#OUT OF COURTESY! USE YOUR FUCKING BRAIN! i don’t care if they’re hard to breathe in. I don’t care if they’re uncomfortable. I don’t care if

[pepprs]

my dad might have fucking covid. about to jump off a bridge

#purrs #he was unmasked in my future room with the contractors yesterday and one of them woke up sick this morning and stayed in bed all day and now #my dad is feeling sick and my mom isn’t even better yet and i just saw so many people (WHO ARE VULNERABLE / HAVE VULNERABLE FAMILY MEMBERS) #in the last couple of days and now i might have exposed them. i am about to LOSE my shit. i need all respiratory diseases to die immediately #i am TIRED of living in constant fear. and i am FURIOUS at my dad for not wearing a mask. #like do you people NOT FUCKING GET IT. You may be cavalier. you may say you don’t care if you get it you can fight it off. BUT YOU INTERACT #WITH OTHER PEOPLE. who may not WANT to get sick. Who may not be able to DURVIVE getting sick. WHAT IS SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND. if you see #someone wearing a mask they are doing that FOR A REASON!!!! TO PROTECT THEMSELVES!!!!! TO PROTECT THEIR LOVED ONES!!!!! so fucking WEAR ONE #OUT OF COURTESY! USE YOUR FUCKING BRAIN! i don’t care if they’re hard to breathe in. I don’t care if they’re uncomfortable. I don’t care if #it’s your own house and you’re not used to it. SUCK IT UP. you can be uncomfortable for five minutes. you KNOW how anxious we all are about #getting covid and you DIRECTLY endanger us and now i might have put other people in danger. and i didn’t even choose it I didn’t do anything #wrong. FUCK COVID. fuck this collective punishment nightmare. I am SO TIRED of living in constant fear because OTHER PEOPLE want to pretend #it’s over. it fucking ISNT. there are things I care about. there are people I care about. and if you were a decent fucking human being you #would understand that and MASK UP. not everyone gets to be so glib about it. it’s hard enough being seen as fucking insane and still taking #damage from having basicaly 0 social life because im too afraid to go anywhere or do anything it’s harder when people around me who i can’t #help but interact with exhibit that they do not actually care about how it is improtant to me that i do not get sick or get my loved ones #sick ESPECIALLY when it is my loved one himself who KNOWS how scared shitless we all are. it fucking hurts so bad. fuck covid. FUCK covid. #delete later #like. despair. i can wear my n95 mask all i want but i am still fucking HELPLESS when people around me don’t. despair. DESPAIR.

[vvienne]

SANGCHENG FIC RECS

flight of a one-winged dove by bloodletter

Talking at someone is only fun for so long. That's all being a sect leader is: talking and talking to people bound by courtesy to listen to you. It's so fucking dull. A relief, then, to face one’s equal, and no less an old friend who is inclined to interrupt you whenever you ramble. He likes it. It’s one of Jiang Cheng’s best qualities.

In the years after Guanyin Temple, Nie Huaisang attends to unfinished business.

whipped by reindeercolin

Jiang Cheng blinks. “Dammit, they do think you’re dating one of us! I hate it when Wei Wuxian is right.” “Excuse me?” Nie Huaisang gives him an incredulous look. “First of all, they think I’m dating you, and if anything, they’re getting more aggressive!”

(or, the one in which Jiang Cheng has too many relatives, not enough patience, goes through a brother-divorce and finds out he has a boyfriend - in that order, more or less.)

Ponder the Manner of Things by Pip (Moirail)

It's not that Jiang Cheng can't do a quadruple flip followed by a triple toeloop. It's that his mother seems to think that's still not good enough.

Jiang Cheng is grateful that Huaisang doesn’t have the same kind of family life that he does, all - messy with expectations and cravings for closeness and nothing but vague filial piety where love is meant to be.

a matter of time and organ donation by nev_longbottom

This is it. The call he’s been waiting for. His brother had ‘an accident’ or ‘died in his sleep’ or some other lie to cover up the murder.

“Please, Mingjue is missing. He got into one of his moods and he was gone when I came back from grocery shopping. He’s not answering his phone. I don’t know if he left or was kidnapped or if something else happened. Huaisang, please, if you’ve heard anything,” Meng Yao begs.

Nie Huaisang hunts his brother's killer.

no tip necessary by tattletold

With all the nervousness of a virgin in a whorehouse, Jiang Cheng closes the door behind himself and enters, sitting on the low seat across from the escort. The pretty young man keeps his face hidden behind the delicate fan, and Jiang Cheng thinks for a moment that he recognizes the design painted onto it now that he’s closer.

It’s only when he lowers the fan and opens his eyes, wide, does Jiang Cheng paralyze with realization.

They speak at the same time in equally horrified tones.

“Jiang Cheng?”

“Nie Huaisang?”

Your Place in the Family of Things by raisedbyhyenas

No matter what happens, no matter the circumstances, Wei Wuxian will always leave and Jiang Cheng will always get stuck trying to rebuild from whatever’s left.

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

In which Jiang Cheng makes friends; gets a cat; begins to rebuild a relationship; and maybe, possibly, potentially, learns a little bit how to be happy.

sigh yourself to sleep by merthurlin

“Let me take care of you, A-Cheng.”

No one—no one has ever said that, not to Jiang Cheng. He wasn’t a very sickly child, true, but the few times he remembered being sick it was never—he had a-jie, and later on he had Wei Wuxian, for what it was worth, but he never—

halcyon days by serein

They're in a forest, it seems just the two of them.

"You have to be patient," Nie Huaisang says, "I once waited for three days to catch a sparrow."

"Three days?" Jiang Cheng replies, sceptical. He can't imagine Nie Huaisang having the attention span for that.

"It's not that hard," Nie Huaisang says, "if you know what they want, and find a way to get it for them."

[JC stumbles across an array and gets physically de-aged to be 16/17. NHS kindly offers his help to an old friend, but things... escalate.]

To Distraction by isozyme

It’s the third night of Yunmeng’s kite festival celebrations. Nie Huaisang has come visiting, eager to partake in the food, the arts, and Jiang Cheng.

-

Jiang Cheng wants to forget. Nie Huaisang has some new lube and wants to see if he can put his whole fist in somebody’s ass.

Lights, Camera, Kiss by MissMagus

When Nie Huaisang gets paired with straight porn star Jiang Cheng for a five-part series, he’s sure it will be an utter disaster. Until the cameras start rolling and their chemistry alights like wildfire.

(Or, the five times Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng have sex for their job, and the first time they have sex outside of it.)

Only the Shallow by hamburglar

When Nie Huaisang gets bored and convinces Jiang Cheng to make out with him, he’s probably not expecting to still be dealing with the guy 16 years later.

OR the story where Jiang Cheng goes into: the Cloud Recesses, denial, some bushes, the private porn library at the Unclean Realm, and subspace.

Blind for Love by manamune

Jiang Cheng is poisoned with an aphrodisiac and needs to orgasm repeatedly in order to flush it from his system.

The first person he thinks of going to for help is Nie Huaisang, who does what any good friend would do: he shoves his three decades worth of feelings for Jiang Cheng deep into the recesses of his mind, locks them up so he can pretend they don’t exist, and then fucks him so hard that he passes out.

Descending by lightningwaltz

“I want to… to not be embarrassed.”

“To not be embarrassed during what?”

“During sex.” There. Jiang Cheng can say it. “In general. Also with you right now.”

“Very good.”

“When did you become so authoritative?” Jiang Cheng wants to sound irked, but can’t quite manage anything beyond nervous curiosity.

dark water by Morgan (duckwhatduck)

There are words, somewhere, for this. Words that would put a shape to the thing that sits between them, would seal their understanding. There are words for sympathy, for friendship, for understanding, for that touch, for this feeling.

Jiang Cheng can feel them, somewhere, fluttering formless at the back of his throat, squirming under his ribcage, but he cannot grasp them. They swim beneath the surface, fish in muddy water - and like fish, they will dart away if he grabs for them incautiously, and leave him nothing but cold splashes and grit.

Or: Why talk about things when you could fuck about it instead?

never knew i was a dancer by isozyme

“What’s a stone butch and why aren’t they real?” Jiang Cheng asks, too buzzed to care too much about not being up on lesbian culture.

Huaisang pats Jiang Cheng on the no-man’s-land between her boobs and her shoulder. “You’re so useless, Jiang Cheng. A stone butch is a fictional hottie who doesn’t make you do any work at all, just wants to give head and fuck you stupid on her strap.”

“Fictional?” Jiang Cheng echoes, having - not a moment, per se, but sort of a problem where her thoughts are going too fast for her poor drunken brain to keep up with.

“Nobody actually wants to fuck a chick who’s too lazy to eat you out after,” Huaisang mumbles.

-

After leaving Wei Ying and Lan Zhan’s bachelorette party, Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang decide to experiment with some outdated stereotypical lesbian sex roles.

lights out by rynleaf

“Nie-zongzhu makes the most sense,” Sect Leader Yao nods sagely, to murmurs of assent across the Jin Sect’s gold gilded banquet hall. Jin Ling, clad in opulent robes that look somewhat comical on a boy of sixteen, inclines his head as his scribe makes a notation, and the noise rises as sect leaders pat themselves and each other on the back for a decision well made.

Jiang Cheng groans and downs his cup of wine in one go.

-

In which the Sect Leaders elect a new Chief Cultivator.

shadow eternal by rynleaf

“You want me to distract the Chief Cultivator from the Annual Cultivation Conference, so you and other sect leaders can… what. Sign contracts without adult supervision?”

“If Jiang-zongzhu is amenable,” Sect Leader Ouyang repeats with a nod.

Jiang Cheng pinches the bridge of his nose. The pressure he felt building behind his eyes all morning is swiftly coalescing into a bitch of a headache. “Just what do you all think I’m capable of?”

Sect Leader Ouyang bows with a cheerful smile. “We have utmost faith in Sandu Shengshou’s abilities.”

-

In which a night hunt ends in disaster, Jiang Cheng catches a glimpse of Nie Huaisang's heart, and feelings are discussed after a certain fashion.

Four Days in Lanling by halotolerant

Nie Huaisang looks at him. ‘You are confusing me, Clan Leader Jiang, perhaps I misunderstand, but…’

‘You didn’t misunderstand. You don’t misunderstand. You understand all of it.’ For six months Jiang Cheng has been mulling this over, and now with Nie Huaisang in front of him he can’t figure out if he most wants to knock him down or kneel at his feet. What he does is try and breathe. Clench his hands at his sides. ‘And now I am going to ask you to do something for me. You have to do something for me. You have to help Jin Ling.’

Lean for Love Forever by Pip (Moirail)

Having a crush on your roommate is really embarrassing, except that's apparently the opposite of a problem. Jiang Cheng can't deny that's pretty convenient.

Wei Ying holds it up, a series of straps and buckles and velcro and wow, really a lot of leather. It has absolutely no conceivable form beyond tangled.

Nie Huaisang opens the door at exactly the moment that Wei Ying holds the thing up to Jiang Cheng’s chest, as if he’s trying to imagine how exactly it would fit onto a person, and it falls into a tangled pile between them while they stare at Huaisang in mild mortification.

acquired momentum by mongrelmind

Had Madam Yu known that this is where her son would end up, she would have gouged his eyes out with her bracelet before he made the grave mistake of looking in the direction of Nie Huaisang.

-

in which Nie Huaisang has an art show, Jiang Cheng is begrudgingly topless*, and there are. Shenanigans.

*Nie Huaisang excluded.

#sangcheng #mdzs #mdzs recs #fic recs #jiang cheng #nie huaisang #ill probably add more fics when I read more fics

[rowan-underthehouse]

Backseat Driving

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3547

Warnings: Descriptions of violence, mild sexual content, language

Additional Tags: mostly comedy with a few more serious moments, relationship reveal

Summary:

Sam and Dean Winchester have done a remarkable job of keeping their relationships with things they should probably be hunting a secret from each other. That is, until now.

Read it on Ao3 here

Sam never thought he’d live to say it, but he should probably be more grateful his brother is alive.

In a grander sense, he’s thrilled. He would have given everything for this in a heartbeat. Hell, he tried to give everything for this. All he wishes is that there was a way around the guilt.

It had become white noise when Dean was in the pit, horrible and endless, but it could be drowned out. He could convince himself that Dean would have wanted this if he could have seen the whole picture. Now it comes in waves. One moment he’s fine, the next he can barely keep his head above the water.

Sam is lacing his boots, trying to be as silent as possible when it hits him tonight. Dean willingly went to an eternity of torture for Sam’s sake, and Sam couldn’t even honour his dying wish. It’s harder to justify with his brother sleeping curled on his stomach a few feet away. Harder to ignore.

It’s ridiculous, shoving pillows under his quilt like some teenager sneaking out the back door with a bottle of Jack, but if he can’t keep his promise, at least he can try to keep Dean from worrying.

He quietly drops the impala’s keys into his pocket, and slips out into the night.

…

It’s hellhounds that wake Dean tonight, tearing at his chest and leaving shredded ribbons of flesh. He can’t move. Can’t fight or even look down. He just lays there, feeling the wet warmth of blood soaking into his clothes, catching glimpses of enormous slobbering heads, gasping for the breath that barely makes its way into his lungs.

He bolts upright, only making it halfway to the knife beneath his pillow before his brain lurches into the dark and empty motel room a few seconds after the rest of his body. He goes for fistfuls of his hair instead, tugging until it hurts and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. His jaw aches, teeth having been clenched for far too long.

It’s another stupid fucking nightmare. That’s all it is. Dean just needs to fight through the relentless exhaustion still weighing him down and get his feet on the floor. Get some water or just stretch and try to reset his brain for any chance at a few hours of good sleep. But there’s a dog howling in the room next door and his eyes are so sticky with tears they almost burn and he can’t make his legs listen to his brain and kick off the covers.

“Shit.”

He doesn’t notice the telltale flutter of feathers, just the sudden steady pressure of Cas’ hand on his shoulder. Dean startles hard, sucking in a breath as he whips around.

“Cas.” A tiny bit of the tension drains from Dean’s body. “Did I,” he clears his throat, reaching for some dignity. “Did I call for you again?”

Cas smiles softly, setting a hand on Dean’s sternum, easing the crushing of his lungs, brushes knuckles against Dean’s jaw and saps out the tension. Maybe it’s a waste of his grace, but Cas always refuses to hear it.

“In a way. I sensed your longing.”

It sounds fucking pathetic, but Dean can’t bring himself to care. He’s too tired for the usual embarrassment that would come with grabbing fistfuls of Cas’s coat with trembling hands, and tugging him lightly toward the bed. Cas doesn’t need convincing.

Cas runs a hand through Dean’s hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head. He pulls back just long enough to drop his overcoat to the floor and kick off his shoes. Dean barely has time to register the loss of contact before Cas is straightening out the sheets, easing him out of his sweat soaked overshirt and jeans. He climbs under the covers and tangles his legs with Dean’s as easily as if it was breathing. Like they’re meant to hold each other this way. He pulls Dean tight to his chest, kneading his fingers into the tension in Dean’s shoulder blades, and Dean melts into him.

The battle against the bone-deep exhaustion dragging Dean back toward sleep is quickly becoming uphill. He presses his face into the fabric of Cas’ shirt.

“It’s alright, Dean. Rest. I have you.”

And Dean gives up the fight.

…

Maybe it’s hard-wired into demons for the sake of all their contracts, or maybe Ruby really wants to see what will happen next, but Sam doubts her constant punctuality is a courtesy.

She’s waiting on the corner of Oak and 19th when Sam pulls up, exactly where she said she’d be, jacket pulled tight across her chest to fend off the night chill.

Sam opens the door and she slides into the passenger seat.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

Sam keeps his eyes on the dash. “Yeah. Well, I’m here now.”

Ruby catches his arm on its way to the ignition, finally managing to meet his eyes, her tone more gentle.

“You can’t listen to him, Sam. You’re stronger than your brother. He wouldn’t understand. He’d ruin everything we’ve worked for. It’s too important. We can’t let him get in the way.”

