To him. That one special “him”.

Her face turned to him over a shoulder, her doe-wide eyes perfectly painted in the smudged makeup style of the season. She had responded to a name called out over the din of the party, a question bubbling in her clear Y/E/C eyes. Her face tipped down in a pouting smile later that evening, her eyelashes brushing whisper light on cheeks pink with cold in the wind. Jensen’s stomach flips a little when she looks back up at him with hope and determination. The sun shines in her eyes and on her cheeks, the moon glows on her brow, heaven shimmers in her laugh, promise flows from her fingertips.

Hands linked on the center console of his car in a dark night drive. Breathlessly laughing with arms linked at some outdoor folk festival. Excited squeals and exuberant laughing, Jensen spins her in his strong arms with the news he’ll be signing with the WB network on a brand new show, the one they both wanted more than life. His face morphing from tired and to brilliant when she turns to him, pride inflating his chest presenting her on his arm to the executives at the spring upfronts.

He’s never aware of her collecting nods and praises for herself, keeping careful tally of who does what for whom, and how high up the credits their names appear. He watches her among his ‘people’, flashing kind smiles and offering practiced praise to the most advantageous ears. Catching her eye across the tables, over a frosted glass of near crystal champagne, he doesn’t even try to disguise the burn in his stare, the want for her curling his lip. Goosebumps immediately chase up her bare arms, liquid heat floods from her throat to her thighs. It’s that look in his eye, the tip of his chin, the peek of his tongue - he’s going to wind her up like a clock, then unwind her one stroke at a time. The back door of the waiting car barely clunks behind them before her thighs are wide and his pants are at his knees.

The promising headrush of working an executive room gives way to cold silences in the car, missed dinners, then laying back to back in the dark with eyes wide open. Shaking her hand off his arm with a glare as her heart dissolves into tatters. The sun rose and set on their passion and the lightness in their chests. They were perfect, until they weren’t. Until she decided he had gone as far as he could in a show going nowhere - let’s be real - and she still had rungs to climb.

Her last memory of him are with his lips pressed thin and tight, eyebrows wrinkled with consternation, her brimming eyes mournfully begging him to believe her. Secrets hide in her lips, defiance tips her chin, remorse darkens her cheeks.

He stands silent and thick, arms crossed over a tailored chambray button down, solid legs in precisely faded denim planted firmly in a defensive width. His mossy eyes betray recognition, but his expression remains impassive and closed. You wither under his level gaze, a little wiggle in your seat and your last remaining confidence draining away. You pull at the hem of your three year old shirt and dry your palms over your box store jeans.

“Would you like to sit? I’m waiting for someone,” you offer thinly, if only to break the increasingly strained silence. A flicker of his eyelashes to the chair at his hip, a slow blink back to you.

“I won’t be here that long.” His voice is soft, restrained, and deeper in tone than you remembered.

His laugh that night they met was high and a little nervous. A week later at breakfast after their first night together it was rich and easy, full of life and vigour. Light amiable conversations over plastic cups of beer and a picnic table, whispered affections in half dark with fingers laced between them, lush husky male timbres over her shoulder into her ear under the shower spray. A single word of demand whispered against the cup of her ear at a glittering award show sends shivers chasing up and down her spine. The seemingly innocent phrase that has them both dissolving into fits of giggles and blushes at the family holiday table, the secret joke unspoken between them. He still can’t hear those words without a tingle of humour and a short cough to hide his fond smile.

At the end his voice is lower, with an edge of worry, confronting her about the message on her phone. The very last there is no sound at all but for the heavy puff of breath through his nose when he handed her the last box of her possessions and closed the heavy door.

“Please, Jensen. I don’t want to talk this way.” Of course, he doesn’t want to talk at all, but she gestures to the chair. Uneasy and reluctant, he lowers into the narrow chair and slouches in a purposefully dominant open posture.

“I shouldn’t even be here, Y/N. Shouldn’t have given you the time of day. ‘Cause all that’s waiting is regret. But you come around asking my friends about me, asking if I’m still around, instead of looking for me yourself.”

“Would you have listened to me if I had?” You challenge, no little bit defensively. He levels a cool, detached gaze in reply. He may be a skilled actor, but you know those eyes; how wild the storms are that rage inside them. You know his micro expressions, how every millimeter of movement speaks a dozen emotions.

He’s guarded in public, his postures and smooth words performed according to the precise script his managers and coaches have laid out. There’s just enough room for his charming personality to make the public squeal and swoon, his smile was polished as a zirconia. He wore his discomfort with intimacy like an ill-fitting undershirt. Shoulders too high, jaw joint too square from clenching, lips pulled into a different smile than his eyes are. But in the back seat of the car back to the hotel, Y/N can tell. She knows just from the way he holds her hand that he doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t feel the adoration, only the judgement echoing around between his own ears. She’ll praise, right on cue, “you looked great” and he’ll reply, right on cue, “they make me feel great,” and she’ll nod and beam, right on cue. Only she knows what he’s biting behind his teeth, the truth that he won’t voice until it’s just the two of them tangled in the dark under the sheets.

He makes no indication of a reply, but the left-down-right-left-up shift of his eyes, the slight bounce of his chin, the lick and press of his lips tells you all you need. This one means ‘conflicted’. Maybe you should have swallowed your fears and called him after all.

“How, ahh, how have you been, Jay?” You make at least a brave attempt at pleasantries, but he’s not willing to play along.

“Better than you, I’ve heard.”

You pull in a steadying breath through your nose, unwilling to be drawn into a battle of words with him. “I’ve heard that too. Congratulations on your engagement. She’s really beautiful.” He only nods faintly in acknowledgement. You barely register the slightest twitch in his jaw and the corner of his lip. “I wish you two all the best.”

Their names were written in the stars, Y/N showed him. On the first anniversary of moving in together, they laid out side by side in the sand on a moon flooded beach. He pointed high overhead to the brightest twinkle and named it for her. It’s still up there, Y/N’s star, which turned out to be an entire galaxy, whole worlds of Y/N stars. She stretched a finger out over his to draw out their names in the constellations.

“I already had the best. You lost the love I loved the most. You were my life, you were my future. I was a whole person for once. You understood me, you accepted me, you loved me because of the things I always thought were wrong with me. Because you had the same things wrong.” A wry smile curved his lips for only a breath, so brief you nearly miss it.

“After you ditched me for that writer, I learned to live half alive. It took so long just to feel alright, remember how to put back the light in my eyes. And I didn’t even laugh when I heard that he left you a month later for the next pair of tits. And then the “studio executive”, oh and the porn producer, and… and who was the last one, that tv director Will whatever? Isn’t he married to Kaylie Clark now? And then I did laugh. You know, I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed, ‘cause you broke all your promises.”

Her Y/E/C eyes half-lidded and brimming with emotion, gazing upward into his, just before their lips meet for the first time. She promises to be a part of the rest of his life, he affirms his promise to walk through anything with her. She promises her heart will always be his, should their stars rise or fall. Her lips are warm, full and soothing, like sinking into a sun-warmed surf. Her future disappears into his kiss. He is safety, security, promise, and devotion all spoken in the sweep of his tongue and the lush press of his lips. He pulls a stray hair trapped between their lips, she giggles and sighs. Her tank top strap slithers down her upper arm when she lowers it from around his neck. He laughs at her clothing getting ahead of them, she giggles and bites at her lip, and he slides the strap back into place with a hum of deep regret. He holds it there a moment longer, just to hold more of her.

Almost four years in the wake of her departing, he anticipates another first kiss, the infamous “last first kiss”. She is drop-dead sexy, funny, independent, confident, and a compassionate shoulder when he feels insecure and insufficient. He remembers their first kiss as firm - fearless. In the hopeful beginning he named it boldness, optimistic in the sure conviction of his decision to join life with her. In retrospect, he can’t summon any feelings of exhilaration at her touch. It was comfortable, practiced. Sufficient.

Hers is a beauty that turns vain, jealous and competitive. Her confidence made a subtle shift into defiance, which will only develop into superiority. Her youthful playfulness grew weary all too soon, she sighs and rolls her eyes with disapproval at his exuberance in living. The brave independence that he first admired in her, the indifference for the opinions of strangers, gradually developed into contempt, until she has become intolerant to any opinion but her own. It wasn’t long at all before she grew impatient with his troubled idiosyncrasies. To spare himself from her bitter criticism he swallows his fears and distress. He becomes adept at concealing his weakness from her, to be worthy of her fickle approval. Only he knows how brittle and crumbled his courage really is.