Sam sighs deeply. “I know.”

“You’re doing the right thing, Sam. This is the only way.”

“I know.”

Ruby relaxes her grip on Sam, easing back into the passenger seat as if nothing had happened.

“I would kill for some French fries. We can go to that restaurant and try to pick up Lilith’s trail. We’ll have to make sure you’re strong enough for tonight…”

She slips out her pocket knife, casually drawing the flat edge across her bicep, like a fidget instead of the open invitation Sam knows it is.

“…help you unwind.”

Sam steps on the gas.

…

Dean doesn’t sleep for more than an hour, waking up with Cas still relaxed beside him, eyes closed. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think the angel was asleep. One big hand is splayed over Dean’s hip, thumb dipping just below the waistband of his worn boxers.

It’s driving Dean crazy.

It would be so easy to shift Cas’ hand to where he needs it. He’d just have to roll over. Maybe it would seem too desperate, but, fuck, Dean is desperate. It’s been weeks since they’ve had time for this and he’s passed one too many long drives thinking about Cas’ mouth on him.

Instead, he scoots closer, untucking Cas’s shirt to get to warm skin and toned abs. He presses a kiss into Cas’s collar bone, his neck, the underside of his jaw before finally pulling back to see his face. Cas’ eyes are open, pupils blown wide as he watches Dean. The grip on Dean’s hip tightens.

In one fluid movement, Dean repositions to kiss Cas more solidly, just about blacking out for a second when Cas matches his enthusiasm.

“Want you,” Cas gasps out between kisses.

His voice alone is almost enough for Dean. He closes his eyes again, trying to compose himself. “Yeah. Yeah, alright baby. Hold on.”

Cas frowns when Dean pulls back, obviously confused, until Dean props himself up and rolls to straddle Cas’ hips. It’s a process to get his shirt unbuttoned and off, Dean still kissing him like the world is ending much faster than it is, and Cas no more eager to pull away.

Dean finally sits back into Cas’ lap, taking a moment to catch his breath. He trails a hand down Cas’ chest, making him shiver.

“Fuck, sweetheart, look at you.” Dean loves seeing Cas like this, his face so open and happy. And because of Dean. It’s hard to wrap his head around. Dean traces along the smile forming on Cas’ lips, beaming when Cas presses a kiss into the pad of his thumb. He could get used to this.

Dean is leaning down to kiss him again when he loses his balance. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening until his back hits the mattress, hands gently pinned above his head. It might be the hottest thing Dean has ever experienced. He barely stifles a moan as Cas shifts his weight on top of him.

At that exact moment, Dean remembers his brother, still tucked under his quilt in the adjacent bed.

“We should take this somewhere else.”

Cas nods, a strand of already disheveled hair falling into his face, and then Dean’s back hits the familiar cold leather of the impala’s back seat.

Arms unpinned, he sets to work on Cas’ belt, finally letting out the soft moan that’s been building at the back of his throat.

“Cas? DEAN!?” Dean doesn’t need to look to recognize Sam’s voice coming from the driver’s seat. “What the hell!”

…

Like so many other cars, the impala has a big, slightly scratchy blanket that lives in the back seat. The only difference is that this one has been replaced a good dozen times when there was too much blood to just wash out. The current car blanket is an almost new, grey number, which is, as it turns out, just big enough to wrap Dean in his relative state of undress like a very angry burrito.

He sits in the backseat, scowling at Sam through the rearview mirror. To Sam’s right, Ruby is looking only slightly less unimpressed.

Sam tries to enjoy the last few seconds of silence.

Ten…nine…eight…

“So it’s not bad enough to work with a demon, now you’re sleeping with her too?”

“Dean…”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me! What the hell do you think you’re doing, man? How long have you been…been fraternizing with the enemy!”

Sam is living proof that no matter how hard you roll your eyes, they won’t get stuck.

“She’s not ‘the enemy’, and you don’t have much of a leg to stand on here, Dean. Do you really think it’s a good idea to get dicked down by an angel?”

Dean opens his mouth like there’s actually an excuse he could use here. No words come out. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Never say ‘dicked down’ to me again.”

Sam’s gained a bit of ground, and he refuses to lose it now.

He finally adjusts the mirror to get a good look at Castiel. He sits next to Dean, all shirtless and messy haired, but somehow the same stoic warrior Sam has always known save for the way he stares out the window like if he’s still enough they’ll forget he’s there.

It doesn’t take Dean long to deflect. “How long has this been going on behind my back?”

“You were dead, Dean! There wasn’t exactly a back to go behind.”

Ruby, who had apparently decided to let the brothers sort out their own argument, finally whirls around in her seat.

“He’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions.”

“Ruby-“ Sam wonders if it’s too late to launch himself out of the car.

“Apparently he can’t!” Dean half yells. “I’m dead for four months and the guy goes and hooks up with a demon! What if you knock her up Sam, did you ever think about that?”

Sam doesn’t have time to interject.

“And in my car ! Please tell me none of this happened in my car!”

Sam decides it’s best to say nothing at all.

“No.” Dean puts his head in his hands, ever the dramatic. “No! I’m going to have to deep-clean everything in here! No, you’re going to deep-clean everything.” He jabs an accusatory finger in Sam’s direction.

This was bound to come out eventually. Sam had hoped it would be many, many months down the line, over a beer, after he had defeated Lilith and saved the day. A little more congratulating and a little less half-naked Dean in the back seat. Now the best he can hope for is a chance at damage control. He turns to Ruby, who seems to be trying to glare Cas to death before he can do the same to her. That explains why they’ve been so quiet.

“Look, can you give us a minute, guys? It might be better for Dean and I to talk this out alo-“

Cas is gone before Sam can even finish his sentence. It almost feels too easy.

“Ruby?”

She hesitates, looking from Sam, to Dean, and back again.

“Alright, fine.” Her voice is seething with anger. “If your brother doesn’t trust me after everything I’ve sacrificed for you then I’ll just get out of the way. Enjoy your talk.”

Sam pulls over at the nearest gas station, getting one last icey look from Ruby before she opens the door.

“Lilith has been here.” A deep voice from the backseat makes Sam jump.

Cas has returned to his seat, now fully dressed, his brow pinched together.

“A town called High River 60 miles North.”

…

There have been a lot of awkward drives in the years Dean has spent hunting with his brother, but this might be the worst. He actually feels a flood of relief when the car rolls to a stop in a parking lot dimly lit by flickering lights.

The building in front of them appears to be a diner. It must be called Hal’s or Val’s or something, but after one too many seasons of snow, the sign reads A L’S I ER in washed out glowing red. The musty air reaches Dean a good twenty paces away when Sam cracks the door open and peers inside.

Sam signals behind him, and Ruby is slipping in the door before Dean can make a move.

“Just…wait here a minute. We’ve got it covered.”

“And let you go off with the demon chick and do whatever it is the two of you do when you aren’t defiling my car? I don’t think so.”

Dean starts after him, Cas stopping him by the arm. Dean doesn’t pull away. His heart does a tiny little flutter right out of a dimestore novel. It's embarrassing.

He gives Cas a once over, taking in the usual outfit, and then his own faded t-shirt and boxers. “Come on, man. You couldn’t have thought to grab me a pair of jeans?”

Cas’ face goes faintly red in the flickering light. He seriously considers something for a moment.

“I could go now, but it might be best for me to remain here.” He shoots a glance after Sam and Ruby.

“Forget it.” Dean grumbles.

Cas tilts his head to meet Dean’s eyes where he’s turned away. The grip on his arm goes from restraining to affectionate.

“You’re not angry with me. You’re embarrassed. And you’re scared that now this is out in the open something bad will happen.”

Dean scoffs “It’s not out in the-“

Cas moves a hand up to cup his face smiling gently. Reassuring.

Dean says nothing. Just covers Cas’ hand with his own and leans into it, closing his eyes.

…

When Sam peaks back out the diner door, Dean is waiting for him with his arms, and Castiel’s coat crossed across his chest like a disapproving sit-com mother.

“It’s all clear. Just one demon in there. We’ve got him tied up.”

“Wow, gee, great, Sammy. Did you gift wrap him for me too?” Dean calls back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

There goes the damage control. Sam sighs. At least the lying is over, even if it does come with the uniquely uncomfortable knowledge of why Dean’s grocery runs have been taking so long. Well… some of the lying is over. And he’s not lying to Dean about his powers exactly. Just strategically omitting details.

He pushes the door all the way open and leaves Dean to come in when he’s done sulking.

Maybe Dean is going to spend the rest of the night in You-did-something-I-don’t-like-so-now-I’m-going-to-be-as-miserable-as-possible mode, but Sam has to give him credit, he knows how to get a job done. When Dean marches up to the half-rotten chair the demon is tied to, it’s pretty intimidating.

The demon smirks up at Dean, not even struggling against the ropes bound over his grease-stained apron. He must have been the cook.

“Nice coat. Do you always dress like this for a hunt?”

Dean ignores him.

“What’s your name?”

Sam has stayed back behind his brother, half-bathed in shadow, and fixed his glare on the demon. If he’s heard anything from the others he’ll know it’s time to start talking.

“Does it matter?”

Shit. This isn’t going to be as easy as Sam had hoped. Apparently his reputation only precedes him so far.

Dean sets a hand on the back of the demon’s chair and leans in. “Alright. Let’s just cut the small talk then. Why was Lilith here?”

“Looks like you made it out of the pit, that’s a real shame, Winchester.” It’s subtle, but Sam sees Dean tense. Cas takes half a step forward. “Heard you were a real prodigy. Think you can get me to talk?”

Dean leans closer, pulling Ruby’s knife from the pocket of his…well…Cas’ coat. With a start, Sam realizes he had almost forgotten about the thing.

“Actually, I think I can.” He sneers.

At some point, Sam knows he’ll have to step in. He’ll have to bite the bullet and show Dean what he’s capable of. Pray he understands that it’s the only option. But Sam’s prayers have sat unanswered in some heavenly mail box long enough to collect their weight in dust. No. He’s going to make Dean understand.

He ignores Ruby’s warning look, closes his eyes and focuses on his breath, tugs on the dark thing deep inside him until he can feel it all the way to his fingertips, buzzing with power. He raises his hand. The squeezing starts to build inside his skull, like he’s standing on the roof of a plane with an unholy sinus infection. The demon’s voice barely cuts through it.

“Exorcise me if you want but Sebastian here has taken quite a beating. I leave, he dies.”

Sam lets his arm drop to his side, shrugging off the confused look Dean gives him. They’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

“What was Lilith doing here?” Ruby pipes up.

The demon possessing Sebastian chuckles. “That’s above my pay grade, sweetheart. I thought you’d know that.”

It’s Dean’s turn again. “You can lie all you want, but we’re going to find out about it one way or another. Let’s do this the easy way. Give her up now. Working with a demon like that is only going to cause you problems.”

Not-Sebastian looks confused.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Well if he’s lying for her, maybe there’s a good reason, Dean! He knows how you’d react if he told the truth! He’s not some kid you need to protect anymore!”

Dean spins around. “Oh, so this is my fault?”

“You’re doing the exact same thing! You only think you’re better because he’s an angel and you can’t accept that this isn’t as black and white as it seems!”

Not-Sebastian looks incredulously between them. “Am I interrupting something?”

It’s remarkable how fast Dean wipes the embarrassed look off his face and turns back around. “What did Lilith tell you?”

“Nothing. Just doing her annual press tour.”

Castiel chooses that moment to step in. “He’s telling the truth. He does know anything.” Before he can speak, Cas slaps a hand onto Not-Sebastian’s head, not flinching when a blinding light pours out of his eyes. The demon slumps in his chair. “It could be a trap. We aren’t prepared for Lilith to bring the fight to us. We need to leave.”

And just like that it’s over. Sam doesn’t bother trying to talk to Dean again. He avoids Ruby’s glare from the back of the room, glancing between the scorched eyes of Not-Sebastian and Castiel. She brushes past him on her way out the door and down the street. There will definitely be complaints later. For now, she leaves the impala behind her, not wanting to follow Not-Sebastian.

He can barely make out Dean’s voice from inside the diner.

“Think the health inspector must have missed this place. Maybe they barbecued him up Whistlestop Café style.” A long stretch of silence. “It was a joke, man.”

Sam finally breaks the silence halfway through the drive. Why Dean let him drive again is beyond Sam, but it’s good to have his hands on the wheel and his mind on the road. Even with the welcome distraction, he can only last so long. “Can we just talk about this in the morning?”

Dean sighs. He looks exhausted, the bags under his eyes easier to see when he’s not dedicating every moment to hiding them. “Fine. But we’re talking about it.”

“Deal.”

The quiet is softer after that, underscored by faint music from the radio. It doesn’t take Dean long to slump into Cas’ shoulder, asleep faster than Sam has ever seen, maybe because of the protective arm Cas has tucked around his waist. Dean seems gentler like this. Almost happy. It brings a smile to Sam’s face.

Sure things are messy, but they’re the Winchester’s. He expects nothing less. And maybe if things work out for Dean, if he can actually be happy like this, it will be okay for Sam too.

#spn #destiel #supernatural #deancas #samruby #spn fic #supernatural fic #destiel fic #deancas fic #samruby fic #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #my writing #fanfic

[smol-and-grumpy]

EUPHORIA - Chapter 23

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: He’s Dean Winchester, owner of a shady night club. She’s a journalist who has been asked to write an article to expose the indecency and debauchery that’s going on behind closed doors. But he’s also Dean Winchester, the boy who sat next to her in class. The boy who was too cocky for his own good.

Chapter Warning: NSFW, fluff, a tad of angst

WC: 2695

A/N: This chapter fills my ‘sex toys’ square for @spnkinkbingo​​

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons​ <3

This series is complete on Patreon!

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

Become a Patron ~ Buy me a coffee

She’s jumpy in his arms and Dean’s holding her tighter as they both stare at the source of the knocking. It’s right by the window next to him, and a dark shadowy figure can be seen through the fogged up window of the Impala. Her heart races, he can feel it drumming against his chest.

The figure raps frantically at the window again, and Y/N’s struggling in his arms, wriggles herself around and tries to get off of him, but he holds her still, shushes her, tucks her hair back behind her ear, and brushes his knuckles over her cheek, “Shhhh, it’s okay, stay.”

There’s a frown on her face and Dean has to chuckle at that, to which her eyes widen some more. 

“I got this,” He assures her, and his hand leaves her face to roll down the window. 

A bright flashlight shines into their eyes and she quickly looks away, buries her face in the crook of his neck while Dean squints.

“Hello Officer,” Dean greets the figure, giving him a courtesy nod.

“You know you’re not allowed to park here this late, right?” The officer asks, and Dean could see the penny drop as soon as he sees Dean’s grin, “Oh! Mr. Winchester! Alright, keep doing whatever you’re doing. I’m gone, have a good night!” 

“Thank you.” Dean says calmly and rolls the window up again. 

Y/N plies her face from his neck and stares at him, the frown lines on her forehead grow some more and he evens them out with his thumb while he grins at her. He can see that she has a hard time wrapping her head around the fact that the officer had no intention of commenting on what they were doing out here in the dark of the night.

“What was that? Have a good night?” She hisses out and it’s cute, really.

Dean chuckles and pulls her down by her top, kisses the corner of her lips because she’s a little upset and she tilts her head to the side before he could hit his target, “Baby, I would never put you in the position where you could get in trouble. I knew who would be on duty for the park today and it happened that it’s someone I know.”

“From where?” Her nose scrunches up. That’s something new. He thinks he’s seen all of her facial expressions, yet he’s still discovering new things about her. It makes him weak. Adorable is what it is.

He couldn’t resist booping her nose with his forefinger, but she doesn’t budge, the nose keeps scrunching, the frown deepens and Dean sighs out, “He’s a VIP.” 

“Ah, of course he is,” She scoffs, “But what if he saw more? What if he uses his knowledge of your nightly trysts to blackmail you?”

He has to laugh at that, and when he looks at her, Y/N’s not smiling with him. There’s not even a little smirk at the corner of her lips. She’s really really concerned about it and it makes him uneasy. There’s something about the way she trains her gaze down, something about the way she bites at her lips. Something tells Dean that she’s been burned before and fuck, did it happen? Was someone blackmailing her? He wants to find out, but he thinks that it’s not going to be now, not going to tonight. She’ll talk when she’s ready. He swears, if it’s fucking Cole, that dude will get his balls ripped out next.

Dean kisses her lips, his hand on her shoulder, fingers long and palms wide around her neck, grounding her to him. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, “That’s impossible. The things I know about that guy?” It makes him shudder even thinking about it, “I can safely say that I’ve got the upper hand here.”

“‘K,” She breathes out, but he knows that nothing is fucking K . 

His hands leave her shoulder and hips and search for hers. When he finds them, he takes them in his. They’re so small compared to his and he still can’t believe that he gets to hold them.

“Y/N, I’m thorough,” He whispers, places her hand to his lips and leaves featherlight kisses on her knuckles.

“I know you are.” 

There’s a sigh above him and he looks up to see her pouting a little. 

He smirks, “Do you know how I got to where I am now?”

She shakes her head.

One of his hands goes up to her face, traces along her cheekbone and jawline with his fingertips, “Because I’m always at least one step ahead. I always know what will happen when I do something, and I’m ready to take the fall when something goes wrong. It’s just that nothing will go wrong now.”

Dean knows that it sounds cocky. It is. It’s also the truth. He made it through school like that and he thought that she knew it as well as he does.

Perhaps she does, because he can feel her body relaxing on top of him, “Can we go home?” She’s still pouting and Dean knows it’s because she’s tired. 

Well, it was a lot tonight, and he maybe shouldn’t have brought her out here, but the dude was on duty for this park only once every fortnight. Dean couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. He knows that it might have been selfish, but she enjoyed it too, so at least he hopes that it is a little selfless either.

“Yeah, we can,” Dean nods his head, but then she’s not moving. He has to chuckle again, “Never thought that I ever have to say that but, baby, you need to get off me.” 

He really never thought he’d had to say it when all he wants is to stay like this. With his dick still inside. It’s a good feeling. He’s going out of a limb to admit that it’s even the best feeling in the world.

“Nuh-uh,” She pouts and he smirks, reaches out a hand to thumb at her lips.

“No?”

“It’s so cozy,” Her lips now spread into a grin, which is addictive, and Dean smiles with her. 

Dean agrees wholeheartedly, though. Agrees that it feels fucking great to just be inside her. He would absolutely love to stay. Perhaps wait for him to get hard again and fuck her all over, a third time in less than twelve hours, but he has to be the responsible one around here, because she has to get up early and he doesn’t even know if she’s already packed.

His hands go around her waist, lifts her off him and she squeals and giggles. His soft cock comes out with a squelching sound. Some cum drips out and leaves a trail on the leather seat to where he plops her down. Dean doesn’t care about that, though, can’t possibly care. It’s going to serve as a temporary memento to their late night escapade. He’d like to keep it that way, but he knows he can’t because that would be absolutely weird and disgusting, right? Yeah, right. She’s fucking with his mind to even consider the things he’s thinking, but strangely, Dean’s super okay with it.

*

He parks in front of her building and takes her things from his trunk. He lets her take his hand to guide him inside, and up the stairs to her apartment. 

Y/N toys with the keyhole when she turns around, “Are you staying?”

“Yes,” Dean grins, “Yes, I’m staying.”

Back inside, he can see that she’s already packed as there’s a small carry on bag resting right by the entrance. Well, if he knew that before, but that’s good, so they don’t have to rush in the morning. 

Dean’s stomach twists when he thinks about her leaving, even though he tells himself that it’s only for two fucking nights. He managed a whole lifetime without her, two nights should be easy. Should be. Yeah, she’s absolutely fucking with his head because his brain makes him act like a lovesick teenager.

They slip into the shower together and Dean has to make sure to take the cock ring off before he could get hard again and he knows that he will because that has become a common thing around her now. 

Y/N takes it out of his hand, rinses it thoroughly and walks out of the bathroom while he discharges the rest of his clothing. He hears the drawer open and close, grins smugly because of course she wants to keep that thing. 

Dean soaps her up in the shower and he has to hold himself back from fucking her again. That’s another thing, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with his libido either. It really feels like he’s seven-fucking-teen again and he’s sure that she’ll be the death of him. 

She’s finished before him and slips into bed while he brushes his teeth. When he’s finished, he lifts the covers, and she whines with half closed lids at the loss of the warmth that escapes from beneath. 

“Sshhh,” He hushes and smiles when she turns on her back and spreads her arm for him. 

He lays his head on her chest, searching for her heartbeat, when her hand comes up to stroke his hair. And he likes that, he really does. It’s not just the sex they share. It’s these little moments and gestures of intimacy that makes his heart fill up. 

“I don’t wanna go,” Y/N mumbles above him. He can hear her voice vibrating in her chest. 

“I know, I don’t want you to go either,” He replies, his hand strokes at her arm, “It’s only two nights, huh?”

“Yeah,” 

“We’ll do something fun when you’re back,” He grins because her hand on his scalp stills. 

“Do I get to see more rooms?”

“Rooms are closed when you’re back.” He mutters, he knew he forgot to tell her something. 

“Why’s that?” 

“We’re having a fancy dress party. It was all Claire’s idea and apparently the club is not a dictatorship but a democracy where employees are being heard, they can pitch in their ideas and if they get enough votes, it’s going to happen. I didn’t know what everyone would be playing against me.” Dean nuzzles his face into her chest. 

It’s true, they all voted and he and another employee thought it was a little over the top for the season as autumn is a long way to go but apparently, Claire was very persuasive. He bets it’s because she sleeps with the majority of them but what does he know, really.

“Awe, poor baby,” Y/N chuckles and strokes his head some more. The pressure of her nails digging into his scalp is just perfect. 

“Yeah,” 

“Can I come to the costume party?”

“No,”

“Hey!”

Dean chuckles, “Of course you can. But you have to dress up.”

“Oh, I will,” She’s laughing.

“Nothing too revealing.” He growls.

“Why?”

He lifts his head and looks at her, “Do you really want me to tell you why? I thought you knew.”

She’s grinning. That fucking little minx. 

“I know, just really like hearing you say it.”

Dean replicates her grin, moves his hand to brace himself on the mattress and looms over her, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’re mine and I don’t share what’s mine.” He whispers, lips ghosting over hers. 

“I’m yours.” She agrees, tongue wetting her lips and Dean can’t wait anymore, crashes his mouth onto hers. 

The kiss grows harder, rougher and he knows that he should stop, even though his mind doesn’t want to. With a last bite to her lips, Dean pushes himself away again and lays next to her, “Now we sleep,” His voice is rough and strained from kissing. 

She only pushes out a whiny sound from her throat before she climbs into his arms. 

Y/N wakes up to an empty space next to her. She immediately sits up and looks around. Dean’s clothes were gone.

Did he leave her while she slept?

She takes her phone from her nightstand and checks if he left her a message but there’s nothing. The only things she sees is that she still has an hour before she has to leave. 

Where did he go? 

Already lifting the blanket with the intention of getting out of bed, she hears the key being turned in the lock. 

She stills immediately and listens.

There’s the sound of a lock as the door is closed again. Heavy footsteps walk along the hardwood flooring and then, she sees it. She sees him. 

Dean’s holding a tray of coffees in his one hand, a bag of something really good smelling in the other. 

“Hey,” He greets her and walks into the room, bending down to place a kiss on her forehead, “Thought you could use a coffee before you leave and you really don’t have anything edible here, how do you do it?”

She’s in awe and can’t stop staring at him.

“What?” Dean asks and raises one eyebrow, clearly a little irritated. 

“Nothing,” Y/N grins, “Thank you.” 

This is new to her. Someone who brings her coffee and food. She doesn’t think she’s ever had anyone do that for her. Not ever. And maybe, she thinks, Rufus is right. Maybe she should keep him. 

*

Dean drives her to the train station, even making the effort to park his car and walk her to the platform. Her hand in his. And she likes that. Likes how he really fucking cares. 

He pulls her into an embrace and places a kiss on the top of her head, before he makes her look up to him. Her hands are around his waist.

Dean’s knuckles graze her cheeks, and he smirks a little, “Be good, okay?”

“Always.” She replies and he kisses her forehead, lingering there a little longer than usual, to which she has to chuckle.

“What?” He mumbles, lips moving on her forehead.

“Are you checking my temperature?” Y/N looks up to see Dean blush. She loves when he’s all flustered and shy.

“I have packed something in your bag,” Dean says and she knows it’s a distraction from the question but also what? 

“What?”

“Check it once the train leaves,” He winks before bending down to kiss her on the lips and it’s not fair because she couldn’t ask anything anymore, she’s too lost in the kiss.

*

Dean waits until the train departs and waves one handed while he has the other hand crossed over his chest. 

As soon as she’s a safe distance away, she takes her bag, unzips it. Her heart is racing. What did he pack for her? 

There’s a colorful box in lilac/orange. 

WE VIBE written on it.

She honestly has no idea what it is but the eyes of the woman sitting across from her widen. 

Y/N unpacks it, shrieks out and claps her hand over her mouth when she realizes what it is. The woman across is laughing and honestly, she wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Deciding that she doesn’t want to call him in front of the woman and she doesn’t want to leave her bag alone, she texts Dean instead.

  Y/N: Thanks for embarrassing me

  The answer comes straight away. He must have known that she would dig into her bag as soon as he was out of sight and was just waiting for her to text him.

  D: What?

Y/N: Oh, you know… Just unpacked it unsuspectingly and I was holding a vibrator in my hand while the woman across from me was laughing her ass off.

D: …

  She can see the three dots appearing and reappearing a couple of times.

  D: Sorry, I think I just snorted coffee out of my nose

Y/N: Serves you right

D: Let me know when you use it. I have an app.

Y/N: What?

D: Yeah, I can control it from here.

Y/N: Oh my god

D: Ah, just call me Dean

Y/N: Bye, Dean

D: Talk to you later, baby

Chapter 24

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

#euphoria #spnkinkbingo #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

[deancascore]

night driving. deancas, 1.4k. (AO3)

The Impala's rumbling is low under Dean. 

Night drives are always pleasant. There's just something about the relative darkness, the empty highways, and the gentle snoring of whoever is in the passenger seat that puts Dean at ease. There is a sweetness in the air sweeping through Dean’s face, courtesy of his rolled-down window. Right now, the person snoring on Dean’s passenger seat is Cas, whose head is resting on the closed window of his side of the car.

Cas sleeping is something Dean is still getting used to. It's only been a few months since Cas showed up back in the bunker after the whole mess with Chuck losing his powers and Jack becoming God. It was a long drive back home, punctuated with a Hello, Dean and a shitton of awkward shuffling on Dean's end. He gathered that yes, Jack did bring back Cas from the empty, and yes, Cas opted to lose his grace in the process, and yes, he’s fully human now. Quirks and all. Dean let Cas explain things to his heart’s content, but the moment a lull in conversation occurred, Dean was out of the living room instantly. 

Dean isn't proud, per se, of how he acted that day. Or the day after that. Or the two weeks after that. He was terrified, after all, of many things: terrified that Cas didn't mean his deathbed confession that way, or that he changed his mind, or that whatever this is now, whatever they are now, Dean is going to fuck it up and lose Cas anyway. He was terrified, and so he locked himself up in his room at every possible opportunity and avoided Cas at all costs in all the others. Whenever he had to interact with Cas though, he made sure Sam was there as a buffer. 

Dean knew he was being a coward, had gathered that he has been hurting Cas by leaving him hanging like this, but he didn't know how to stop. Or more accurately, how to start. So it only makes sense that it was Cas who finally knocks on his door, that it was Cas who asked to be let in, who sat gingerly on the edge of Dean’s bed, who said I am not going to apologize for what I said. I am sorry if I have made you uncomfortable, but I am not going to take it back. 

But it was Dean who said Then don’t. And it was Dean who kissed Cas first.

And now they're here, in the car, and Cas is snoring softly in the passenger seat. There is no apocalypse to gear for, no world-ending event to try and solve, and Dean is content. Happy, even.

It was ten more minutes of driving before Cas stirred awake. Dean noticed immediately, paying close attention to Cas’ breathing. He has to breathe now , Dean remembers. There was a time when that thought would have terrified him, made his heart leap out of his chest, and not in the good way that Cas usually causes. But that time is not now, because now Cas actually chose this, chose Dean, and yeah, a part of Dean’s brain is still screaming You’re wrong Cas! I’m not worth it! But damn it if he’s not trying to just be happy, to respect Cas’ choices, to respect Cas’ love for him, for once.

“You sleep well? How’s your side?” Dean murmurs as he rolls up his window and turns on the AC. There, a bit more silence. A bit more privacy. 

“I’m alright. It’s a little uncomfortable. I think I fell asleep in an inconvenient position” Cas’ voice is a little deeper than usual, from sleep. The werewolves from the hunt were easy to take care of, but they did manage to get in a few scratches here and there. Right now, there are three claw wounds on Castiel’s lower right rib. They aren’t too deep. It only took Dean a few stitches to fix him up, but as Cas sat on the toilet cover of the motel bathroom, Dean hovering on his side, suture in one hand, Castiel’s flesh on the other, Dean knew perfectly well the unsaid things between them at that moment. You’re human now. You’re hurt, and this is the only thing we can do about it. Dean may have been on the edge of panicking; he certainly was feeling a little bit ill. And it probably sowed, too, because Cas reached out and placed his left hand on Dean’s shoulder, and earnestly whispered Dean, it’s okay. Dean had wanted to argue, tell Cas that no, it’s not okay, that Jack can give him back his grace if he wants. But one look at Cas’ peaceful expression and he knows damn well that it is, in fact, okay. He dropped his gaze down to the stitches and went back to work.

“Well, I told you to take the backseat so you can lie down, but you won’t listen to me.” Dean quips.

“I’d rather sit beside you, Dean”

Dean’s face heats up at that remark. He steals a glance at Cas and finds Cas looking intently at him, which only makes Dean blush even harder. Damn it, he feels like a schoolgirl with a crush over here.

“Why don’t you-” Dean clears his throat “Why don’t you scoot over and lay on my shoulder then?” Dean feels shy, but not embarrassed. He has figured out recently, with the help of his relationship with Cas, that there’s a difference.

Cas doesn’t reply, just snorts a little bit. He adjusts on his seat and moves closer to Dean. As soon as he lay his head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean starts smiling uncontrollably. When he looks down on Cas, he finds the man looking up at him, all soft eyes and cheeky smile.

Dean decides, right then and there, that he would give anything in the world to see Cas smile that way every day.

“Eyes on the road, Dean” Cas tilts his head forward when he says that, and Dean is suddenly grateful again for the clear highways that night driving affords him. 

They stay like this for a while, just silent, breath evening out. It was Dean who eventually succumbs to the temptation of conversation, though.

“Cas, you awake?”

Castiel hums in affirmation. Dean takes a steadying breath. 

“We should move out.”

Dean feels Cas stiffen on his shoulder and immediately knows that he said something wrong. Fuck, what is it? Did Cas not want to move out with him? Maybe Cas just really likes the bunker. Or maybe Cas just doesn’t want a life with him after all. Maybe he’s thinking of becoming an angel again and he doesn’t want to be involved with Dean anymore. Maybe-

“Dean.” Cas interrupts Dean’s train of thought. “What about Sam?”

Oh. Cas is concerned about Sam. That seems reasonable enough.

“Well, I’m sure he’d be fine. He has been talking about asking Eileen to move into the bunker with us, and I don’t think he would mind some alone time with her, if you catch my drift” Dean opts to reply with a shit-eating grin. 

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Cas’ voice is soft, gentle, a sharp contrast with his still tense body pressed up beside Dean. “Are you going to be fine without him?”