Was she always this judgmental? He tried to call her Bee once, and Shug, and was told with no mistaking never to do it again. First initials it is, then. When he winks across the room at her with lust in his eyes, she frowns in reply. Her reply isn’t a pink blush up her chest, it’s “Do you want something? Are you okay?” But she’ll be a good mother. She’ll look good on his arm. She’ll be good with his family. She’ll be good. But he’ll never find her name drawn in the stars. She doesn’t want a galaxy that she can’t hold.

“And now you’re back - you don’t get to get me back. I have a life, a real life. And friends; good, loving friends. I have a regular show. I’m making a movie this year. I’m getting married next year. And she loves me, she’s - she’s good. Really good. And I’m happy. Couldn’t be happier, so it’s all… all good.” His head bobs, the corners of his lips rise, but his eyes never blink or stray from yours. So you’ll believe him, because he wants you to.

“You know, there was a time I thought we could have really done it.” As soon as the words are out, he blinks long and slow, tipping his head and pulling a thumb over his lips.

“Done… what?” Oh God, please don’t do it. Please don’t sit there now and tell me the life we wanted was in the palm of my hand.

“We could have gone the distance; got married, had a family together. I never even wanted that until you. What we had was something good.” Jensen shakes his head regretfully, then looks away from you to attempt to dismiss the unsettling feeling that he hates how much he still loves you. Your breath feels punched out of your chest.

“Jensen, we have something that is good. I need to show you-” You pitch forward urgently and reach for his hand, but he snatches it out of your reach before you could so much as graze his knuckles with your fingertips. Instead, his strong finger stabs toward you accusingly, viciously even while you stammer on to convince him to stay. Stay in his chair. Stay in your life. “Please. Jensen, you’ll see…”

“No. No, Y/N, no. NO! WE don’t have anything good. WE don’t have anything at all. I have nothing for you; not love, not fondness, you know, not even care anymore. And you… you have nothing … nothing at all that I could ever need or want. So don’t come back for me. Don’t come back at all. Who do you think you are?” His chair scrapes loudly under the table when he pushes to his feet in disgust and towers over you, becoming aware of the hush of voices near you, the discrete turning away of heads.

“Hm? Who do you think you are?” Without another glance back, he turns on his heel and leaves, before he can throw himself into your arms and beg for your warmth again.

Just as he is going through the door he passes by a trim young lady with large sunglasses and an even larger bag, holding the hand of a boy about five years old. He holds the door for them politely, smiles a stranger’s greeting, tight but pleasant. He flicks the briefest glimpse at the honey haired boy with expressive grey-green eyes and a toy clutched in a fist. Something in Jensen’s chest catches and he sweeps a momentary glance over the child. It’s barely an instant, a flutter behind his breastbone, but then he breathes again and the moment is gone, and so is he.

Your best girlfriend and the boy approach your table. “Did he bail? Is he late?” You shake your head sadly in reply.

“No, you just missed him. He left, for good this time.”

“Girlfriend, forget him. Guys like him are one in a thousand around here. You don’t need him.”

“I wish to God that was true.” Your whisper trembles, you just don’t have the voice to say it out loud. Y/F/N tosses her head dramatically and waves a wild arm for a waitress.

The pink cheeked boy has scrambled up into your lap with a stuffed German Shepherd K9 dog in a miniature combat vest held out for you to inspect. “Mamma! Look! I saw a P’lice car! An’ a P’lice dog! An’ he had a coat an’ a badge an’ I gotta hold his… his… the… string!” You smooth his flying blond hair and kiss his head, looking over him at your friend.

“How exciting, JR! Did he give you that? And what are you going to call him?….”

@mrswhozeewhatsis @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @littlegreenplasticsoldier @awhiskeywithawinchester @daydreamingintheimpala @ilostmyshoe-79 @nichelle-my-belle @kittenofdoomage @bringmesomepie56 @oriona75 @faith-in-dean @rizlow1 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @demberly @heckyeahjensenackles @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @climbthatmooselikeatree @sis-tafics @demondean-for-kingofhell @captianemwinchester (not letting me tag you, sorry)

#my fics #dean winchester #angst #implied dean x reader #writing is hard y'all #jar of hearts #song prompt

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biofunmy · 5 years

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Transgender Opera Singers Find Their Voices

AUSTIN, Tex. — Holding his whiskey in one hand and his Stetson in the other, the opera’s hero — a tough stagecoach driver — offered an unhappy barmaid some advice in a strong, clear tenor voice.

“You could be anything,” sang the tenor, Holden Madagame.

He should know. Mr. Madagame, 28, is part of a new wave of transgender opera singers. Trained as a mezzo-soprano, he risked his singing career when he transitioned several years ago and began taking testosterone, which lowers and alters the voice — a voice he had spent years fine-tuning for opera, where success is measured in the subtlest of gradations.

“A couple of my singer friends were sort of like, you’re ruining your career, you’re ruining your life, the voice is everything,” he recalled recently. “And I thought, it’s not. I would rather enjoy my life, and pursue singing if it happens. I didn’t know if I’d be able to.”

It turned out that he could. Now he is one of several transgender singers who are beginning to make their mark in the tradition-bound world of opera. Some, like him, found new voices, either with the help of hormones or through retraining. Others kept the voices they had built their careers on — even if it meant continuing to perform in the gender they had left behind. Now some are getting higher-profile roles — and upending preconceptions about voice and gender.

Opera itself is beginning to change: The most-produced new opera in North America in some recent seasons has been “As One,” a transgender coming-of-age story. This is happening as transgender rights are being debated by sports officials, in state legislatures and in the armed forces, where President Trump moved to ban transgender troops from serving.

As Mr. Madagame was singing in Austin this spring, a transgender woman, Lucia Lucas, was 450 miles north, at the Tulsa Opera in Oklahoma, rehearsing the title role in Mozart’s “Don Giovanni.” Ms. Lucas retained her powerful low baritone voice after her transition: Estrogen does not raise the voice the way testosterone lowers it.

“It would be great if I could just take estrogen and wake up and sing Brünnhilde,” she said. “It doesn’t work like that.”

In some respects, this generation of transgender singers is adding a new wrinkle to a very old tradition: Opera has been gender fluid since its beginnings. The earliest operas had boys’ roles sung by female sopranos, and both female and male roles were sometimes sung by castrati — men who were castrated before puberty to preserve their high voices.

When that practice ended, the high male roles they had sung were often taken by women. And many great composers, including Mozart and Strauss, wrote “trouser roles,” male parts created for women to sing. One of the most successful European transgender opera singers is Adrian Angelico, a 35-year-old Norwegian who kept his mezzo-soprano voice after transitioning in 2016, becoming one of the few men specializing in trouser roles.

We spent time with four of the artists at the forefront of this new wave.

Going From Mezzo to Tenor

At first, testosterone did not seem like an option.

Mr. Madagame, who was assigned female at birth, moved to Berlin after graduating from the University of Michigan, where he had studied singing, but things were not working out as planned.

“I got massively depressed. I just couldn’t sing,” he recalled. “And I kind of knew that it was about gender, but I didn’t want to admit it.”

By that point, he had put in years of hard work becoming a mezzo-soprano. A whole new voice could jeopardize it.

“Frankly, I did not have any experience with what would happen,” said Stephen West, one of his voice professors at Michigan, who remembered him as an exceptional mezzo.

Opera singers rely on their unamplified voices for their livelihoods, and they spend years perfecting their techniques — so they tend to be wary of anything that might strain or damage their voices. But Mr. Madagame had grown so unhappy that he decided to take the leap into the unknown.

“I decided that if I’m not singing, and the only reason that I’m not taking testosterone is that I want to sing, then I should just take testosterone,” he said.

After the first few shots, he recalled, the timbre of his voice — its overall color and resonance — began to change. “At first, it’s not the actual pitches that are dropping,” he said, “but it’s like the overtones are lowering.”

Then came a period when his voice grew unsettled: “I had no singing voice — I had, like, an octave range,” he recalled. “It was terrifying. I thought, What if it stays like this?”

He felt better emotionally, but grew concerned when he still had trouble singing after the first few months. He began to wonder if he would be able to work again.

“I have no idea: Nobody knows,” he recalled thinking. “So, yeah. Terrifying.”

He returned to some of the easy Italian arias he had learned as a teenager, not too hard and not too high. But they were suddenly not so easy.

“They teach you a lot just by singing them,” he said. “I thought, Well, my voice just needs to be retrained to do these things. But at first I couldn’t even sing those.”

Stephanie Weiss, a voice teacher with a private studio, coached him as his voice settled, and saw him through tough early moments when his voice would crack. Mr. Madagame had a breakthrough while working on a Mozart aria. He was having trouble, as many young tenors do, gracefully reaching the high notes, Ms. Weiss remembered, so she gave him a few tips — including which vowels to hold as his voice climbed into his upper range.

Something clicked.

“He said, ‘Oh my God, I never thought I could make that sound,’” Ms. Weiss recalled.

It helped, she added, that Mr. Madagame had already developed a solid technique. “Now,” she said, “he really has found his voice — in every way.”

Soon Mr. Madagame, who now lives in Görlitz, a German town on the Polish border, began getting small roles with small companies in Germany and the United Kingdom. He was accepted by the Glyndebourne Academy, a program of the prestigious Glyndebourne Festival in England.

He also became an activist, working to educate people about transgender issues. His website includes essays on “Why is it rude to ask a trans* person what their birth name was?” and “The FAQ to end all FAQs,” which includes a series of “questions not to ask but I’ll answer anyway,” including a section explaining which parts of his anatomy he has changed, and which he has not.

He dreams of singing Lensky, the doomed poet in Tchaikovsky’s “Eugene Onegin,” but he is mostly working now on smaller character tenor parts, not starring roles. “I’m 5-foot-2,” he noted — another casting challenge.

But it was a lead role that brought him to Austin. He starred in “Good Country,” an opera by the composer Keith Allegretti and the librettist Cecelia Raker that was based on the true story of Charley Parkhurst, a stagecoach driver who lived as a man but was discovered, after his death in 1879, to have been born a woman.

They wrote the part for a transgender singer — and after they cast Mr. Madagame, they tailored it with his voice in mind.

Changing ‘One Little Thing’

She entered the rehearsal room in her street clothes — striped top, silver flats, hair pulled back in a ponytail, a little lipstick on — and began singing one of the most toxically masculine characters in opera: the title role in Mozart’s “Don Giovanni.”

Mozart wrote a number of male roles for women to sing. Don Giovanni is not one of them. But as her booming, powerful baritone ricocheted off the walls, Ms. Lucas, 38, became the character — plotting his next seductions with relish and menace.

Her performances in Tulsa made headlines, and were the latest indication that her career was more than just getting back on track after she risked it by transitioning to female while working as a baritone for an opera company in Karlsruhe, Germany.

“It was always a question of, So, when is my career going to be done, so that I can transition?” she recalled in a recent interview in New York, explaining that she had felt disconnected from her birth gender since her childhood in Sacramento. “I never thought that they would coexist.”

But in 2013, she decided not to put off her transition any longer. She came out at the annual opera ball in Karlsruhe: Her wife, also a singer, wore a tuxedo, and Ms. Lucas wore a gown.

The company was initially supportive. “It was a good case study: Can somebody who is trans have a career in opera?” Ms. Lucas said. “I thought, Can I have a career after if I only change one little thing? It’s actually not something about the stage, it’s something personal. Because I’m going to continue singing baritone; I’m going to continue playing men on stage.”

Since hormones would not alter her voice, and retraining as a contralto seemed impractical, she remained a baritone. Now the vast majority of her stage roles are male — a gender she was uncomfortable with in life. But she said she had made peace with it.

“I’ll just go and put a beard on,” Ms. Lucas said, noting that she impersonates all kinds of characters onstage. “Clearly it is a disguise. It’s not bringing you back to an old life.”

When she had facial feminization surgery, she did not let her doctor do anything to her sinus cavity, nose or Adam’s apple.

“As much as I was putting my transition in front of my career,’’ she said, “I didn’t want him messing with anything that would mess with my voice.”

But after a while, her contract in Karlsruhe was not renewed, and she did not get called to auditions elsewhere that she would have expected in the past.

She grew more determined.

“Clearly my transition was important: It was more important than my career,” she said. “But now that I’ve done my transition, basically everything that I want to do, I’m like, Oh, no, I do love my career. I do want to keep my career. I’m going to fight for my career now.”

New opportunities arose. She got the chance to sing Wotan, the king of the gods, in Wagner’s “Die Walküre.” Next season she will sing at the English National Opera, an eminent company in London, in Offenbach’s “Orpheus in the Underworld.”

Her path to the Tulsa Opera began with an email from Tobias Picker, its artistic director and a composer who has written operas for the Metropolitan Opera and other major companies.

Mr. Picker was planning to write an opera based on “The Danish Girl,” David Ebershoff’s novel about one of the first people to attempt sex reassignment surgery, and he was looking for a transgender singer to appear in it. The idea appealed to Ms. Lucas: getting to premiere a new work by an important composer in which she would get to play a trans character.

But when Ms. Lucas came to New York to audition, and sang an aria from Verdi’s “Otello,” Mr. Picker decided to hire her for something much sooner.

“The Verdi was so astonishing that I thought, Well, it’s time to start casting ‘Don Giovanni’ anyway — so I asked her to do it,” Mr. Picker said.

Her appearance in Tulsa was an event. When an excerpt from a documentary that is being made about her was screened at a local art house, the Circle Cinema, Ms. Lucas told the audience that much of her work aimed to show people that being trans was not a big deal.

“I’m trying to show that being trans is not the story,” she told the crowd. “It’s sort of like anti-advocacy.”

Choosing to Wait on Hormones

“ID?” a transgender character asks a police officer in “Stonewall,” a new opera about the raid that helped spur the modern gay rights movement.

“I’d love to have an ID!” the character continues. “But the powers that be won’t give me one — at least not one that represents me.”

The line resonated with Liz Bouk, the mezzo-soprano singing it. Mr. Bouk is a transgender man who had only recently gotten a new driver’s license listing his sex as male.

“I felt like a teenage boy when I got that driver’s license,” he said. “After getting the driver’s license I went out and bought a pickup truck and learned how to drive stick shift.”

But Mr. Bouk’s transition, which came just as a hard-won career as a mezzo was finally beginning to blossom, involved difficult trade-offs. As much as he has sometimes longed to take hormones, he fears what they could do to his voice. So he decided to forgo them, and to keep playing what he calls “fiery women” and trouser roles on stage.

“If I’m working, if I’m singing,” he said, “can I stand the dysphoria of being in the wrong body, and being misgendered at the grocery store, or by people I don’t know?”

He changed his name from Elizabeth Anna to Liz (friends call him “Mr. Liz”) but put off a future change, possibly to John, so as not to confuse casting directors. He wears his blond hair long, but not as long as he used to. And he brings two head shots to auditions: one in a suit, labeled “Liz Bouk as himself,” and one in a dress, labeled “head shot for female roles.”

Since coming out as a man, he said, and feeling more at peace, his voice has improved. He has been working on shows about his journey. And he keeps getting work — and good reviews. But he sometimes has moments of yearning offstage, when he looks in the mirror.

“It would be great,” he said, “if my outsides matched my insides.”

Pushing Higher

“Please rise and remove your caps for our national anthem,” the announcer said shortly before the start of a 2015 Oakland A’s baseball game, “as performed by San Francisco Conservatory of Music graduate Breanna Sinclairé.”

Ms. Sinclairé raised a microphone and became what is believed to be the first transgender woman to sing the anthem at a major league game.

It made news around the world, and showed how far she had come since her darkest days, when she was briefly homeless and subjected to attacks on the streets of New York.

Ms. Sinclairé said that it was her earliest conviction that she did not feel comfortable in her body. That feeling carried into her singing, too.

“People kept pushing me to be the tenor, because I was tall,” Ms. Sinclairé said. “And I’m like, I don’t want to be no damn hero! I want to be the damsel in distress!”

After an unhappy stint at a bible college in Canada, she was admitted to the California Institute of the Arts — and saved enough money cutting grass to buy a Greyhound bus ticket to make the trip.

She decided to transition in her senior year at CalArts, and one of her teachers, Kate Conklin, encouraged her to try singing mezzo-soprano repertoire.

“We were working with what was already there.” Ms. Conklin said, noting that Ms. Sinclairé could already sing quite high.

Next came San Francisco, and its conservatory.

“We had never had anyone come in and audition for us who was transitioning,” said Ruby Pleasure, her teacher there. “And it was obvious that she was a diamond in the rough.”

Last New Year’s Eve, she appeared with the San Francisco Symphony. She continues to study, and is expanding into higher soprano roles. Next spring she will return to Canada to sing in an opera at the Against the Grain Theater in Toronto.

“I’m going to be in Toronto as my true self,” she said. “Singing soprano.”

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19. Just let me cry a little bit longer, I ain’t gon’ smile if I don’t want to.