Huh. Well, count it on Cas to ask the hard-hitting questions. Dean ponders for a bit. He’s aware that Cas is aware of his fucked up relationship with his brother, so there’s no just half-assing his way out of the question. He’s given this a lot of thought too when he first considered moving out. He has had a lot of time to think.  

“I know me and- me and Sam, we’ve been through a lot. We’ve lived our whole lives together. And yeah, there’s been pros to that, but the cons, man,” 

Dean pauses, choosing his words carefully, centering himself enough to say his next thoughts out loud. 

“I think it’s time for us to live as just Sam, and just Dean, you know. Not tied together like that. I mean he’s my little brother, and I love him, but I think it’s time to live for myself now.”

Dean feels Cas relax back onto his shoulder, and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. 

“So, we moving out or what?” Dean is feeling cheeky again, and it shows. He nudges Cas’ head with his chin. He hears Cas chuckle a little bit. 

“I would like that, yes.”

Dean smiles and drives on through the night.

#spn #deancas #destiel #spn fanfic #uhm yeah this is the first fic I'm posting on tumblr. check it out huh

[maevemarethyu]

Unexpected (2/?)

You weren’t expecting it. Neither of you were.

That didn’t mean you weren’t happy with how it ended.

Warnings: Cheating, Threats, Sad Boi Hour, Heatbreak, I’m not quite sure what else.

Steve and Sam are waiting for Bucky when he walks into the shared living room; looking every part of a pair of worried parents. The familiarity of it lifts a weight from his shoulders. Meeting you hadn’t been what he expected, then again, he didn’t know what he was expecting in the first place.

He only knew that you weren’t it and he was glad.

“How’d it go? You rushed outta here before either of us could stop you.” Steve worries, resting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. Steve had been there for him for as long as Barnes could remember and Sam had been a rock keeping the two old men above water in the new age.

“Y/N is something.” He mutters cryptically as he crashes onto the couch, mind swirling as he tries to make sense of everything that had happened. The lack of elaboration has his friends looking at him for an explanation.

“Something as in good or something as in she threw something at you and called you a liar before chasing your ass away from her house.” Sam asks, taking the seat next to Barnes and earning a glare.

Good. You were definitely good despite your very bad situation. He had run to you half cocked with no plan and laid what was probably the worst news possible on you while your kid was asleep in the other room.

“She- They- a kid. She has a daughter named Laysa. Four weeks old.” Disbelief laces his voice. He could understand why Claire would cheat on him; he was a broken weapon made by HYDRA with more issues than Time Magazine. But, you?

He couldn’t understand why anyone would cheat on you. You were beautiful and thoughtful and the brief glimpse he’d caught of the fire in your eyes made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to elaborate on for a long while.

And you had a child. Patrick had a family with you; a domestic life Claire had snubbed Bucky for desiring.

“What?” Steve says through grit teeth. The Captain was like his friend; he too wanted to eventually settle down and start a family. When they were younger, the two Brooklyn boys had it all planned out. They’d marry the loves of their lives and get houses side by side; their kids would grow up together and they’d take turns having Sunday brunches at each other’s houses till they were old and gray.

The dream may have been postponed a few decades but, when Bucky told Steve about proposing to his long-time girlfriend, he was happier than he could ever remember being. After all the shit HYDRA put him through, he was glad Buck had found a nice girl like Claire.

How wrong he had been.

“You did the right thing telling her. She deserved to know.” Sam adds but, Bucky just shakes his head.

“I could have worded it better.” He admits, twisting the ring on his finger. “She opened the door and I blanked. Then I basically yelled it in her face: Your husband is fucking my wife.”

He watches Steve’s face go red from secondhand embarrassment and Sam fails in holding back a laugh but, they all fall silent when someone clears their throat. Barnes feels the hairs on the back of his neck raise as he reluctantly turns to face the new person in the room. A person he had purposefully left out of this because A. She was on a mission and B. He thought she would raise hell when she found out.

“Hey Nat…” Steve coughs awkwardly.

Fresh off a hard mission, covered in scrapes and bruises, and scowl on her face; Natasha Romanoff looked ready to raise all seven layers of hell.

“Someone. Explain.” She asks calmly… too calmly. It unnerves the three men in the worst way possible and Bucky’s explaining the situation before his brain can catch up. Once he’s finished, the woman simply mutters an okay before walking out of the room and leaving the trio speechless.

She returns a minute later in a fresh change of clothes and is stuffing knives in different pockets of her pants.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, curious and worried at the same time.

“I’m going to fucking kill them.” She announces, making her way to the door. If it were anyone else, Barnes would have thought it was a joke but, he knew Natasha. He knew what happened to people that hurt her family and, even thought he loathed himself for it, he still cared about Claire.

“Natalia.” She stops with a huff when Bucky calls her name. “Please, don’t.”

For once, she doesn’t fight him and she instead takes a seat on the armchair across from him.

“If I ever see her again, I will not hesitate. I mean it Bucky.”

“She doesn’t even know I know yet. Neither of them do. Y/N wants to wait until her divorce papers are ready.” Her green eyes soften at his obvious pain. In all the years they’d known each other, she’d never seen him like this. “Her friends are lawyers and she asked if I wanted to meet them with her tomorrow.”

“I hope you said yes.” To his surprise, its Steve that says it. Out of everyone in this room, he’d have thought Steve would be the one handing out second chances. In a messed-up way, he was glad the courtesy didn’t extend to cheating spouses.

“I did. We’re meeting for breakfast.” He nods, and the three Avengers let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Mr. Barnes.” FRIDAY’s voice echoes in the silent room. “There is a Miss Y/N Voight calling for you. Should I take a message?”

As soon as the AI says your name, his breath catches in his throat and his mind goes straight to the worst-case scenario: Patrick came home and something happened to either you or Laysa.

“No, you can patch her through Fri.”

There’s a shuffle over the speakers before your voice is heard.

“Hello? James?” To his relief, you didn’t sound any more distressed than you were when he left.

“I’m here Y/N. I’ve got Steve, Sam, and Nat here with me. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, hi other Avengers. Yeah, it’s just that I called Matt’s secretary and explained the situation. She told me to bring any official pre-nuptial documents with us tomorrow and figured I should let you know but, I didn’t have your number. Had to call the station to get this one.”

He didn’t like the idea of you calling your husband’s place of work but, you didn’t sound bothered by it and he hopes its because you managed to avoid talking to him directly.

“Секретарь? Я думал, вы сказали, что юристы - ее друзья.” The secretary? I thought you said the lawyers are her friends. Natasha asks in her mother tongue, a habit she and Barnes had gotten into whenever they needed to have a private conversation, and the man shrugs.

“Они мои лучшие друзья и заботятся обо мне.” They're my best friends and, they care about me. You reply without missing a beat, catching everyone in the room off guard. “If I tell them before tomorrow, nothing is stopping them from finding and maiming Pat… my soon-to-be ex-husband. You aren’t the only one with scary friends Barnes.”

Your words were so brazen that Bucky could picture you sitting on the phone with a smirk on your face as clear as day and a grin finds its way onto his face; earning a curious glance from Steve.

“Anyways, I’ve gotta go. Laysa’s fussing.” Sure enough, a sharp cry comes from the speaker. “I’ll see you tomorrow James and, I guess goodnight everyone else? Keep up the good work? Bye.”

When the call ends, everyone’s eyes turn to Bucky and he keeps his head down. It was kind of you to risk a confrontation with your husband to help him get prepared for tomorrow. He couldn’t imagine being kind in a situation like yours. You had a child to worry about through this; you had every right to be bitter.

“Fri. Can you print out-“

“Already on it Mr. Barnes.” The AI announces and, not for the first time, Bucky is grateful for Tony’s stubbornness. If it weren’t for Stark there wouldn’t be any pre-nuptial documents. James had thought it a waste of time when it was first brought up but, it looks like he’d need to thank the billionaire once more for forcing him to sign the papers.

“She sounded oddly cheery for someone who just found out their husband was cheating on them.” Sam frowns, causing Bucky to look at him in confusion.

Did Sam not hear the way your voice cracked when you mentioned calling the station? Could he not tell you had just cried your voice hoarse? Was he oblivious to you attempt of covering up your pain with thinly veiled humor?

No, you were not cheery. You were shattered, just like him but, you were trying your best to seem put together. He could see right through you. His friends though, they didn’t seem as attuned to your sorrow.

“We all process grief differently. For all we know, she’s still in shock.” Steve reasons, ever the mediator.

“She sounds like she has her hands full.” Natasha hums in agreement. “She’s probably focused all of her attention on the baby. I know it helped Laura whenever Clint was away on missions.”

You were coping, in your own way. Barnes decided to take your lead, standing from his seat.

“Heading to bed Buck?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you all in the morning.” He lies before leaving in the direction of his room. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, not with the images of Claire and Patrick burned into his eyelids so, he bypasses his bedroom and makes his way to the gym a floor below. He hated lying to his friends but, they were like yours, they cared about him almost too much. They were always so eager to help and he was grateful for it, really, but sometimes he needed to be alone in order to work through whatever problem he was having. The man liked his solitude.

When Bucky had told Steve he wanted his own apartment, the blonde nearly had a conniption but, he eventually relented and together they had found a place not too far from the compound. Right now, he was missing his little slice of solitude.

Thankfully, the gym is deserted when he arrives and, as he sets up a punching bag, his mind wanders; remembering times when his life wasn’t so damn complicated. Back when he’d spend the afternoon looking down alleys to make sure Steve wasn’t getting his ass handed to him. Back when the most he had to worry about was whether to take Sally or Jane dancing that evening.

He can only stay in that headspace for so long before he’s back to reliving the worst moment of his new life. He had thought he finally got it right with Claire; he used to think she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, she was smart, a kick-ass agent, she made him feel like he was able to put himself together again with her help. She was too good for him and he used to think it was only him who thought it.

After years of being together, she’d finally thought it too.

A hard jab to the bag slices it open, pouring sand into his sneaker and he almost yells in frustration. Then he remembers you and the way you chucked your phone past his head without so much as a sound. His anger was explosive but, yours? Your anger was silent and seething; dare he say calculating.

He wondered if you’d look as lovely screaming as you did seething before shaking the thought from his head with wide eyes. Whenever he and Claire argued; whether or not she was pretty was the last thing on his mind.

Comparing you to his wife should have been the last thing on his mind but, no matter how hard he tried, your face was the one to pop up when he lost focus. He wasn’t upset by it thought, he’d much rather remember your face instead of Patrick and Claire’s in the throes of passion.

Yeah, he’d much rather remember how nice your smile was as you got your daughter’s bottle ready.

#bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic

[koko-bopp]

Flirty Criminal — song mingi

*Pt. 2*

criminal!song mingi x detective!male!reader

word count – 2K

warning – mild smut | more swearing than normal

genre – cop and criminal!au | mafia!au

“It’s only for work, honey.” You re-confirmed for what felt like the twelfth time in the last ten minutes. Your husband was sitting on your shared bed, fidgeting with the non-existent dust on the messy sheets. You watched him stare at the fabric with too many caution signs flashing in his mind. “Hey,” you said softly, prompting him to look up at you from the mirror, “You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be wired the whole time.”

“I’m still worried,” He responded, still very hesitant to let you walk out of the house, “This isn’t some… This isn’t some teenager with rebellion problem. This is Song Mingi.”

You sulked for a second, fixing the maroon suit you’d only worn once. Leaving the first button of your beige button-up undone for aesthetic purposes. Your hair was gelled to your liking, wearing a piece of jewellery to complete your look. Also wearing the wire given by your colleagues, it was hooked onto your shoulder underneath your clothes.

To say the least, you looked pretty great. Very fancy date material. A look your husband appreciated, and so did Mingi.

A pout was sent to your husband, who was still dying of worry. You took a hold of his hands, looking at him gently, “I’ll be fine.”

-

“Pretty expensive place.”

Mingi winked, taking a sip of red wine all the while keeping his cheeky smirk. “Only the best for you, detective.”

You genuinely wondered if you’d be able to dine in a place like this, considering your paycheck.

Everything was a rich red, vibrant green and elegant white. There was white writing around the walls, unknown to you until a few moments ago that they’re the signatures of the most famous chefs in the twentieth century. Meals we’re perfectly set with shiny cutlery, glasses were polished to perfection and everything on the menu was absolutely mouth-watering. You couldn’t even lie, you’re impressed. You’re beyond impressed.

“You know, we could’ve just gone on a Starbucks date or something.”

Mingi rolled his eyes, picking up his menu, “Because that’s the standard your man is giving you? Starbucks?”

You pursed your lips together, hiding your small grin at the comment. It wasn’t true, it was just slightly amusing how quickly Mingi was to mock your husband. Mingi noticed the grin, provoking a prideful smirk from him.

Mingi put the menu down, clearly knowing what he was ordering. He leaned forward, “I’d recommend the lasagna. It comes in vegan or vegetarian too. So no complaints.”

“Song,” you frowned, “What are you playing at?”

Mingi smiled innocently, placing his hands under his chin, eyes pinned on you like you were an artwork to him. “Nothing at all, Detective. You’re reading too much into it.”

You chuckled bitterly, “Considering who you are, I don’t think I have a choice.”

“And yet you talk to your cop friends about how ridiculously good looking I am,” Mingi glared your way. He kept going when you couldn’t think of a quick response, “Don’t play tough guy here, love. I’ve got enough eyes and ears around to know that you don’t hate me as much as you like to substantiate.”

“Touché.”

The waiter came around with both your meals not even ten minutes after ordering. You tried to keep your behaviour as professional as possible, asking questions about his life to get as much information as you could; but you knew Mingi wasn’t dumb, he only went as far as talking about his day yesterday and present situations or his favourite things. It wasn’t boring at all, he was clearly a passionate person. Villainous, but passionate. Despite everything, absolutely none of it was useful.

“You know,” Mingi said, after a moment of comfortable silence, “You look beyond stunning tonight.”

You blushed, cursing at yourself slightly for briefly forgetting this was for your job. “I– Thank you,” You replied avoiding eye contact with him by taking a sip of your drink, “You’re very handsome yourself.”

Mingi chuckled, “Is that out of courtesy? Or do you genuinely mean it?”

You adjusted your sitting stance, trying to appear as confident as possible when answering. Apparently, you can visit a victim’s family to announce their death without crying but can’t confirm a compliment without blushing. “You claim to have ears everywhere,” You challenged playfully, “You tell me.”

“I think that rookie from the other day has a small crush on my right-hand man,” Mingi snickered, “He’s accidentally blurted out enough, I want to know what comes out of your pretty mouth.”

Now your face was hot, you looked down at your meal, smiling slightly. His confidence inside interrogation rooms was hard to deal with as it is, then when he’s truly smiling outside of the familiar four walls, it’s much nicer. Seeing a happy toothy grin was nice, him cracking a couple of jokes just to make you laugh was nice, and honestly, Mingi taking the man who’s whole job evolves around taking him to jail was just… It was just unheard of, even your supervisor was surprised, but it was lovely, none the less.

Your phone buzzed, you didn’t hear it the first time because you were busy listening to Mingi talk about his dog, but then it buzzed again, then again, and then again.

“Someone misses you,” Mingi commented, subtle but impacting with the underlying irritated tone.

You took an extra second to quickly skim over your messages. Two from your supervisor and six and counting from your husband. You muted your phone before putting it into your pocket, looking up at Mingi with an innocent smile, hoping a little lie will work, “Ha, unless you call getting spam messages from your phone company, maybe.”

He wasn’t buying in. You could tell. And it wasn’t because there was some obvious look on his face or anything, mainly because you noticed from all the interrogations that Mingi gently taps his finger on a surface when he’s impatient. Not the type you see in movies where they’re being rude, but it’s enough for you to notice.

You needed a quick bet away putting your glass down and carefully excusing yourself from the table, telling Mingi you’ll be back as soon as you fix your suit. He just nodded with a smile.

Bro, even the bathrooms were lovely. It had its own stairs of entry, a large large bathroom with marble and gold interior. You stood in front of the mirror, ignoring the few people who exited the room. All the cubicles were empty, so you took out your phone to properly examine the messages.