It had been a busy evening in the coffee shop and so it was with a sigh of relief that Luke locked the door when the clock struck nine and even the young woman who had arrived half an hour earlier and had been incessantly winking at him for the duration – even after he had dashed into the backroom to fetch his rainbow flag pin and very pointedly fastened it to the front of his apron – was forced to leave. She had done so with one final spasm of the eye and he had been tempted to ask if she was quite alright, but that might have encouraged her to start an actual conversation, so he had merely granted her a slight nod of the head before practically sprinting to the door to make sure no new customers would try to barge in with complete disregard to the fact that Luke did have a life outside his work.

After the satisfying click that marked the end of the day, Luke leaned against the door for a few deep breaths, pushing strands of brown hair off his face, more than eager to leave the hectic evening shift behind. Usually the last couple of hours before closing time were blessedly quiet and he had plenty of time to chat with his partner in crime, Melissa, before he was left by himself to man the fort for the last 60 minutes which he normally spent studying for upcoming exams or scrolling through social media while serving maybe two customers at most. Not tonight, though. Tonight had been an endless stream of customers in increasingly more eccentric outfits as the evening progressed. Curious, Luke had asked a middle-aged man in a glittering leotard and killer heels – Luke hoped to be even half as badass as the man one day – if there was a reason so many people seemingly out of a surrealistic fairy tale had taken over the coffee shop where the usual, unexciting cast of customers consisted of university students in jumpers and joggers as well as business professionals in pinstripe suits and pencil skirts. Apparently there was some kind of an artsy event taking place down the road – Luke wasn’t sure on the details; he had lost interest as soon as the words ‘art’ and ‘exhibition’ had been uttered – and Biscuits and Coffee Beans was the only place nearby that sold coffee and was still open. It was good for the business, but bad for Luke’s nerves as he fought to keep the fake smile on while explaining as patiently as he could that no, the coffee wasn’t on the house no matter how shiny the outfit and yes, he was quite positive the green tea was vegan and gluten-free.

With one final huff of air, Luke pushed himself off the door and went to collect the dishes from the table where the woman with an apparent facial tic had sat. She had scribbled her phone number on the back of the receipt with, yet another, winky face and a name Rachel. Luke only shook his head as he threw the piece of paper in the rubbish bin and set the dishes in the sink. He would need to wash them by hand because the dishwasher was already running with the last load, but he didn’t mind. There was something incredibly peaceful in the silence that embraced the coffee shop after the door was locked and Luke started the closing ritual of lifting chairs on tables so that he could mop the floors. He hummed whatever poppy tune that came to his mind while he worked his way methodically towards the adjoining smaller dining area.

When Luke entered the other room, he heard a quiet sob and nearly jumped out of his skin to take up residence in the yucca plant next to him. Heart thundering, Luke steadied the plant he had almost knocked over and then turned to look at the source of the sobbing. In the back corner of the room, there was one final customer sitting at a round table with their head resting on their arms on the table top. Luke couldn’t tell much about the customer other than that they had blond, short hair and were wearing jeans and a hoodie with a back bag thrown on the chair next to them. Based on their attire, Luke thought they might be a university student.

A student who was very obviously crying.

As a student himself, Luke was intimately acquainted with the all-consuming despair caused by looming deadlines and gruelling exams. However, if this person actually was a student, they were taking study stress much harder than the average human. Luke was certain the lingering customer hadn’t been among the colourful hurricane that had started two hours before closing time because he would’ve remember them since they would’ve stuck out like a ray of sunshine in the middle of a storm, which meant that they had sat there and cried for much longer than should be humanly possible. It also meant that Melissa hadn’t informed him at the end of her shift that there was a customer in the smaller room which had been under her responsibility that day. All the customers in the last hour had stayed in the main dining area and so Luke had simply assumed that the coffee shop was empty once the hopelessly winking woman had left. He would berate Melissa when he saw her tomorrow, but right now, he needed to take care of the sad sight in front of him.

Luke tried clearing his throat from the other side of the room, but when the customer’s shoulders kept quivering and muffled sniffles kept coming at steady intervals, he stomped to the occupied table, making sure to cause enough noise for the other person to hear him. As dismayed as he was about having to deal with a customer after the coffee shop had already closed, the thought of giving the slumped form a cardiac arrest and then having to deal with a dead customer thrilled him even less.

“Hey, are you alright?” Luke asked, deciding to go with a polite approach. After all, his number one job was to make sure customers felt welcome and had a pleasant stay so that they would visit the coffee shop again or recommend it to their friends. Telling the poor soul to fuck off would probably ensure they would write a scathing review online, and those were really bad for business.

The customer’s shoulders stopped shaking, but there was no reply other than a derisive snort that clearly said what does it look like?

Luke sighed. This was going about just as well as he had expected. “Look, I’m terribly sorry for whatever that’s got you so upset, but we closed ten minutes ago.” Then, knowing fully well his boss would have a raging fit if she heard him breach one of the most important rules of customer service, he said, “I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

A surprisingly deep male voice answered him and the dark timbre resonated pleasantly through Luke’s spine, though he tried to ignore it. “Just let me cry a little bit longer.”

“Wouldn’t you rather do that at home? That chair can’t be too comfortable,” Luke coaxed. He knew that his boss had deliberately foregone upholstered chairs in order to avoid customers overstaying their welcome in plush seats that would keep their bottoms nice and cosy. Most of the time it worked, but of course there were exceptions like this guy who ended up being a pain in the ass rather than having a pain in the ass from sitting on the harsh surface.

“No. If you knew my roommate, you wouldn’t either.”

The guy really did have a nice, rich voice, and Luke wouldn’t have minded listening to it more if he hadn’t been tired from the whirlwind of a shift and if he hadn’t had a job to do that included lifting the chair the customer was currently sitting on. The kind mask of a customer servant melted away and revealed the true face of a cranky, over-worked university student. “To be quite honest, I don’t actually care where you’d rather do your pathetic sobbing at, I just know I’d rather see you do it somewhere else. I would like to go home at some point, and for that to happen, you need to move your sorry ass.”

The slumped form in front of him went rigid for a long moment during which Luke managed to go through around a hundred painful scenarios of his boss firing him for his deplorable choice of words. Then the guy raised his head to glare at him, and all thoughts of his boss evaporated and were replaced by well hello, Mr Bluest-eyes-I’ve-ever-seen.

Suddenly Luke was more than happy to let the guy stay.

“Who are you calling pathetic?” the young man grumbled low in his throat, and the sound almost had Luke blushing but he fought it down. It took him an embarrassingly long time to reply because he was busy staring at the guy whose macho voice did not match his delicate features that were tinted red and bloated from all the crying he had been doing. Luke couldn’t decide whether it was a combination forged in heaven or hell. All he knew was that he had a weakness for pretty faces with blond hair and blue eyes and voices better suited for mountains, and here was a guy who somehow managed to embody all of that at once.

Luke tried to keep his words from trembling as he finally collected himself. “Not who, but what – your sobbing.” The guy’s features turned into a furious frown that looked out of place with the red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. Before he could grunt a response, however, Luke continued with a sigh, rubbing his neck, “I’m sorry, I turn into an even more insensitive jerk than usual when I’m tired. How about I make it up to you with my special hot chocolate? It’s on the house. You could probably use the hydration after the hours-long cryfest.”

The guy’s expression didn’t soften, but his shoulders relaxed a little bit. Then he nodded and muttered, “Sure.” Luke counted that as a victory.

“Fantastic! Help me lift the rest of the chairs on the tables and then get ready for me to rock your world,” Luke said with a wink and tried not to think about how he was turning into the young woman who had tried to flirt with him relentlessly. For all he knew, the guy was straight, but at least he didn’t show signs of discomfort at the gesture. Another small victory.

They made short work of clearing the floor. Luke chatted all the while about the hectic day, the bizarre crowd of customers and their foolish questions, never letting an awkward silence settle down in the space between himself and the other guy. For once in his life, Luke was actually grateful for his inability to shut up. Otherwise he would’ve just gawked at the guy who on top of everything else was also taller than Luke – and he was used to towering over his friends. It was as if someone had looked inside his brain to see all the things he found attractive in a guy and then created this tall human with the face of an elf but the voice of a dwarf.

Once all the chairs were lying upside down on the tables, Luke led the blonde to the main dining area and started preparing the promised hot chocolate. He continued babbling about trivial things while he worked his magic behind the counter. The special blend of hot milk, cocoa and different spices and flavours was something Luke had been perfecting ever since he had started working at Biscuits and Coffee Beans three and a half years ago. He would go as far as to say that the hot chocolate made by his masterful hands was the best in the city, and Melissa readily agreed whenever they dared to splurge on the rich-flavoured drink. One of these days he might pitch it to his boss in hopes of getting it put on the menu.