Wayne Haulting (Supervisor)

- [L/N], we need you to stop acting all cute and actually get something for us to work with.

- We get that he’s charming, but he’s also dangerous.

Hubby 💙

- Babe? Are you okay?

- You’ve been gone for three hours, are you safe?

- Do you want me to come?

- [Y/N]?

Hubby 💙 is typing…

The door of the bathroom opened, subconsciously prompting you to look up from your phone to the mirror before your eyes widened slightly at the sight of Mingi leaning against one of the stalls. He has a hand in his pocket, his gaze looking at you from the mirror knowingly. “Still need to fix your suit?”

You were going to say something, but his intense stare on you made it difficult to formulate a sentence. Intentionally staring you down like you were next on his menu.

And you weren’t going to lie; part of you didn’t have a problem with it.

Mingi pushed himself off the wall, bringing himself close to you enough so his hands were around your waist, gripping onto it with security, causing you to gasp lightly, earning a deep chuckle from the man behind you.

He dragged his hand down to your hips, bringing his face closer towards your neck. Your breath hitched and your heart thumping inside your chest from how close he was to you, and again, there were warning signs in your head, but even your brain seemed to be ignoring it as Mingi sank the tip of his nose and the slight flesh of his lips down the side is your neck. He pinned your hip bones forward against the counter, a soft moan leaving your lips at his forceful and yet careful actions. Mingi chuckled, from his gaze on your tender neck to your eyes that were trying to avoid the mirror, “There’s that sexy sound,” He teased.

You gripped the edge of the bathroom counter, looking down to avert eye contact, to which Mingi complied to. He began dragging gentle kisses along the pulse on your neck, his hair tickling your jaw lightly. You winced when he decided to nibble on the spot under your jawbone, the aftershock sending a shiver throughout your whole body.

You swallowed harshly because as much as you hated to admit the fact, his actions seemed to cast a desirable spell over your whole body. You felt the kisses getting harsher, more hungry and more craving-driven, which caused a few more moans coming out your mouth.

Mingi dragged his tongue up to your side of your ear, the smirk on his lips were practically predictable at this point. “Fuck. Just like that, Detective.”

You whimpered at the comment, a chuckle erupting from Mingi as you did. He didn’t stop his actions, instead enhancing them by turning you around to pin your back against the counter. You looked at Mingi with lust-blown eyes, much similar to his. He was proud of himself, taking the liberty to crawl his hand up to wrap it gently around your throat, you watched him smirk as he watched your lips part.

“You like that, don’t you?” Mingi snickered, placing his knee in between your legs, pinning himself as close to you as possible, a teasing look still on his face. He slithered his other hand up your shirt, over the fabric, pressing against everything except where you wanted him to.

However, only then you realised where his other hand headed. He stopped his tracks at the point of where your chest was exposed, you thought he was going to undo the best, but he only when higher; his hand stopping at your shoulder.

The wire.

He knew where it was.

Mingi chuckled darkly, staring into your eyes like he didn’t give you pinned against him. “I knew you were a naughty boy, [Y/N].” Mingi ever so tightly tightened his grip on your neck, not at all enough to hurt, but enough for you to know who had the upper hand.

He ripped off the wire along with the tape that was on the circular object. Throwing the thing into the sink behind you, the leftover water from whoever used it last was surely going to damage the thing.

Though you knew Mingi was far from done with you. He kneaded his knee against your crotch, a spontaneous action that made you whine. Mingi pressed his chest flush against yours, bringing his lips to your ear, “You know what happens to naughty boys, [Y/N]?” He whispered, the sinister tone able to break glass, “They get punished, Detective.”

And that was it. Mingi let go of you. You fell limp against the counter, holding yourself up from the counter as you snapped up at him in shock.

He stared back at you, the smallest of smiles on his lips. “I’ll see you around,” He said simply. You were ready to protest, yet you bit your tongue because he gave you such an intense stare. He turned back one more time before leaving the marble bathroom, “You know I will.”

#ateez #song mingi #mingi x male reader #ateez mingi #ateez smut #ateez mafia au #mafia au #song mingi x male reader #mingi #ateez mlm #x male reader smut #male reader smut #ateez cop au #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios

[anothers-trash-my-treasure]

Sing For Me

Ayyyy here we go!! Got this request a while ago and I am very excited that it’s finally done. 

Summary: Reader is a singer in a band who our dear boy Merriell takes an *ahem* interest in. 

Pairing: Merriell Shelton / Reader (femme)

Warnings: Ouf Uhm, smut (read 18+ only), protected sex, dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), drinking

Word Count: 3.6 K (oml help us)

Tags: @r-ahh-mi @sherlollydramoine @txmel @moon-stars-soul @ramimedley @alottanothing @ramisgirl512 @diasimar (let me know if you wanna be added!)

~

The night was not panning out the way I had initially thought it would. It was a Friday night, which meant I was singing at a jazz bar downtown. We had a two-hour set, as usual. We killed it, as usual. And we stuck around after to have a few drinks, as usual. What was unusual, was the all-too-attractive man at the table behind us who kept meeting my eyes and smirking my way. I try not to look his way too often, but it’s hard not to. 

He’s gorgeous. With large eyes, the colour difficult to pin-point under the low lighting of the bar. He’s got a mop of curls resting on the top of his head, wild and frayed like he’d been running his hands through them to be anything other than a complete mess. A soft pout on his lips, parted ever so slightly. It seems like every time I glance over at him, he’s staring right back at me. And every time he does I have to pry my eyes away from him. I try my best to keep my focus on my friends, tearing my eyes away from the mystery man when the group breaks out into a fit of laughter. 

“What’s happening?” I ask, cluing back into the conversation.

“God, she's so clueless.” One friend says, smirking at me teasingly.

I narrow my eyes, “Am not!” I say, mocking offence, “About what?”

“About the fact that you and that guy over there have practically been eye-fucking each other since we sat down.” Another says, giggling as she glances first at the stranger and back at me.

I feel my face heat up, “Have not,” I deny.

They don’t look convinced and I’m about to open my mouth the try to convince them but before I can get out a word the waitress comes over and sets a new drink in front of me. I furrow my eyebrows, looking between the new drink and her questionly.

She giggles at my response and points over my shoulder, “Courtesy of that guy.”

My friends practically start an uproar, laughing and ‘oohing’ and shaking my shoulders. I buried my head in my hands in embarrassment from their actions. I look back up, glancing over my shoulder at the stranger. He meets my gaze, a smirk unfolding across his lips. He raises his glass and winks at me. I can’t help but smile, shaking my head lightly.

“Well?” a friend asks expectantly. 

“Well, what?” I ask, bringing my new drink up to my lips. They always taste better when they’re free. 

“Aren’t you gonna go say hi to him?” Another asks, raising their eyebrow at me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I glance back to the stranger, finding him this time turned back to his own friend group, “He’s busy, I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

Someone scoffs, “Yeah, I’m sure he’d be absolutely pissed if you interrupted their conversation.” They roll their eyes, “Just go thank him for the drink and if it feels like he doesn’t want you to be there then we’ll just leave.” They shrug, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to go and talk to quite possibly the most attractive guy to ever show interest in me. 

I contemplate my options. The thought of making the first move makes me nervous, but when I look over and see him and his friends standing up to put their jackets on, I can’t leap to my feet fast enough. I can hear my friends shock at my actions behind me, but all my focus is on him. 

“Hey!” I call, “Hold on a sec!” 

He glances at me, smiles, motions to his friends to go on without him and meets me halfway, fixing his jacket. His eyes travel up and down my body and a shiver runs through me at the look he has in his eyes. His eyes, that now that I’m closer to him I can see are an oddly captivating mixture of green, blue and grey. 

“I just,” I start, fiddling with the straw in my glass, “wanted to say thank you for the drink.” 

He shrugs, head rolling to the side, “Don’t gotta thank me, cher.” he drawls, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “Should be thanking ya for that performance earlier.” He whistles, “real good.” 

“Oh!” I say, pleasantly surprised, “thank you.”

His grin widens, “I told ya, you don’t gotta thank me.” 

I roll my eyes playfully, “Well, whatever.” I dismiss, “I’ll let you get back to your friends, I guess.” I turn to leave but his hand catches my arm. 

“Now wait jus’ a minute,” He laughs, “I’m in no hurry. I don’t wanna steal you from your friends but I do wanna get to know ya.” 

I stutter, my brain scrambling. I look back at my friends, seeing them giving me a thumbs up and begging me not to fuck this up. I look back at him, his eyes are trained on me, an eyebrow raised, waiting for my answer. 

Fuck it.

“I’m sure they won’t mind.” 

His smile grows, turning back to the table he had previously occupied and pulling out a chair for me. I smile at him and take my seat, shooting a glance back over at my friend group. They’re barely keeping it together, shocked that I’m actually going through with this. He sits, next to me, gesturing at the waitress for another round. 

“You don’t have to buy me another, really I’m okay.” 

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

“Here ya go, Snaf.” the waitress says as she sets the drinks down and I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Snaf?” I question once she walks away.

He smiles bashfully, “Old nickname, call me Merriell.”

“Y/N,” I reply.

From there on out the conversation flows. Turns out, he had seen our band play quite a few times over the past few weeks but had never been able to stay long enough to see a whole set and hang around after. He’s an interesting conversationalist. He’ll go from asking questions about the band and me to sliding in sly innuendos that no doubt make my cheeks burn. As the time ticks by we get closer, whether it’s from me leaning over the table to hear him better, or him leaning in to tell a story. By the time my friends come over to tell me they’re leaving, I’m practically on his lap, so intrigued with the way his accent flows over me and the way his eyes keep flicking down to look at my lips, watching with interest when my teeth dig into my bottom lip to hold back a smile. 

Somewhere along the line, the conversation does a complete 180, turning from playful banter to low whispers and suggestive comments. I can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened but he’s whispering in my ear, hand resting on the bare skin of my thigh, fingers trailing up just underneath the hem of my skirt.

“I’d like to see how I could make you sing back at my place.” 

It’s accompanied by a slight nibble on my earlobe and I feel my breath leave my body. My body moves on complete instinct, hand moving to cup his jaw, fingers framing his ear so I can tug him down into a heated kiss. He hums pleasantly against my lips, fingers flexing against my thigh while his other hand comes up, brushing his fingers along my jawline. 

When we break away we’re breathing heavily, noses still touching and staring at each other. He smirks again and I’m quickly realizing just how much trouble this man could be. 

“So, whaddya say? Wanna get out of here?” 

I nod, swallowing and clearing my throat before letting out the breathiest ‘yeah’. 

It takes us all of five minutes to hail a cab but the entire time we’re waiting, his hands are absolutely relentless. His eyes stayed trained on the road, his lips next to my ear, whispering into it while his hands dance up and down my body. When we get in the cab it’s not much different. He’s practically laying on top of me, hand gripping my hip, pulling it against him while he kisses me, slow, deep and dirty. 

“The poor driver,” I mumble against his lips.

“Don’t care,” he replies, teeth tugging on my bottom lip. 

His lips trail down my neck, sinfully hot, and I can’t help the hum of pleasure that rumbles out of my throat. The drive couldn’t be over fast enough. 

When he finally gets me out of the cab and into the apartment, the first thing he does is slam me against the door, capturing my lips once more. My hands find his abdomen, touching first above the soft fabric of his shirt before finding their way underneath to feel the lean muscle there. He exhales on a gasp when my nails drag down his sides, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to leave a mark. My hands move to tug on his jacket, wrestling with it until I can get it down his arms and thrown somewhere behind us. His hands, between grabbing my hips and pulling them against his, work my jacket off as well. He lets it drop behind me and then he’s grabbing my hips again, tugging me forward as he starts to maneuver us throughout the apartment.

He leads us down a hallway, halfway down becoming too impatient and pressing me against a wall. He presses against me, moaning urgently and a wave of confidence moves through me. I bit his lip harshly and push him to the other side of the hallway, his back hitting the wall with a soft ‘thump’. He looks at me with heated eyes, mouth dropped open in shock. He watches me intently as I grip the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it at him. His mouth tugs into a smirk, his eyes taking in my newly exposed skin as I walk towards him. My hands fall to his sides, fingers dancing over the skin as I press myself up against him. 

“Feisty,” he growls, leaning down to kiss me again. His hands find my ass, gripping it tightly and using the momentum to grind our hips together. 

“Bedroom,” I mumble.

He hums in agreement, hands moving to my hips again to guide me into the bedroom. He kicks the door shut behind him and I wonder briefly if he has roommates. But the thought is gone as soon as it came when he pushes me away to tug his shirt up and over his head. 

We stand there, breathing heavily while we look at each other. He’s all lean muscle and tanned skin that longs to be marked up. The outline of his hard cock visible through his light-washed, worn-out jeans. The air between us is warm, sexual tension crackling like electricity in the open space. Without breaking eye contact, I reach behind me, pulling the zipper of my skirt down and letting the fabric fall to my feet. He swallows heavily, eyes scanning over me as his hands reach down to start unbuckling his belt. I walk towards him, hands covering his to take over his actions. His lips capture mine, hands moving to my upper arms, just resting there while I work his belt off and start on his button and zipper.

Instead of letting him tug them off, my hand works it’s way into the loosened fabric, letting my fingers glide over his length through his briefs before palming him. His hips twitch against my hand, rocking steadily. He moans softly against my lips, fingers gripping my arms tightly. My fingers flex around his clothed length and suddenly he’s pushing me back on the bed, discarding his pants and boxers behind before crawling up the bed to me.

“Drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he growls, lips trailing up my chest and neck, sucking deep red marks as he goes. My legs wrap around his waist, moaning excitedly when I feel his cock drag against my still clothed pussy. 

His hands work first on my bra, unclasping the back and pulling back just enough that I can throw it across the room, hearing it hit a wall somewhere off to my left. They then work their way down my body, fingers trailing down my breasts, my stomach before finally resting against my mound. I whine, feeling his fingers start to rub against my clit over the thin fabric.

“So wet already, cher.” He moans, “Wanna taste you, ya gonna let me?”

I can’t nod fast enough, desperate to see what his mouth is capable of. He moves down my body, sucking, licking and biting wherever he sees fit. By the time he gets to my clothed heat, I’m near panting for it. From his place in between my thighs he stares up at me, eyes heated and teasing as he leans down to place a soft, teasing kiss to the fabric. My hips twitch slightly, anticipating his every move. His tongue comes out to lick a hot stripe up my heat, flicking at my covered clit with the tip of his tongue. And then he’s finally rolling my panties down my leg, his lips finding my heat as soon as they’re out of the way. 

His arms wrap around my thighs, holding my hips still while he runs his tongue between my folds. It’s warm and wet, alternating between dipping it in and out of my heat and flicking it against my clit. My hand finds his hair, gripping his curls between my fingers and guiding his movements ever so slightly. His eyes don’t leave mine, spare for the few times he closes them to moan against me. 

I can feel myself getting closer, my hips rolling against his tongue, chasing the pleasure he’s giving me. One of his hands move, leaving its place at my hip to sink two fingers into me. My head falls back on a moan, back arching up when he crooks his fingers and finds my g-spot.

“Fuck,” I gasp, free hand gripping the pillow behind my head. I can feel myself on the edge of relief, I try to move his head away, “stopstopstop, I’m gonna..” 

He stays stubbornly where he is, barely pulling away to utter the words “want you to cum on my tongue.” and just like that, I’m done. My eyes roll back, back arching and thighs clenching around his head as I moan out his name. My orgasm passes in waves, body jerking when he continues to lick and suck at me.  

When he finally pulls away, my legs fall to the bed, limp and shaky as I try to catch my breath. His fingers dance across my thighs, laughing lightly when my muscles twitch due to the light tough. I run my hands through my hair, looking down at him with wonder. 

“Good?” He asks, the damned smirk painted over his lips, still wet with my arousal. 

“Could say that.” I giggle, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up my body to catch his lips in a kiss. My tongue slips into his mouth, moaning at the taste of myself I find there. 

His hands slide up my waist to cup my breasts, thumbs sliding over my nipples teasingly. I shiver in response to his light touch, sparks of pleasure radiating from it. He huffs, amused at my reaction. One hand trails back down my body, moving down to grasp my thigh and hoist it over his hip. 

“Gonna let me fuck you?” he asks against my lips and just the fact that he’s asking is so hot that my breath leaves my body again. 

“I’d let you do anything to me,” I reply. 

He groans, capturing my lips in a deep kiss as he does so. He pulls away to reach into his bedside table, grabbing a condom and leaning back on his haunches to roll it on. From my spot on the bed, legs framing his hips loosely, he looks almost god-like. The low lamplight of the room colours his skin near golden. I run my eyes down his body, from his shoulders, down the planes of his stomach, down the trail of dark hair on his lower abdomen that leads down to his cock that stands out, long and proud against the thatch of hair there. I watch him roll the condom on, his fingers working to get the latex where it needs to be and I shudder at the sight of them. Long and deft and I can still feel the ghost of them inside of me.

Finally, he grabs my legs, wrapping them around his waist and leaning down to brace himself against the bed, “Ya ready to sing for me?” 

A slight nod of my head is all it takes for him to push into me. The feeling of him stretching and filling me has me arching up into him, fingers gripping his biceps tightly. His mouth drops open on an exhale, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. 

“Shit,” he moans, “Fuck, that’s good.” he moans, hips flush against mine. He sits there for a second, and every moment that passes without movement has me growing more and more impatient. I open my eyes, not remembering closing them in the first place and look up at him. He has a teasing smirk painted across his face, eyes alive and playful. 

I open my mouth to playfully chastise him, it’s rude to make a girl wait, but before I can say anything, he’s pulled his hips back and slammed them forward, a moan ripping its way out of my throat before I can stop it.

“Tha’s it,” he breaths, keeping a slow, but firm, tempo, “Sing for me, baby.” 

I find myself unable to deny him and I’m moaning, a breathy sound escaping me at the end of every thrust. He shifts onto his elbow, one hand moving to grip my hip so he can pull me back to meet his thrusts. His fingers dig into the bone near painfully, but the dull pain swirls into the pleasure so good that I can’t find it in me to be too upset about the bruises I know are going to be there tomorrow. 

His head is tipped down, lips brushing over the skin of my neck. If he’s not sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin he finds there he’s breathing against it heavily, soft moans and whines peppering his breaths. His thrusts pick up, and as the pleasure builds the reins of his voice loosens. 

“Christ,” he grits out, head falling back and straightening his back out. His hands moved to my hips, tightening their hold, “Got me so goddamn worked up...” he trails off, pulling my hips back roughly to meet his. I cry out at the angle this position gives us, his cock dragging against the front of my walls. My hands grip the bed sheets on either side of my head as it rolls to the side.

“Such a nice pussy,” he continues, his words making my ears burn but sending heat down my spine all the same. 

If he was attractive before, he’s absolutely gorgeous now. A sheen layer of sweat covers his skin, making him near grow in the lighting of the room. His muscles straining from their movements, jaw dropped in a pleasure so good it’s painful. His hair is wild, wet at the temples from the effort of his actions. My hands grip his forearms, nails digging into the skin there as I feel myself getting closer once more. 

“Fuck, Merriell,” I moan, meant to be a warning. 

“God, you sound so pretty, moanin’ my name like that,” He groans, eyes rolling back in his head briefly, “Say it again.” 

“Merriell,” I whimper, pleasure climbing and back arching. My muscles clench involuntarily around him, fluttering as a signal for what’s to come. 

“Shit, are you gonna-” 

He doesn’t get to finish the question, my body snapping, arching into his as my second orgasm rips through me, his name ripped from my throat in a near scream. My pleasure only spurs him on, swearing under his breath as his thrusts pick up. He’s still talking, mumbling as his head tips back, slowly as his pleasure climbs, but I’m not sure if it’s even English at this point. 

“God, fucking Christ-” he huffs, each word punctuated with a hard thrust. He gives one last hard thrust and he’s done for. His hands grip me tighter, teeth gritted tightly as he groans through them, hips grinding their way through his own orgasm. It rolls over him, hips thrusting shallowly to draw out the pleasure as much as he can, whimpering lowly with each wave. 

He collapses over me, resting on his elbows as he attempts to catch his breath. My hands come up to rest on his sides, feeling his ribs expand with each panting breath. His lips find mine again, kissing me sloppily, forehead pressed against mine like he just doesn't have the energy to keep it elevated himself. 

He pulls out once we’ve both caught our breath, taking a second to deal with the condom and toss it in the trash can beside the bed before collapsing beside me. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, surprisingly, it’s quite comfortable.

“I don’t usually do things like this,” I say quietly, he turns his head to meet my gaze, “but am I ever glad I did tonight.”

He grins, laughing quietly and nodding in agreement.

“So are you kicking me out?” I ask after a few more minutes. 

He laughs again, wiggling an arm under my waist to drag me closer to him, “Nah.” he says, “I’m not done with ya yet.

~

Consent is hot, guys.

#Merriell Shelton #Merriell Snafu Shelton #merriell shelton x reader #merriell shelton smut #merriell shelton/reader #snafu #Snafu Shelton #snafu x reader #snafu shelton x reader #the pacific #rami malek x reader

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 57: Wasting Time with a New Friend

Lotor makes some new friends. Together, they discover that word of Lance and Keith's union has reached video game developers in the worst, best way.

Featuring Leakira in the role of comic relief (Not to offend Leakira fans, this is meant to be a fun, happy place. I just thought it might be funny little detail) XD

First  Previous  Next

Lotor finds them sleeping in a hallway. A much-needed distraction.

More specifically, it’s an adolescent Olkari with orange feelers, dressed in green and white garb stained with red dust. They’re incredibly small, even for a smaller species. Pretty adorable, like a wolf cub.

So obviously he nudges them with his foot.

“Can I help you?” the kit growls, amber eyes glaring up at him.

“You’re sleeping in a hallway.”

“And? What’s your point?”

“... You know what? I’m not really sure.”

With a groan, the kit sits up, tugging on their feelers. “So what are you up to, Mr. Prince?”

“Oh not much. Wandering around, looking for trouble.” He’s actually looking for a distraction, but that’s almost the same thing as trouble.

“Trouble, huh?” The Olkari smirks. “I’m Pidge. Lance’s resident tech genius and vent crawler- I mean spy.”

“Ah-haha, I see. You’re one of his ‘associates’.” Lotor grins, helps Pidge to their feet.

“Yes. Working for Lance usually involves some level of trouble. What are the princes up to today, anyway?”

“Lance is with Allura. She’s having a hard morning. Keith is with Thace, our emergency medic and reproductive specialist.”

“Oh, really? Making sure his junk works?”

“That’s the idea. Why?”

“It’d be awesome to have some dirt on Keith. He’s just so perfect.” Pidge skips down the hallway, a curious prince following behind them. “The worst thing he’s done is drink a bit too much, find his happy place at a party, and get really snuggly with Lance.”

Following Pidge into what should have been an old, empty storeroom, Lotor’s eyes widen in surprise. The typically ignored room is set up with monitors and a work table covered with Balmeran crystals and a few other tools.

“Where did you get some of these tools?” he asks, eyeing a choice laser of Galra design.

“I crawled through the tunnels underneath the actual labs and stole them. I’m welcome in the labs, of course. I just don’t want to share my work with them. The field of science is rife with thieves.”

“You found the tunnels already?” Lotor stares. There are tunnels all under the mountain, his ancestors making the massive peak into an insect hive. There are escape tunnels and hidden caches and underground pools and even a forge made of volcanic glass that he discovered as a small boy.

He still likes to go down there on the rare occasion he can find the time. Someday, he’ll take his children down there, and tell them all about the stories carved into the ancient walls.

“Yep! Anyway, let’s see if I can hack into Thace’s equipment. And by that I mean give me like, thirty ticks because I can definitely do it.” While Pidge types away on their computer, Lotor sits himself on the floor, eyeing a faint square cut into the stone. Most people don’t notice, don’t know to look for the fine edges carved into the floor. “Ooh… Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Lotor asks. “Is Keith okay?”

“You really care for him, don’t you?” Amber eyes smile at him, intuitive.

“Of course I do! He’s my cousin! And my friend!” And he has more than his fair share of health problems. Lotor himself was not a healthy kit, so he understands the worries that his cousin might have.

“Aw-w. You’re just a big ol’ sweetheart, aren’t ya?” Pidge turns back to their computer. “What’s interesting is that Keith is… surprisingly healthy. His weight and body mass index are good… Thace is optimistic about a successful pregnancy.”

“Why is that interesting?” Lotor scratches his head, frowning a little.

“Because our boys requested contraceptives, probably due to health concerns.”

“Miscarriage risks are higher for him. That’s partially due to his sex, and partially due to his condition. Do you think they’ll use contraceptives?”

“Pfft. No. They’re young, they’re stupid, and they both want pups. I doubt Lance can keep it in his pants.”

“What about Keith?”

“He’s shy.” Pidge shrugs like that explains everything. It kind of does. Keith’s priorities are probably more of the cuddling variety than the ‘aggressive hugging’ variety. “Can I have some of your blood?”

“Hm? Uh… How much blood?”

“I dunno. A few vials? Maybe I’ll swab your cheek too? It might help with my experiments.”

“And what might those be?”

“I’m trying to invent Altean-friendly prosthetics. It’s not going well. Alteans are stupid inside and out.” Pidge gathers their tools to stick him, and Lotor stares. This tiny little Olkari is far more than they appear. “Who do you think will kill Lance for getting Keith pregnant? Krolia or Shiro?”

But they're young, still playful and carefree.

“Hm… My money’s on Krolia. Or the creepy friend.”

“Adam? Oh, he’s softer than he looks. More likely he’ll live vicariously through their children and terrorize anyone who tries to mess with them.” Pidge sticks a swab in his cheek as they fill a second vial with his blood. “Your fangs are adorable.”

“Thanks?” Lotor regards them. “So you do science, you do people… What don’t you do?”

“Relationships.” Pidge cleans the crook of his arm, bandaging the spot where they bled him. “And genders. Those are for more primitive individuals.”

Lotor laughs. “More highly evolved, are you?”

“Exactly. Unlike Alteans. Stupid, scaley assholes with stupid, cranky cells.”

“I don’t get it. What exactly is the problem?” Lotor peers over Pidge’s shoulder as they examine his cells under their microscope.

“Not sure, but Alteans have some odd properties that make their biology incompatible with metal, coral, bone, wood, and other prosthetic materials. When used, the Altean’s cells refuse to accept the forgein material, even if it’s biocompatible. Hence, their cells are stupid.”

“So it would seem. How are my cells?”

“Hm… I'll have to run some of my own, secret tests. I may try to culture your skin cells to figure out how it all works.”

“Have at it. Can I interest you in a secret?”

“Always!” The young Olkari’s eyes shine, eager to learn. To know. A person after his own heart.

“Most of Altea’s technology is rediscovered. Thousands of decaphoebs ago, there was what’s known as The Forgetting. The Altean’s powers were quite suddenly drastically altered, and their society descended into chaos. Much of their technology was lost, then rediscovered within the last few milophoebs.”

“No fucking way!”

“Way. This includes their lauded Teludav technology.”

“Those fakers! How have I not heard of this?”

“I know! It’s their best kept secret. Also, beneath Mount Sil’brana is a petrified forest.”

“Oh, that’s so cool!” Pidge makes a note on their datapad. “I wonder… I don’t know if I could interface with that or not. Probably not, since it’s no longer organic, but then again perhaps I could reach the echo?”

“Echo?”

“All organic life leaves behind an echo. Sometimes, I can reach that echo. I’d be great at solving murders!”

“Well, if ever I am murdered, do find my killer. I’m sure my wife would appreciate it.”

“Unless she did the murdering,” Pidge snickers.

“Some days, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. She’d say it’s my fault, but…”

“Pregnancy.”

“Yeah. How do you think Keith will be when he gets pregnant?”

“He’s relatively mild-mannered as long as Lance keeps him happy, so either unbelievably psychotic or unbearably sweet.”

“He is really sweet. I honestly didn’t expect it when he first arrived. Lance is a little… He’s reserved, but also high-strung at the same time?”

“He definitely can be. But he can also be very playful. Those two are either quiet and reserved together, or cutting up and goofing off together. But Lance is the high-strung one, for sure. Keith just wants to know whose head to crack open. Lance wants to know every single little detail about everything.”

“So he’s a control freak.”

“Little bit, yeah. We’ve all got our thing.” Pidge smiles. “But Lance gave me a home when mine was lost. He had no reason to do that. He didn’t know what I was capable of.”

“I had assumed you were on Altea for research?” Lotor's curious, but won't push.

“No. Though I do enjoy research. For example, I have the new Phantasm Killbot game. I just got to the first visual novel part where they introduce the characters and their little side plots and all. Wanna help me out? For research?” The Olkari holds up a controller.

“Yeah alright. Anything for research.” Lotor takes the controller, waits for the character introduction screen. He’s played this game before. “Player one… Leandro.”

“Player Two… Akira.”

The screen loads.

“Uh… That’s… Interesting. Is that- Does that look like Lance to you?” It really does, at least to Lotor. The only difference is that ‘Leandro’ has brown hair and his scales are a very pale blue.

“Wow, that’s weird. Okay. Let’s see where this goes- Oh my fuck, this is going to be good.”

Lotor can’t help but agree, staring at a screen of a smirking ‘Leandro’ lounging with a wide-eyed Galra presumably named ‘Akira’. The Galra has purple hair and golden irises, dressed in what might loosely be referred to as clothing.

It’s exceptionally weird, even weirder given that Akira is the name of Keith’s father, Lotor’s uncle.

“I cannot wait to tell my cousin about this,” Lotor breathes, coming to the realization of exactly what’s before him.

“Yes! We have to! Right now!” Pidge stands, tugs on his arm.

“Well, let’s not be too hasty.” Lotor stares at the screen, that mischievous part of his brain clicking and whirring. “I mean, we have to do our research, right?”

“You know…” Pidge taps their chin. “You might be onto something.”

“I mean it’s just courtesy, right? Making sure we can give them all the information we possibly can?”

“You’re absolutely right. Okay, so you get first choice for dialogue and it looks like Not-Keith has a prompt for us.”

“Oh, gods. Okay, I am so sorry, Keith… Let’s see, here.”

…

Akira: We can’t keep meeting like this. What if people find out?

Leandro: I’m a prince, my sweet. I do what I want.

Akira: But you could be killed!

Leandro: You’re worth dying for.

Leandro: It’s my fault, anyway. I just couldn’t resist you.

Akira: It’s not your fault. I let you have me.

Leandro: You should let me have you again.

Akira: Please… I need it…

*Kiss Passionately*

Leandro: Oh, my sweet. You’re in season!

Akira: Make love to me, and I will give you a son.

…

“I feel dirty,” Lotor mutters. “This is what’s passing for entertainment right now?”

“It’s so bad! I love it!” Pidge snickers.

“Lance is going to be mortified.”

“No, he won’t.” The two new friends turn to see Adam leaning in the doorway, smirking.

“And why, pray tell, is that?” Lotor asks, one eyebrow almost reaching his hairline.

“Lance is bigger than that. He’ll be filled with a sense of… well-being.”

“Oh, gross! Adam!” Pidge chucks a wrench at the Altean’s head, the trio laughing as he dodges, then retrieves it for them. “I don’t want to hear about my friend’s dick!”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, and I hate it.” Pidge drags Adam to the floor, sits in his lap. “Okay, you can help us. What should Leandro say next? ‘A daughter would be fine’ or ‘Honor me with the gift of your flesh’?”

“Who the quiznak wrote this?” Adam mutters. “And we want ‘Honor me with the gift of your flesh.’”

“I don’t know, but I will find out. And kill them,” Lotor mutters.

“Easy on the instincts, Mr. Prince.” Pidge continues to the next cut scene.