Luke added one more spoonful of caramel on top of the whipped cream before turning with a flourish, hoping his face wasn’t red after feeling a pair of brilliant blue eyes drilling into his back for the past few minutes. “Ta-da! Here you go, kind sir, a Luke-surious Lukehot Chocolate – emphasis on the hot – made with loving hands by yours truly.”

Blue eyes met brown ones with an incredulous stare before long fingers – of course, of course they were long – wrapped carefully around the mug. Their fingers brushed and if he had been in an overly romantic novel, Luke would’ve said he felt an electric spark lighting up his soul but, alas, he was just a tired university kid serving hot chocolate presumably to another tired student and the brush of their fingers was just that, an accidental contact of skin.

“Thank you,” came the rumbling response and the hand withdrew as the tall guy gazed into the swirl of whipped cream.

Luke took in a theatrical, shocked gasp. “What? I don’t get even a hint of a smile as payment for my grievous effort?”

“I’m not going to smile if I don’t want to. Besides, you said it was on the house. I owe you nothing.”

Luke decided then and there it was his life mission to make the guy crack a smile. To hell with getting a degree and finding a better-paying job and buying a house; making those thin, pink lips curve upwards was far more important and definitely more satisfying.

“How cruel! How cold! Why must you hurt me so?” Luke pretended to faint onto the counter and he lay there for a few seconds before straightening up as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Well, I hope you enjoy your drink worthy of gods. I’ll start mopping the floors like the lowly mortal I am.” He turned to fetch the cleaning equipment from the backroom, but nearly tripped over when he heard a spoon clinking against ceramic followed by a delightful moan of appreciation. Oh my god. The sound shot straight to Luke’s lower abdomen and he rushed to the staff toilet to splash his face with cold water in order to calm down.

When he deemed himself ready to face the guy with the sinfully deep voice, Luke returned to the front of the coffee shop, carrying the necessary equipment. The blonde was leaning on the counter with the grace of a prince while slurping on the hot chocolate, and to Luke’s chagrin – or pleasure, he wasn’t sure – he was making small sounds of approval from time to time. Luke had to put a stop to that if he wanted to get anything done.

“So, what do you think? Is the drink good enough for your refined taste buds?” Luke asked as he cast the mop into the bucket of water and started cleaning the floor after wringing the excess water out of it.

The guy nodded, but didn’t offer a smile. “It’s delicious.”

“Told you I’d rock your world, didn’t I?”

They existed in a comfortable silence for a moment while Luke scrubbed on a particularly nasty stain. When it didn’t come off, he moved a table slightly to cover it up. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

“So, did you flunk an exam or what happened to get you so miserable?” Luke inquired when the other guy didn’t seem inclined to start a conversation. He tried not to let himself think it was because the tall blonde found him tragically uninteresting.

“You think I would cry over a stupid exam?” The guy sounded offended and when Luke turned to look at him, his torso had gone stiff and he was glaring at the counter. In hindsight, the current topic of conversation was probably not the best one for his plan to rouse a smile on the beautiful face.

“Hey, wouldn’t be the first time I witnessed such behaviour. I would probably shed a few tears as well. If I ever managed to fail an exam, that is.”

Luke had hoped the sapphire-blue eyes would turn to look at him, even if in disgust at his boasting, but they stayed cast down while the man shook his head. Finally, with a defeated sigh, he muttered so quietly that Luke almost didn’t hear him, “No, it’s… My… I found my girlfriend cheating on me with my ex.”

A girlfriend. Well, of course, Luke thought. Who had he been kidding, really? It was ridiculous to think that a gorgeous man who ticked all the boxes of Luke’s mental list of qualities to look for in a boyfriend would be anything but straight. He had to remind himself once again that he did not, in fact, live in a film where a chance encounter leads to the protagonist finding the love of their life when they least expect it. Luke had better get more acquainted with reality. It might be a harsh, unforgiving friend but at least it wouldn’t let Luke’s imagination run off to create fanciful scenarios where he finds someone who is willing to put up with his wacky antics.

There was an unpleasant pause as Luke tried to bite down the horrible feeling of disappointment before daring to open his mouth. Even then, he wanted to whack himself unconscious with the handle of the mop as soon as the words made themselves known. “Oh… That’s… unfortunate.”

“You could say that.”

Not knowing what to say next, Luke spewed out whatever words came to his mind, which was never a good choice in situations where he was supposed to be tactful. He didn’t know how to be sensitive most of the time, and his big mouth had got him into trouble more than once at work. “So, what? Are you so bad in bed that she lost all interest in men? Or was she just ‘experimenting’? She must know that’s an atrocious excuse if you’re in a relationship with someone.”

For some reason the other guy didn’t punch him. Instead, the blue eyes trained on him and the defined brows scrunched into a confused frown. Then, for a split second, the guy’s facial muscles were tugging his lips into a smile, but the moment was gone so fast Luke wasn’t sure if he hadn’t imagined it. Still, there was suddenly mirth in the depths of those blue pools.

“No, I think she just liked my ex’s dick better than mine.”

Luke almost choked on his own spit and he had to lean on his trusty mop to keep himself upright as he coughed. He could imagine how painfully unflattering he looked like in that moment, and the relief he felt at the blonde’s words did little to abate the morbid embarrassment.

Once the coughing fit passed, Luke croaked out, “So… You’re –.”

He was cut off. “Bisexual? Yeah. Is that a problem?”

If only the guy knew how much it was not a problem. “Obviously not,” Luke said weakly, pointing at the rainbow flag pin that was still adorning his apron. “I’m gay myself.”

A slender chin dipped down for a brief nod of acknowledgment, and then their eyes locked for a relaxed staring contest, as if they were seeing each other in a whole new light. There was fluttering hope in Luke’s stomach once again, but he didn’t let the feeling get overpowering. Just because the guy could like men as well as women didn’t mean he would ever find Luke attractive. Luke wasn’t quite ready to let go of his newly-formed friendship with reality.

Eventually Luke felt heat creeping up his neck to set his cheeks aflame and so he turned back to his work to hide the blush. After a couple of minutes of weird silence, he cleared his throat and said, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Thank you.”

They fell into easy conversation after that, and Luke was delighted to notice it was now more of a dialogue rather than his monologue. They stayed on safe topics such as school – Luke had been correct; the tall blonde was, in fact, a university student – and favourite films, but it was nevertheless a nice way to pass the time as the guy finished his hot chocolate and Luke mopped the floor. Luke found himself enjoying the other man’s more serious demeanour, although it meant that making him smile was proving to be a much more difficult task than Luke had anticipated.

Some time later, the blonde gulped down the last of the hot chocolate and set the mug down with a resigned sigh. “Well, I’d better get going before my roommate calls the police. He worries if I stay out late without informing him, and my phone’s battery’s dead.” He shouldered his back bag and made his way towards the door.

“It’s alright, you can admit that you still live with your mum,” Luke teased, which only earned him an eye roll and no trace of a smile. He had to admit defeat. Thinking no more words would be exchanged, Luke lifted the bucket full of now dirty water to empty it in the sink in the backroom.

The low rumble of his late-night customer halted his steps.

“Hey, Luke.”

Turning to face the guy who was already halfway through the door, Luke was momentarily stunned by the fact that the attractive young man knew his name before he mentally slapped himself. Of course the guy knew his name, it was written in bold black letters on his nametag.

“Yes, sir?”

“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” the blonde said. Then the miracle that Luke had been waiting for the past 40 minutes happened. Like the sun peeping through a heavy curtain of clouds, a gentle smile graced the delicate lips, and the movement brought a sparkle into the stunning eyes that threatened to pull Luke in. He was certain his heart skipped a few beats and for a moment he felt like maybe he did live in one of those incredibly cliché books or films. Then it passed as the guy disappeared into the late evening, leaving Luke behind with a massive grin which didn’t fade away as he finished up the rest of his closing shift duties.

It wasn’t until later that night when Luke was sitting in bed with his laptop, determined to befriend the man of his dreams on Facebook, that he realised he hadn’t asked the guy’s name or his phone number. Somehow he had been so swept away in the excitement of meeting the perfect guy that the fact he was missing such a minor and useless detail as a name had went completely unnoticed.