“It’s nothing to do with instincts! I just hate that I had to read that!” Lotor sighs. “At least that cut scene is over. Now we have… Brothers, Sven and Kuron? Lots of new characters for this one.”

Adam blinks, gaping at the screen. “What. The fuck-”

...

Allura sighs, running a hand through her loose curls. It's been a rough morning, one that doesn't promise to get easier. A howling chorus of laughter cuts through her stressed thoughts. Cracking open a storeroom, she spies her husband, Adam, and Pidge laughing away at a video game.

"I wOuLd DiE fOr AkIrA," Pidge mocks, cackling.

"Leandro, please!" Lotor laughs, cutting through a false simper as he pretends to swoon. "I couldn't live without you!"

"That's such a toxic sentiment, honestly." Adam shakes his head, but his eyes are glittering bright.

Shaking her head, Allura leans in the doorway, settling a hand on her slightly protruding stomach. Life is never perfect, not for anyone. But seeing her husband playing around and having fun with their friends -his new friends- suggests that everything might still turn out alright. Or at least, not as awful as it sometimes seems.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Αιώνια αγάπη (DT AU), pt. 9*

09: Double trouble

Summary: Y/N finally learns the truth.

Warnings: angst, death, violence, SMUT (unprotected sex, always use condoms kids!!), swearing??

Word count: 7100

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Αιώνια αγάπη (DT Modern Greek god/frat! AU) MASTERLIST    

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Y/N wasted no time, running forward and into the open arms of her mother as the twins tried to pick up their jaws of the floor. They watched their love embrace her dead mother, both women crying, inconsolable.

"What just happened?" Apollo's voice cracked, his shock evidently on display as he too fought to remain sane with the image before him playing games with his head. It felt like his brain stuttered, unable to contemplate the sight.

"Hecate." Hermes' jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing and his eyebrows furrowing. His forehead wrinkled, a single line foiling his smooth skin across the middle, another forming between his eyebrows - anger, frustration, and the slightest bit of fear taking over him.

"This is a cruel trick. One I have no doubt she created to break Y/N. Once broken, she'll have free reign." His lips set in a thin line, feeling his brother's hand brush his own.

"She feeds off her emotions. Whenever the emotion is too great, Hecate takes over." Apollo realizes, eyes widening when his girl detaches from her mother and turns to face them.

She's completely flushed in the face, her eyes brimming with overflowing tears, red as well. She crinkles her nose, brushing the back of her hand under it to gather the tears that stained her face, her lips parted enough for her front teeth to be seen.

"Guys, this is my mum." She giggles, still attached to her mother's hip and ecstatic like a child. Almost like she doesn't realize the insanity of the situation.

"As in your late mother?" Apollo says carefully, trying to be considerate, but he can't let her be oblivious to what is happening. A part of him is screaming to take her in his arms and whisk her away because the dead never return as they were - there is always a catch. And considering Hecate is the one who made it happen, he's sure the catch is much more dangerous than it usually is. The other part of him wants to tell her all of that, admit to his heritage, his love, the entire truth and just hope she'll still have him.

But how can he?

How can he dim the light in her eyes, despite the tears that cloud them? How can he take away what may very well be her last chance to say goodbye? How can he be the one to break her heart?

"I, uh..." The smile on her face falls, her eyes flickering to her mother who looks at her in confusion, like she had no clue what they're talking about.

"Can I talk to you?" Hermes pipes in, hoping she'll want to speak to him, even if it's just to scream at him.

"Alone, please?" He adds, looking at the way her mother's lips twitched between a smile and a sneer once he asked, feeling something is wrong in the pit of his stomach.

"I'll be right back." She excuses herself, kindly smiling up at her mother and back at Grayson before following Ethan out of the room. The very moment those doors close behind them is the moment his mouth moves.

"Babe, I want this to be all that you think it is, but I can't let you believe this is real." Ethan spoke in rushed, slightly hushed voices, his eyes flickering to the closed door as she dropped her gaze to the floor.

"You see her too, right? I'm not entirely mad, am I?" She whispers, her chest trembling with a heavy, shaky sigh.

Unable to watch her crumble, Ethan quickly pushed her into his chest, his arms wrapping around her frame, overlapping in the middle of her back. He pushed her into him so suddenly that her breath left her, so strongly that she swore her ribs cracked, so lovingly her heart skipped a beat. His chin atop her head as he stared up at the ceiling, thinking how lost he's felt his entire life, and how he finally found himself in her embrace. He always thought he was past saving, long lost in the eternal damnation his life became, but she gave him a chance...she saw him as Ethan, a good guy who she safely tucked herself in and refused to let go. He had to reassure her.

"I do. I see her. But we both know she isn't really here. Not to stay. Not for the right reasons. It's Hecate." Ethan takes a whiff of her hair, slowly unwrapping himself from her.

"You believe Hecate is real too?" She breathes out, happy she's no longer alone in this mess. She has Ethan and possibly even Grayson, both of whom she finds have taken root in her heart.

"I always did." He smiles slightly, watching her press her lips together.

"I'm still pissed about the fire, but I forgive you for it." She taps her hand on his chest lightly, but their moment is cut short once Grayson screams for help.

"GUYS?!"

Y/N was the first one inside, opening the door wide with her eyes darting toward a struggling Grayson and...

"MUM?" Y/N screamed, horrified at the sight. She laid atop of Grayson who was pinned to the floor, inhuman sounds filling the room, mixing with Grayson's grunts. However, the simple call of her daughter reeled the woman back in, her aggressiveness and jaw snapping stopping for a moment, long enough for her to turn to Y/N with her cold, dirty yellow eyes staring at her, so empty and void of life. Her mother's skin was like old crinkled paper and her lips the color of rusted iron. Her jaw, which was open too wide, displayed a set of rotting yellow teeth. The veins were about to burst from her forehead and blood was splattered like red paint all over her face and hands. And her hands, once so soft and loving, were like sticks with their flesh almost falling off.

"Oh, God." Y/N stumbled backwards as Ethan stepped before her, his arms open wide, pushing her behind his body as he glanced at his brother who kept the zombified woman at arms length.

"Grayson, I suggest you go for the head." Ethan said calmly, but his heart felt like it would burst with the speed it took on. While he wasn't frightened of the sight, he was sure as hell afraid his brother and Y/N would never recover from it. He's seen far worse in the Underworld, but they haven't. And this... this was personal.

In moments, Grayson grabbed onto her head and rolled over her, slamming her skull into the floor until her brain splattered on the boards and the body mystically disappeared.

Y/N could hear the cracks, the grunts and the sound of blood and tissue splashing around, crying openly and without reserve. Brick by brick, her walls came tumbling down. The screaming had stopped so very suddenly. One minute her mother was right in her embrace, more alive than Y/N ever thought she could ever be, and the next she was meat on the floor.

Ethan wrapped his arms around her instantly, pulling her up into his chest and into the bed where she could rest. Stealing a glance, she found there was no body on the floor after all. She didn't see any blood, any indication of what happened in the room nor on Grayson, only messing with her head further.

Thanks to Ethan and Grayson...and the magical disappearance of evidence.

Hecate at least granted them that courtesy.

Grayson appeared by her side out of thin air, pushing back her hair to see her face properly. She's got red patches of skin, tears running in every direction, her nose joining in. Her mouth is open and her wails echo the room and his heart, breaking him to pieces.

They held her until she could no longer weep, tucked in between them like a precious pearl within a clam, protected and loved...loved beyond belief.

And she fell asleep, the warm bodies around her serving as comfort for her to get through it all.

However, the moment she slipped away into dreamland, she woke with her mother before her. And it wasn't the zombie version of her mother that Grayson had to kill, but the woman who wore a gentle smile and always had something wise to say.

"I am sorry you had to see that." Her mother said, tilting her head ever so slightly, her lips curling into a small smile.

"What is dead cannot remain undead for long. Your friend did the right thing." The woman's smile spread, her hand reaching out for Y/N's. "Thank him for me."

"I don't understand." Y/N shakes her head lightly, eyebrows furrowing as she clasps her mothers hand tighter.

"I have been given a rare chance to let my daughter know how much I love her. But to let her know she has to move on from this pain. Stop holding onto it and let love in." Placing her palm on Y/N's cheek, she continues.

"You have two men falling at your feet. And they might not be what you think, but they have good intentions in mind." And that's when Y/N understood. Her mother wanted her to let them in. But how could she? How could she ever choose one and not hurt the other?

"I can't. If I let one in, the other will suffer and I can't do that. I can't bear it."

"Why choose? Just feel. If they care for you, they will learn to respect that."

While Y/N said goodbye to her mother, the brother's had other things on mind.

"We have to tell her." Grayson whispers, his eyes falling to his brother who seemed to be lost in thought. He knew it would be a hard sell, but he needed to try and convince Ethan to cooperate. Whether he agrees or not, he had every intention on telling her everything. Keeping the truth from her only put her in danger.

"I know. Just as much as I have to deal with Hecate." Ethan sighs, running his knuckle down her cheek gently, so softly she could barely feel it. But he felt it, needed it - the touch, the softness, all of it.

"When?" Grayson bit his lower lip, taking in a shuddered breath as she shuffled in her sleep and moved closer to him. Her fingers wrapped around his shirt, pulling it slightly toward her.

"Now. You tell her and I'll go tell Hecate to fuck off already." Ethan stood, the bed instantly colder for Y/N, but while she does frown in her sleep, she doesn't wake.

"We always told them together in the past." Grayson hissed, trying not to move too much in order to not wake her. It didn't feel right to leave him out of such an important conversation.

"And when did that ever work in our favor? Time to change things up, brother." And Apollo knew that before him stood Hermes, not Ethan. He wasn't just a man, but a god in love...and a god in love will do whatever he has to in order to secure safety for the one he cares for. His love knows no bounds, and Apollo knows that. Because he feels the same way.

Nodding, he bites his lip once more as Hermes leaves, leaning down so the tip of his nose brushed her cheek.

"Y/N, love." Grayson swallows, realizing he can no longer hold off on being honest with her. He has to let her know the truth before she goes mad. He has to give her all the information and let her choose what to do with it.

But instead of speaking, the moment her eyes open, her lips close in on his. It felt like she had been made anew.

His arms locked around her; unyielding, they tightened, impressing   her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. A pleasant sensation streaked through  her; her skin tingled. Still she held him firmly, so closely to her - almost desperate for his touch.

He tilted his head, his lips moved on hers, a powerful, elemental call to her senses. It woke her up, enough to pause their kiss for a single moment, her labored breathing matching his. She pressed herself into him, until she could feel his hardness pressing back.

"What are you doing?" Grayson asks, pained and needy, frustrated and completely confused.

"A girl is offering herself to you and you're blind to it? I don't buy it." She smiled against his lips, her tone unusually cheerful, far too calm for a girl who just lost her mother for the second time. Pulling back, Grayson cups her face, observing her carefully for signs of Hecate. He could tell who it is just by looking into her eyes, however, he is surprised when he finds it's Y/N who is gazing back at him.

"You should know who I am before giving yourself to me." Grayson leans in, his forehead resting atop hers, his lips brushing hers just for a moment before he utters the truth finally.

"Ethan and I aren't human." He closed his eyes, unable to look at her at all. He didn't want to see her when she rejects him, enjoying the last moments he can have her all to himself. He felt her body stiffen, her lips quiver as they brushed his once more, her forehead wrinkling despite the weight of his head on it.

"Okay." She whispers, swallowing thickly as his eyes snap open, confused and a little happy she's not running for the hills. But she wanted to honor what her mother told her. Be open and listen...feel, don't think.

"I'm sure there's more to the story." She continues, her right hand hovering above his right cheek before she sets her palm on it, her thumb tracing half circles on his skin.

"My name is Apollo and he is Hermes. We've been cursed to walk the Earth to atone for our sins against mankind. Doomed to do so until a descendant of the old gods falls in love with one of us, allowing the chosen one to return home while dooming the other one." Apollo tried to pull back, the silence and the stare too intimate, too heavy for him to take, but she doesn't let him. Instead, she hooks her leg around his waist, her other hand joining the task of cupping his face.

"And Hecate is my bloodline?" She asks, but it's obvious she knows the truth. Taking in a shaky breath, she tracks her right hand to his jaw and further back until it settles on his neck, slowly sliding to his shoulder.

"What happens when the descendant loves you both equally? So much so she feels her heart is comprised of two pieces and each piece has your names written on them." Y/N lifts her head up, chin first until their foreheads part and she tastes his lips languidly. Only to break the kiss a moment after.

"But do you love me?" She adds, kissing the left corner of his lips as her entire body trembles in need. In pure need of his body on hers.

"With all my heart." And that is all the confirmation she needs.

His lips parted, she slid her tongue between to tangle challengingly with his. He tasted powerful, so wonderfully, a  mind-whirling sensation gripping her. He hadn't moved, instinctively she  deepens the caress, angling her lips against his.

Passion. It burst upon her mind, heart, upon her senses like a hurricane. It rose from within him, from between them, pouring through her, deep, swirling emotion, a soul-stealing compulsion.

On one heartbeat, she was the leader, on the next, he resumed command; his lips hard, his body a steel cage surrounding her. A cage she never wished to escape. She surrendered, gladly yielding; ravenous, he stole her very breath. Breasts aching, heart thundering, Y/N stole it back.

A part of her wondered about Ethan, no, Hermes, and where he may be for she remembered him being on her other side, but she couldn't stop. Another part of her, one she never knew existed, wished for him to be there, right by her and his arms on her. She was never a dirty mind kind of a girl, nor would she ever think she'd be one to wish for a threesome with twins...brothers, gods, inhuman beings...but she did. It was more than physical, her need stemming from deep within.

She does love them both, choosing in this moment is impossible. But only one of them told her he loves her back. Only one of them remained by her side. Only one of them pressed himself against her when she felt she would die if she remains untouched.  His lids slowly rose; she met his gaze unflinchingly.

"Are you sure, love?"

"With all my heart." She mimicked his words from earlier, her fingers sliding into his thick hair.

Apollo nodded, smiling as he pulled back much to her dismay. He slid further down, freeing her of her shoes, socks and then pants - slowly, almost painfully. Like he didn't care if Hermes came back and stumbled upon them. Like he had all of eternity to make love to her. To make love with a mortal, no reason but the way she makes him feel as if he is someone worthy of her heart. Not just for the fun, nor hope of ruin...just love he feels.

He let his hands fall,  tracing her sleek thighs before closing one hand above each knee.  Slowly, he slid his fingers upward, his thumbs drawing lazy circles along her inner thighs. Higher and  higher, inch by inch, he raised his hands - the muscles of her  thighs tensed, then locked, then quivered.

He stopped with his thumbs just below her panties, placing his fingers on the soft cotton. While he let his hands roam her body, his lips savored the taste of hers. Drawing back from their kiss, he watched her and waited for her lids to rise. When they did, he trapped her gaze with his and drew two more circles. She shivered.

One hand slid around to spread across her bottom; her skin turned   feverish at his touch. He caressed her in slow circles, her  senses followed, distracted by the cotton shifting between hand and naked   skin.

Then his fingers fanned, cupping her bottom and in the same instant, she felt his other hand slide between her parted thighs. His head angled over hers; his kiss became more demanding. He stroked her through the cotton panties, stroked and caressed and teased until the cotton clung, a second skin, muting his touch, tantalizing her senses. Y/N tensed, fingertips sinking into the muscles of his back, pulling his shirt up and breaking the kiss just to pull it over his head. She felt his hand shift; one long finger sliding into her, probing gently, then more deliberately. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. She pulled back with a gasp and he let her go, his hands leaving her. He tore his clothes off, watching her through hooded lids while she did the same, revealing her beautifully curvaceous body.  She was far from perfect, a million reasons why she could never be a model obvious to anyone, but Apollo didn't care. Grasping her waist, he toppled over her entirely and they sank into the bed.

With a valiantly smothered shriek, she rolled into him, into his arms,  unable to gain any ground on the slippery sheets. He lifted her over  him, her legs tangling with his, her hair fanning over his naked chest.