Crushed, Luke put the laptop away and curled under the covers before turning off the bedside lamp. Unless the mysterious guy showed up at the coffee shop again and gave Luke the chance to fix his mistake, he had no way of finding him. Maybe the guy had wanted it to be that way; maybe he had thought Luke was creepy and wanted nothing more to do with him.

With that happy thought, Luke shut his eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

It had been exactly two weeks since his encounter with the gorgeous blonde, and Luke was taking care of his usual Wednesday closing shift. The evening had been scarce of customers, which suited him just fine. He had had plenty of time to do research for a paper due next week, and didn’t feel too guilty for starting to stack the chairs on the tables ten minutes before closing time. That way he would be out of the coffee shop more quickly after closing. The quiet of the empty space late in the evening had become suffocating to Luke after sharing it with the nameless stranger a fortnight earlier. It only reminded him of the missed chance of asking for the guy’s phone number or any other information that would’ve allowed him to stay in touch with the guy. He hated being reminded of his own mistakes.

The tiny bell above the door chimed when there were only five minutes to go until nine o’clock. Luke was wiping the counter with his back to whoever had dared to disturb him so close to his freedom and he used the opportunity to glare at the wall and then let out a huge sigh.

“We’re closing in five minutes. If you’re here for take-away, that’s fine, otherwise I’d suggest you come back tomorrow unless you want to gulp down your beverage in record time.” Luke tried to keep his voice friendly to disguise the bluntness of his words, but it sounded strained even to his own ears. No points for splendid customer service for him tonight.

“Actually, I was really looking forward to having one of your Luke-surious Lukehot Chocolates and enjoying it at a leisurely pace. Is there no way that could be arranged?”

Luke swivelled around so quickly he almost cracked his neck.

There, leaning casually on the closed door in a leather jacket that looked sinfully good on his lean frame and the same jeans from two weeks before, was the nameless guy whose deep, resonating voice had been haunting Luke’s dreams on more than one occasion in the course of two weeks. As much as the blonde had been in Luke’s mind, he had forgotten the sharpness and the delicateness of his features and just how mesmerizingly blue his eyes were. Luke was tempted to pinch himself to check he wasn’t dreaming. No one could possibly look that good.

Luke had to swallow his nervousness down a few times before he stated as nonchalantly as possible, “Perhaps. Depends on who’s asking.”

A knowing smirk spread across the gorgeous face, and Luke had to tell his heart to calm down from its sudden burst of energy. Now was the most inconvenient time possible for having a cardiac arrest. If he didn’t die from his heart malfunctioning, the ensuing humiliation would surely do him in.

“Marcus.”

And just like that, Luke had a name to connect to the face. The exhilaration pulled his lips into a wide smile, but he didn’t care. Marcus had better get used to it.

“Well, you’re in luck, Marcus. I have an order coming up with your name on it on one condition.” The blonde – Marcus – cocked an eyebrow and Luke decided to just go for it, “You have to kiss the cook.”

If possible, Marcus’ smirk only grew wider, his blue eyes twinkling. “Of course, if the hot chocolate meets my high standards.”

With a pleased blush on his cheeks, Luke skipped behind the counter to prepare the beverage. He hummed excitedly as he worked, thinking that maybe it was possible for real life to imitate art. He certainly felt like he was living a scene out of a romantic film as he glanced over his shoulder to lock eyes with Marcus and share soft smiles. Where the plot would take them next, he didn’t know, but he was eager to find out.

Song lyrics from Rose-Colored Boy.

#rose-colored boy

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jessicakmatt · 7 years

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Pelada Is Political Music Between Acid Techno and Punk

Pelada Is Political Music Between Acid Techno and Punk: via LANDR Blog

Attending a Pelada show is high-octane. Tobias Rochman produces an acidic techno backdrop to Chris Vargas’ punchy, powerful Spanish vocals.

Somewhere between 90s techno and punk with a clear penchant for the dancefloor, the Montreal duo has been a rising figure of the underground electronic scene of the city.

After seeing them play at sweaty raves, it’s clear to me that live performance is Pelada’s way of instantly connecting to the audience. Chris electrifies the crowd with her energetic screams and dance moves, while Tobias keeps the groove moving with his thundering, all-hardware percussion and synth lines (his setup includes a TR-707, SH-101 and TB-303).

It’s unusual to see live vocals at techno shows. When you think of lyrical music, techno is usually not at the top of the list—you might think pop, rock, rap, punk, or a number of other genres. That’s what makes Pelada stand out: you’re in the middle of the crowd dancing to banging techno, while also enjoying the rawness of live singing.

Even if you don’t decipher the meaning of the lyrics, the urgency is evident. Chris writes about surveillance, anger and oppression. Pelada is a call upon the crowd to both wake up and dance.

Dive into the fascinating universe of Pelada, whom we had the pleasure to chat with at MUTEK Montreal last August. We talked about their collaborative dynamic, Pelada’s unique take on vocals and more.

Leticia Trandafir: How did you guys meet and start collaborating?

Chris Vargas: We met a long time ago working at the same retail company, but we didn’t really become friends then. It wasn’t until a few years later when Tobias’ solo project ‘Tobias Rochman’ and my project played the same bill. Around that time I was getting more interested in electronic music — the more dance and fun side of it.

After seeing him play I was like, “I think it makes sense to talk to him and see if there’s a collaboration that could be done.” So I approached him and we agreed to meet up and talk about music and see what’s up. We played our first show at Slut Island festival and after that it really felt good to keep doing it.

L: What were your solo projects before you got together? What kind of musical backgrounds did you bring to the project?

C: My only musical background was drums when I was 14 or 15 — which I didn’t really keep up that much. Later I joined this project called Pelvic Floor with five other people — it still exists we just haven’t done anything in a long time. It’s an experimental industrial project with contact mics, metal and lots of electronic gear. So that’s very different from what I’m now used to doing with Tobias.

I think the magic of somebody seeing you live is that they don’t know your process and they don’t know how you arrive to those places.

Tobias Rochman: I was playing synthesizer for the band Cosmetics on some of their tours. We went to the States a few times, and I was sort of an auxiliary satellite member. They gave me my first synthesizer and within a week we were on tour. I had little stickers over the keys so I could remember the notes.

Eventually, they moved back to Vancouver and I was left to my own devices. So when I started, I made music in a different style, but with the same working method because I didn’t understand any other sort of working methods. I didn’t know about MIDI or Control Voltage or any of that stuff back then. I started out trying to do everything, like a one-man band and it was a bit of a handful. Then over the last four years working with Chris, I’ve changed my technique quite a bit and learned a few tricks.

L: What deep musical influences do you carry with you?

T: I remember when I was a kid, my father used to teach a steps aerobics class at the YMCA. I would go with him because I didn’t have a babysitter. I would sit at the back on these mats reading “Silver Surfer” comics. He actually got a local DJ to mix these cassettes of house music. He worked in radio for many years, so he knew how to find a DJ and asked for dance music. They made him special mixes and then other instructors at the YMCA would wanna borrow his tapes. If you were the instructor with the freshest, most original house music you were the king! So he was very proud of that. And I remember just sitting at the back, watching. I think that a lot of experiences we have as children come back as adults. You wonder what the roots are of some of the things that you’re into — where they started, what the seed was.

I also remember in 2001, it was sort of the tail end of the original 90s rave scene. It was obviously into the 2000s, but there was a rave in Halifax. I remember going on a bus with the windows blacked out to this secret location. I was wearing a Sid and Nancy T-shirt and I was super punk at the time. I didn’t really know what I was seeing. I had a really great night but I’d never had any additional interest in house music, techno or drum’n’bass. Getting that little taste of it one summer night as a 14 year-old… I think about that. I’ve been thinking about that a lot.

After playing the songs every night, I have this impulse to deconstruct them or destroy them… So through the weeks of a tour the material tends to evolve.

C: My dad wasn’t a very musical person, but my mom was. On weekends, it was chores day. So we all had to clean the house and do our rooms and stuff. But while we did that, she would blast the radio. Sometimes it would be a Colombian channel — so a lot of cumbia and salsa from the 90s that I grew up listening to. And then she’d switch it up to American music that she really liked: a lot of Tina Turner, Prince, Donna Summer — she was really obsessed with her.

So growing up, it’s always been music that talked about having a good time or celebrating life in some way. And especially with cumbia, it’s always a party, with a mix of sob stories and some misogynistic ways of talking about women… But music was always fun to listen to.

And then when I was a teenager, I got into melancholic music and I was like:”This is music”! I also got into poetry and I wrote about sad things. I’m less into that now.

L: What’s the process and workflow when you produce a track together?

C: I think it starts with the music first.

T: There isn’t a set method. There’s some tracks that we’ve been playing for four years and there’s other tracks that we’ve been playing for four weeks. We take the songs on the road, and we tour pretty heavily. After playing the songs every night, I have this impulse to deconstruct them or destroy them if I’m playing the same set over and over again. So through the weeks of a tour the material tends to evolve.

And then when we get back, we go into the studio with Pierre Guerineau [of Essaie Pas] and he helps us add any technical flourishes that may be outside of our current knowledge base. We try to stay open-minded in terms of how a song will be formed. There’s no one correct way to arrive at the finished product. Sometimes we’ll work on the songs and keep changing them for years. Sometimes we’ll acquire new equipment and we’ll transpose all of the old music onto new equipment. And even in that process the timbre will change.

Performances and records are different kinds of platforms, they offer different things.

C: Also we sometimes leave room for spontaneity when we’re playing the songs — in case something needs to go on longer, etc. Last time, there was this song that we started writing, and then right before we played a set, Tobias mentioned that there was a new baseline that was gonna come in. I was like, “Oh, shit.” But it usually works out, we don’t leave each other hanging. And it was a really nice moment when that happened — it sounded good and it was really fun to sing to. So I think it’s important, that room to try things while we are doing it live.

T: I would only pull a move like that if I believed in the thing I was offering. I try not to make it happen. But occasionally, if I feel very passionately about something…

L: How do performing and recording inform each other in your work?

T: We’ve done it completely both ways. We’ve brought ideas into the studio and refined them there. We’ve also made things a 100% in the studio and then taken them out to perform live and tried to recreate them as honestly as we could. We really try to keep an open mind, like I said. If you find yourself stuck in one method of working, maybe your results become predictable. I think the magic of somebody seeing you live is that they don’t know your process and they don’t know how you arrive to those places. So really, it could be anything behind the scenes.

C: I’m actually finding it kind of confusing to understand the process of recording something that we’ve done live and delivering the same level of energy as we do live. There’s still a lot of yelling in it, but we’ve re-listened to some of the tracks and then realized that some things worked better in recording and not so much live or vice versa. Performances and records are different kinds of platforms, they offer different things. So I don’t know, it’s a new thing for us — or for me personally — to understand where we stand with both of those things because they’re really different. They offer different sort of identities.

L: Totally. Especially because your performance is so energetic and there’s such a ‘liveness’. You might sometimes wonder “How are we gonna put that in a recording?”

C: I think the recordings are still pretty energetic, but it’s a different mind space.

T: I don’t personally like the purist ideology. We try to work against that. I think debates like analog versus digital, or modular versus software are pretty outdated. And I’d like — at least with the art we make — to be confident living in the time that we live in, having the tools that we have. Anybody who is telling you that there’s one way to do it is a charlatan, basically.

L: Let’s talk about your lyrics. First of all, why did you choose Spanish as a language to write in?

C: I think writing lyrics in English would have been probably really easy, or a lot easier than it is for me to write in Spanish. I wanted to write in Spanish even though I didn’t have a clear idea as to how it would translate, or how it would come across live. It just so happened that I yell a lot, but I wasn’t sure that I was gonna do that from the get-go. I’ve now gotten really comfortable with it — it’s fitting to channel some aggression through Spanish. It sounds better to me to sing in Spanish.

Anybody who is telling you that there’s one way to do it is a charlatan, basically.

People have brought up that maybe writing in English would make the content more relatable, so that more people know what I’m saying. But I’m not sure that I’m catering necessarily to a marginalized audience, I wanna do right by the heritage that I was raised in. And I don’t speak enough Spanish outside of my immediate family so it was a good opportunity to dive into that.

L: What are some of the themes that you’re trying to convey in the lyrics?

C: I don’t know why I find this question difficult to answer… Writing in Spanish, and often performing to audience members who don’t all speak Spanish is a way to protect myself from how honest I like to be about some things perhaps. There’s a couple of songs that are personal, maybe even autobiographical.

I also try to talk about things Tobias and I talk about. Our music is a good platform to share some of the views that we both have. There’s one track, “Córrale” that is about how we traverse the internet and how few apps are encrypted. Your information is so personal and yet it’s hard to have a private conversation online. It’s hard to conceive that you’re not going to protect your identity wholeheartedly. That’s an issue I have personally, but it’s an issue that affects everyone.

I think it would be difficult to make completely apolitical music considering the climate we live in… Any art you create exists in that context whether you like it or not.

T: I think it would be difficult to make completely apolitical music considering the climate we live in. I think you have to have some serious blinders on to wanna present an apolitical message to people when all day long they’re hearing about fascism. Not to get into the role of the artist too much… but I think that to completely negate that would be almost disrespectful. Any art you create exists in that context whether you like it or not. So without being preachy, if we’re gonna make art in 2017, let’s take a bird’s eye view of history. Do you really wanna be only speaking about issues that are connected to your ego? Maybe you do and that’s fine, there’s no right or wrong way to do it. But it just seems like if you’re using anger and violence and channeling it while ignoring the world around you, that would be a misstep to me. That’s my take on it.

L: Let’s talk about your MUTEK performance, how you prepared for that, and what you’ve planned for it.

T: We’ve been playing this current set for about six months. We went to New York, Chicago and Philadelphia and some other places with it. It’s been heavily road tested. So we were thinking to ourselves: for once we have this set that is very well prepared, rehearsed, and practiced. So what can we do to make it better? One of the weak spots I’ve noticed — personally with my performance — is that, because we’re not using computers, there’s downtime between songs sometimes, which is okay. In a fun context, having those 10 seconds or 20 seconds of silence between songs actually allows people to clap. But in an electronic music context that would be like dead air. That would be like almost a mortal sin.

So what we’ve been trying to do with this set is take our existing road-tested set and try to make it as seamless as possible. We’re trying to almost blend together songs that we’ve written. So you might hear a melody from the next song coming over the beat. We’re trying to take inspiration from DJ sets to keep the momentum as strong as we possibly can. We feel confident in the content, so we’re asking ourselves: what else can we do to make the set even stronger? This has been our mission in the last month or two.

L: What are your upcoming plans for Pelada?

T: We’re headed to New York after MUTEK to play a show with Container and Via App at Sunnyvale. Then we’re gonna come back and go to Los Angeles to play a show with The Jesus & Mary Chain and Cold Cave.

C: That’s happening in October. It’s a festival called Cloak and Dagger.

T: It’s a good Goth festival where you must wear black.

Follow Pelada’s label NEW on SoundCloud, Bandcamp and Facebook. Follow Tobias on Twitter and Instagram.

Follow MUTEK Montreal on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Vimeo and SoundCloud.

The post Pelada Is Political Music Between Acid Techno and Punk appeared first on LANDR Blog.

from LANDR Blog http://blog.landr.com/pelada-interview/ via https://www.youtube.com/user/corporatethief/playlists from Steve Hart https://stevehartcom.tumblr.com/post/165089407784

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themillenniumscribe · 7 years

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Yu-Gi-Oh: Brilliancy (30)

Her name is Clarisa Swansea. She was born in Hong Kong to a wealthy yet loving family, a father, mother, and two older sisters. A competitive beast in women’s lacrosse with a pretty face to match, there was no mistaking that she was striving for greatness far beyond any expectations. But, when one accident took her family along with her mobility, her life took an intriguing turn into the world of chess.

“Hieratic text, you say? I take it they don’t teach that in just any Egyptian course?” ” Clarisa clicked her tongue thoughtfully, pressing the receiver closer to her ear. It felt strange having her head sandwiched between a phone and frozen corn. It was definitely not one of her finer moments in life.

“You would be right. Most Egyptians don’t speak it on a daily basis. Fortunately, I had a very reliable source to assist in the translation while I was designing the Egyptian God cards.” Pegasus took a swig from his wine glass. Clarisa couldn’t see it from over the phone but there was enough silence to confirm her theory. She could also hear the faint plop of his glassware on the line.

“You wouldn’t happen to remember the exact translation, would you?” He chuckled and Clarisa heard him getting up from his chair.

“I would be a poor archeologist if I didn’t take notes on my research.”

“And an even poorer artist.” Clarisa remarked cheekily. She heard Pegasus laugh and a few pages flipping in a notebook.

“Here it is.” He said smoothly, clearing his throat. “Would you prefer just the translation or do you want the original format as well?”

“You know, I could use some entertainment.” Clarisa admitted, trying desperately to keep her lips from curling into a smirk. The swelling on her face ached when she was smiling too hard, even though her makeshift ice pack had numbed it considerably. Pegasus sighed.

“I’m not exactly sure how entertaining it will be for you. My pronunciation of Hieratic text is quite abysmal.”

“But your melodious voice is such a joy in itself.” Her own vocal timbre was sickly sweet. “I’m sure that makes up for your lack of diction.”

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” She could hear the dryness in his tone but there was a spark of amusement. She remembered that Pegasus always did enjoy a bit of light bantering.

“Whenever you’re ready, my dear.” Pegasus pressed after another mouthful of liquor.

“Just a second,” Clarisa stated swiftly. “With all of Kaiba’s modern marvels, you would think he would have a pen and paper stashed somewhere.”

“Didn’t you look up my number on a computer?” Pegasus interjected with a grin. “Most people would just type it into a document and call it a day.”

“You with your logic…” She muttered with a glower, clicking on one of the word applications. Placing the corn on her lap, she switched the receiver to her left side and pinched it between her cheek and shoulder. A curse or two slipped through but it left her hands free to type.

“Whisk me away with your words, my darling!”

Chuckling, Pegasus read her the Hieratic text, proving that he was indeed terrible at pronouncing this ancient language. But, true to Clarisa’s word, it was still as entertaining as she expected. She pulled her lips back between her teeth, trying desperately not to giggle when he finished his flamboyant monologue.

“Satisfied, my dear?” He purred. Clarisa nodded, stifling a snort.

“Alright. And the translation?” She prepared her hands for the worst.

“According to the text, it roughly translates to ‘Almighty protector of the sun and sky, I beg of thee, please heed my cry. Transform thyself from orb of light and bring me victory in this fight. I beseech thee, grace our humble game. But, first, I shall call out thy name.’” Pegasus paused for a few minutes. “I’m sure you can finish the rest?”

“That’s hardly a rough translation but, I’ll take it.” She replied, finding incredible relief when she finished typing. She switched the receiver back into her right hand, resuming her corn-head-phone sandwich status.

“Now, can you tell me all of the details about this card? What makes it so special and what kind of things does it do?”

“Why the sudden interest in Duel Monsters? You didn’t really strike me as the duelist type.” Clarisa didn’t like his tone, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I’m not. However, I’m currently in the throes of Kaiba’s tournament and there seems to be a lot of commotion about these God Cards. I want to know why. Since you were the one who made Duel Monsters and designed the cards, I thought you would be able to tell me more about them.”

“That I can,” He replied matter-of-factly. “Though, I have to admit that I don’t remember all of the details off hand. Would sending you the card information I have on file be of use?”

“Not only of use but I’m sure Mr. Kaiba would kiss you full on the mouth for it.”

“Ooh,” Pegasus mused. “That sounds rather tempting.”

“I would pay to see that.” A smile was starting curl even further on her lips.

“You wouldn’t have to pay me.” If Pegasus’ mission was to reduce Clarisa into a fit of giggles, he certainly was getting close. It took her a moment to catch her breath so she could respond.

“Just send it to his email.” She stated through her chortling. “I’ll let him know it was from you.”

“No need! I’ll send it from my personal email so he knows.”

“Please tell me it will be filled with plenty of ‘X’s and ‘O’s?” Pegasus’ voice went completely deadpan.

“All of them, my dear Risa.”

She couldn’t stop snickering, even after they said their goodbyes. Placing down the receiver, she made a quick search for any email server in the system. It took her only a moment to find it and, to her dismay, it was logged in. She couldn’t help but smile at her fortune.

Once the server was open, Clarisa minimized the window, leaning back in her chair to await the arrival of Pegasus’ message. To her distaste, she could feel driblets of condensation flowing down her neck and into the collar of her shirt.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clarisa registered a figure was standing at the door. She removed the corn and tossed it their direction.

“Put that back in the freezer, Charles. I think it’s done all it can do for my face.”

“Has it, now?”

That was not Charles. Sighing softly, Clarisa shifted her gaze to find a very bright azure glare staring back at her. The corn that she threw was in his right hand just a little under eye level and the man it was supposed to go to was smirking just behind the coat wearing drama queen.

“Good catch,” She stated flatly, her blue eyes returning to the screen. “Do you mind passing it to the man I actually wanted?”

“What are you doing in here?” Kaiba handed over the corn, storming in quickly with Mokuba trotting in at his heels. He didn’t seem very pleased. Perhaps he lost the duel?

“I was keeping Mokuba company while he got the translation for the Winged Dragon of Ra,” She crossed her arms over her chest but didn’t turn her head to look at him. “Did you know that you were already signed into your email?”

“I was signed into your username because mine wasn’t working,” Mokuba seemed to be trying to smooth over Kaiba’s ruffled feathers. His words satiated Kaiba’s agitation for the time being, the azure glare softening lightly. Kaiba’s lips parted to speak.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t go through and mess with any of the important programs.” Clarisa interrupted. “I looked up your contacts, accessed Word, and your email. That’s all.”

“Why did you need to go through my contacts?” He inquired, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Your system was taking too long with the translation. So, I did what any normal person would do and called Pegasus.” Clarisa wasn’t sure if Kaiba was surprised by her initiative or wanted to strangle her.

“You called Pegasus?” Mokuba stammered, eyeing his brother carefully.

“Well, he is your best resource considering that he designed the cards in the first place.” Clarisa’s shoulders stiffened defensively. “Besides, if I know Pegasus, and I do, he did plenty of research and has notes on every card that he has ever designed. Instead of hacking through the entire I2 database and spending hours looking over files, I just asked him to send over the specific information you needed.”

A bell dinged on the computer screen. Before Clarisa could even look back at the screen, Kaiba shooed her out of the way and took his place in front of the keyboard. She wanted to be offended but, after spending as much time as she had with the CEO, she was used to his rudeness.

Wordlessly, he opened up his email server and revealed the email Clarisa had been waiting for.

“An email from Pegasus…” Mokuba whispered with intrigue.

“Yes, Mokuba,” Clarisa murmured. “I think all of us in this room have the gift of literacy.”

Once Kaiba opened the message, Clarisa had to pinch her lips between her teeth and cover both her nose and mouth. She didn’t want to laugh but the sight of the ‘x’s and ‘o’s brought back the earlier conversation she had with Pegasus.

“Did you tell him to do this?” Kaiba’s voice was tense and he glowered at her. For fear of bursting into laughter, all Clarisa could do was shake her head. It didn’t seem to satisfy him but Clarisa was relieved to see him turn his attention to the attachment.

It was everything Clarisa was looking for. It had an image of the card itself along with the card stats, the Hieratic text, and the special effects of the monster laid out in plain detail. She made a mental note to thank Pegasus later for providing the card details.

“Wow…It has everything.” Mokuba peeped, his face brightening.

“Not everything,” Clarisa corrected. “The translation for the Hieratic text isn’t included. But, if you look at the Word document_”

“I don’t need it.” The smiles on Mokuba and Clarisa’s faces faded.

“What?” She inquired gently.

“I don’t need it. I can read it.” Frowning, Clarisa turned her head to inquire further on Kaiba’s sudden revelation. However, her irritation softened when she saw the shock behind his eyes. Clearly, he was surprised by this revelation.

“…I take it this is new for you?” She murmured gently, breaking Kaiba’s concentration. He returned his attention to her, glaring for a moment before his eyes locked in on the left side of her face.

“What happened?” Clarisa could have sworn that was concern on his voice.

“Nothing,” She pushed the lie out hastily and her attempted departure was even more so. Unfortunately, Kaiba was much quicker, blocking her escape with his left arm.

“What happened?” He repeated, sterner this time. Clarisa was a bit flattered by his worry but something didn’t sit right with her.

“People are being placed in full blown comas and your biggest concern is a bruise on my face?”

“I have a general knowledge of why they are falling into comas.” He replied unflinchingly. “The bruise on your face is another matter.”

“I had no idea my face was so important to you.” Clarisa replied cautiously.

“As I have told you before, I protect my investments.”

“Then, I recommend investing in things that need your protection.” She clapped back sternly, her blue eyes beginning to burn. “I have my own set of staff that do the job just fine.”

“Yes, and we can see how that panned out.” Kaiba made a point to look over the left side of her face, making the woman feel more objectified than she already was. It took everything she had not to smack the smugness out of the CEO. Instead, she forced his arm out of her way and left before she could further regret ever helping that damn boy.

#yugioh #yugioh brilliancy #yugioh oc #clarisa swansea #charles #maxamillion pegasus #pegasus j crawford #seto kaiba #mokuba kaiba

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