He expected her to be shocked, expected her to hesitate, believing she had never touched a naked man. The shock was certainly there, he saw it in her stunned expression; hesitation followed but it lasted a split second. In the next, their lips met and there was no longer any distinction between him kissing her and her kissing him. He felt her hands on his chest, greedily exploring; he ravaged her mouth and felt her fingers sink deep. He spread his hands over her back and held her against him, easing the throbbing ache of his erection against her soft belly. She writhed, heated and eager. Some women were catlike, elusively seductive but she was demanding, aggressive, intent on not just fraying his reins, but shredding them. Deliberately invoking his desire, all the possessiveness in his soul. Which, given she was a virgin from what he could tell, qualified as abject madness. Breathing raggedly, he pulled back from their kiss.

"For Zeus' sake, slow down!"

Engrossed in caressing his chest, Y/N didn't even look up.

"I'm nineteen. I've wasted enough time." She wriggled while Apollo gritted his teeth. Out of all the things he expected when he finally came clean, for her to throw herself at him was the last one. He even felt guilty for stealing this moment from Hermes, because touching her felt better than anything Mount Olympus had to offer. But another part of his was struggling to keep himself in check, realizing he didn't want to destroy her the first time she gets a taste of what sex feels like. And she's made that job incredibly difficult.

"You're nineteen and you should  know better. You should at least have some measure of  self-preservation." Intent on rushing toward her fate, she seemed  to have no concept of how much he could hurt her, of how much his  strength overshadowed hers, of how much harder than her he was.  She was intent on learning, her hands reached lower, exploring the ridges  of his lower chest.

Apollo felt his desire rise, full-blown, ravenous, too  strong for her to handle. Releasing her buttocks, he grasped her upper  arms. Just as she grasped him. The shock that rushed through him nearly shattered his control.

He froze. So did Y/N.

She looked into his face, his eyes were shut, his expression graven.  Carefully, she curled her fingers again, utterly fascinated by her  discovery.

How could something so hard, so rigid, so ridged, so  blatantly male, be so silky smooth, so soft?

Again, she  touched the smoothly rounded head, akin to stroking hot steel   through the finest silk. Apollo groaned; he reached down and  closed his hand over hers, not to pull it away but to curl her fingers  more tightly. Eagerly, she followed his unspoken instructions, obviously   much more to her taste than slowing down. He let her caress him  until he thought his jaw would break - he had to pull her hand away.

She  fought him, squirming all over him, soft, hot flesh  writhing over his by-now-painful erection. With a curse under his breath, he   caught her hands, one in each of his, and rolled, trapping her beneath   him. He anchored her hands to the bed and kissed her, deeply and more deeply, letting his weight sink fully onto her until she had no  breath left to fight him, no strength to defy him.

They both  stilled; in that instant, she was open to him, heated, her thighs  spread, soft and welcoming, her hips baiting him to move.  All he needed to do was reach down then sink his throbbing erection into her softness and claim her.

Simple.

Gritting his teeth, Apollo let go of her hands and lifted away. He moved  back. Knees spread, he sat back on his ankles in the middle of the bed.  Locking his eyes on hers, he beckoned with both hands.

"Come here."

Her eyes widened; they searched his, then fell - jaw locked, he suffered her scrutiny, saw the age-old question form in her eyes. Giddy, not only from breathlessness, Y/N slowly blinked, then  raised her eyes to his face. He looked exactly like a god, seated in                                                         the remains of sunlight coming through his window, his maleness so flagrantly displayed. The  soft light gilded the muscles of his arms, his chest—and the rest of  him. She drew in a deep breath; her heartbeat thundered in her ears.  Slowly, she rose on one elbow and came up on her knees, facing him. He took her  hands in his and drew her closer, then closed his hands about her waist  and lifted her. As he set her down astride his thighs, Y/N frowned  into his eyes.

"If you tell me we have to wait, I'll scream." The planes of his face looked harder than granite.

"You'll scream anyway." She frowned harder and saw his lips twitch. "With pleasure."

The idea was new to her. She was still thinking as Apollo...well, Grayson still in her mind, drew her  closer. High on her knees as she was, her hips grazed his lower chest.

"Kiss me." He didn't need to ask twice; willingly, she twined her arms about his neck and set her lips to his. One hand at her back holding her upright, he deepened the kiss,  skimming his other hand upward, over her abdomen, before closing it  about her breast. The already heated flesh swelled and firmed, hearing her moan as he tweaked her nipple. He drew back from the kiss; she let her head  fall back, the exposed curve of her throat an offering he didn't  refuse. He trailed hot kisses down the pulsing vein; she inched closer,  pressing her breast to his palm. Bending her back, he lowered his  head. She stilled, her breathing quickened. One long lick dampened one nipple. She gasped as his lips touched the peak, sucking lightly as he felt her melt in his arms.

He couldn't even  remember the last time he'd bedded a virgin, even then, whoever she was,  she hadn't been someone he loved. He harboured no illusions over how difficult the  next half hour would be; for the first time in his lengthy career, he  prayed he'd be strong enough to manage her and the passion she  unleashed in him.

Head bent, he tortured one tightly budded nipple, then  turned his attention to its mate. Sinking her fingers into his  upper arms, Y/N gasped and swayed. With her bones transmuted to warm chocolate, her weak grip, his hand at her back and the tantalizing tug of  his lips were all that was keeping her upright. Hot and wet, his lips,  his mouth, moved over her breasts, teasing first one aching bud, then  the other until both were swollen tight. She ached to touch him, to send  her hands searching, but didn't dare let go. His lips left her; a  second later, his teeth grazed one crinkled nipple. She gave a muted cry.

His lips returned, soothing her flesh, then he  suckled hard. With a long-drawn moan, she swayed forward, into his kiss. It caught her, anchored her, as his hands roved her body, heated palms burning. Every curve she possessed, he traced; every square inch of her skin tingled, then ached for more. Her back, her sides, the curve of her stomach, the long muscles of her thighs, her arms, her bottom - none escaped his attention. The shiver that racked her came from deep within, a final farewell to the virgin she was but would be no more.

His hands rose and he released her lips. Splaying her fingers, she sank the tips into his chest and felt his muscles lock. She kissed him with a fervour to match his own, revelling in the urgency building between them. Excitement whirled as their lips melded, each breath the other's, tongues entwined. His hands roamed, as urgently demanding as his lips, hard palms sculpting, fingers flexing, possessing.

Still on her knees, her thighs locked on either side of his, her hips pressed to his abdomen, she felt his hands curve and cup her bottom. One remained, holding her high, the other slid lower, long fingers questing. They found her heat and slid further, pressing between her thighs, probing the hot, slick folds, caressing, then pressing deeper and deeper as she ached and burned. His only response was to deepen their kiss, holding her captive and to his mercy.

His fingers stroked slowly, deliberately. Abruptly, Apollo drew back from their kiss. His fingers left her; he cupped her bottom with both hands.

"Slide down." Y/N couldn't believe the strength of the compulsion that gripped her, but she knew she needed him inside her more than she needed to breathe. Even so, just looking at his hardened length, she shook her head.

"You're never going to fit."

His hands firmed about her hips. "Just slide."

She did, sinking lower, his hands guiding her. She felt the first touch of his cock, hot and hard, and stopped. He slipped his fingers between her thighs and opened her; she felt the first intimate intrusion of his body into hers. Catching her breath on a strangled gasp, she sank lower, and felt his head slip inside.

He felt large, much larger than she'd expected. She sucked in a breath; under the weight of his hands, she sank still lower. Hard as forged iron, hot as unquenched steel, he pressed into her.

She shook her head again. "This is not going to work."

"It will." She felt his words within her; he was, if anything, even tenser than she, rock-hard muscles flickering.

"You'll stretch to take me. Every inch. It's the way your body is built." He was the expert. Through the storm of emotions inside her; uncertainty, desire, and giddy need, laced with distant remnants of shyness, all gave into the most desperate longing she'd ever known.

Stubborn as always and determined to be brave, she sank down. And stopped. Immediately, Grayson lifted her, not quite losing her clinging heat.

"Sink down again." She did, until her hymen again impeded their progress. Under his hands, she repeated the maneuver again and again. She was hot, slick and very tight; once she was moving freely, he brushed his lips against her temple.

"Kiss me." She lifted her head immediately, swollen lips parted, eager for more. He took her mouth vigorously, struggling to harness the wild passion that drove him, battling to remain in control long enough to avoid unnecessarily hurting her. He was going to hurt her enough as it was.            

One, powerful upward thrust, timed to meet  her downward slide, enforced by the pressure of his hands on her hips,  and it was done. He breached her in that single movement, forging deep  into her body, filling her, stretching her.

She screamed, the sound smothered by their kiss. Her body tensed; so did his. Focusing completely on her, waiting for her softening, the first sign of acceptance that he knew would come, Grayson grimly denied the primal urge to lose himself in her heat, to pound into her mindlessly like he would if it was any other girl.

Their lips had parted; they were both breathing raggedly. From under his lashes, he watched as she moistened her lips with her tongue.

"Was that the scream you were talking about?"

"No." He touched his lips to the corner of hers.

"There'll be no more pain from now on, you'll only scream with pleasure." Y/N could only hope. The memory of the sharp agony that had seared into her was so intense she could still feel it. Yet with every breath, with every heartbeat, the heat of him eased the ache. She tried to shift; his hands firmed, holding her still.

"Wait." She had to obey. Until that moment, she hadn't appreciated how completely in his control she was. The hard, throbbing reality that had invaded her, intimately filling her, impinged fully on her mind. Vulnerability swept her, rippling through her.

She heard Grayson groan. Blinking, she looked up; his eyes were shut, his features like stone. Under her hands, the muscles of his shoulders were locked in some phantom battle. Inside her, the steady throb of him radiated heat and a sense of barely reined urgency. Her pain had gone. On the thought, the last of her tension ebbed; the last vestiges of resistance fell away. Tentatively, her gaze on his face, she eased from his hold, and rose slowly on her knees.

"Please." The single word was heavy with encouragement. He stopped her at the precise point beyond which their contact would break. She sensed his eagerness, the same compelling urgency that welled within her; she needed no direction to sink slowly down, enthralled by the feel of his steely hardness sliding, slick and hot, deep into her. She did it again, and again, head falling back as she slid down, opening her senses completely, savoring every drawn-out second. Their guidance no longer required, his hands roved, reclaiming her breasts, the full curves of her bottom, the sensitive backs of her thighs.

Lifting her head, Y/N draped her arms around his neck and sought his lips with hers. The glide of their bodies, uniting in a rhythm as old as the moon, felt exquisitely right. She gave him her mouth; as he claimed it, she tightened her arms, pressing herself to him, drawn to the promise contained within his powerful body, demanding more.

He drew back from the kiss; under his lashes, she saw his eyes gleam.

"Are you all right?" His hands traced mesmerizing circles on her lower back. At the peak of her rise, she held his gaze and slowly, concentrating on the rigid hardness invading her, sank down. She felt his rippling shudder and saw his jaw firm. His eyes flashed. Greatly daring, she licked the vein pulsing at the base of his throat.

"Actually, I find this quite..." She was so far past breathless her words shook.

"Surprising?" His voice was a rumble almost too low to be heard. Catching a desperate breath, Y/N closed her eyes and offered a different word.

"Unearthly." His laugh was so deep she felt it in her marrow.

"Trust me." His lips traced the curve of her ear. "There's a great deal more pleasure to come."

"Ah, yes," Y/N murmured, trying desperately to cling to sanity. "I believe you to be a past master at this exercise." Dragging in a tight breath, she rose upon him.

"Does that make me your maiden, worshiper?"

"No." Apollo held his breath as she sank, excruciatingly slowly, down.

"That makes you the love of my life. My pupil. My world." It would make her his consort had he any power over her, but he wasn't about to tell her that.

On her next downward slide, she pressed lower; he nudged deeper. Her breath hitched; instinctively, she tightened about him. Grayson set his teeth against a groan. Eyes wide, she looked up at him, her breathing shallow and fast.

Breasts rising and falling, brushing his chest, she moistened her lips. "I really didn't think you'd fit."            

Apollo clenched his jaw along with every other muscle he possessed. After a  moment of fraught silence, he managed to say: "I'll fit—eventually."

"Eventually?" Her eyes grew round, but he didn't wait for more. He caught her lips in a ravishing kiss and, anchoring her hips against him, tumbled her back onto the pillows. He'd chosen their earlier position to break her hymen, placing a limit on how deep he could go, helpful given the force of his instincts. But the time for limits had passed; his swift rearrangement landed her on her back among the pillows, his hips between her thighs, his cock still buried deep within her.

She tensed as his weight trapped her; instantly, he lifted his chest and shoulders from her, straightening his arms, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side. Their kiss broken, her eyes flew open. He trapped her gaze in his. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew from her, then, fluidly flexing his spine, he entered her.

Inch by inch, he claimed her; heated and slick, her body welcomed him, stretching to take him in. He watched her eyes widen, his hazel eyes with golden specks now a deep brow, almost black as he surged deeper. He sheathed himself in her softness, sinking into her to the hilt, coming to a rest as his forehead leaned on hers. Gazes locked, they both held still.

Y/N couldn't breathe, he filled her so completely; she could feel the steady beat of him at the base of her throat. Staring up at his face, she saw the hard planes shift, sharp-edged with reined passion. A conqueror looked down on her, eyes dark, ringed with green, a god she'd given herself to. A sense of possession swamped her; her heart swelled, then soared.

He was waiting, but for what? Some sign of surrender?

She smiled—slowly, fully. Her hands had come to rest on his forearms; lifting them, she reached up and drew his lips to hers. She heard him groan in the instant their lips met. He came down on his elbows, his hands flicking her hair aside, then framing her face. He deepened their kiss and her senses went spinning; his body moved on her, within her, and pleasure grew.

She caught the rhythm and matched him, letting her body welcome him, holding him tight for a heartbeat before reluctantly releasing him. Again and again they formed that intimate embrace; each time, each devastatingly thorough thrust pushed her higher, further, toward something she couldn't even imagine. Her mind and senses merged, then soared, driving her to the brink of madness.

Fed by their striving bodies, by each panting breath, by each soft moan, each guttural groan, the pleasure intensified, growing larger until it exploded between them and Y/N lost herself in the glorious, heart-stopping sensation. Blind, she couldn't see; deaf, she couldn't hear. All she could do was feel him under her hands and know he was with her, feel the warmth that filled her and know she was his, feel the emotion that held them, forged strong in the fire and know nothing on earth could ever change it.

Neither of them gave a second though to the god who ventured into the basement and drew a pentagram in the concrete.

Setting a candle at each peak of the star, he set them aflame and swallowed thickly. A golden chalice in his hand, Hermes brought a knife to his palm and drew blood, filling the chalice.

Adding saffron, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was time to finish this.

''Hecate, ισχυρή θεά της διασταύρωσης, το σκοτάδι, ο θάνατος, η σοφία, και το φεγγάρι, παρακαλώ έρχονται σε μένα. Παρακαλώ εκδιώξτε, προστατέψτε με και βοηθήστε μου όταν είμαι σε κίνδυνο. Φροντίστε με το δικό σας και δώστε μου όλα όσα χρειάζεστε. Εκατέ, περιπλανηθείτε στο σκοτάδι σας για να μπορώ να φέρω το φως μου " (''Hecate, mighty Goddess of crossroads, darkness, death, wisdom, and the moon, please come to me. Please Hecate, protect me and help me when I am in danger. Treat me as one of your own and give me all that is needed. Hecate, surround me in your darkness so that I can bring forth my light.") The moment he opens his eyes, he find his consort before him in the pentagram. "Isn't this a surprise? My husband coming to me after all these centuries passed." Hecate stepped forward, looking down on the tightly drawn-on pentagram meant to keep her in. "I need you to leave Y/N alone. Whatever you want in return..."Hermes pauses, knowing he is making a deal with someone much worse than the devil. "Whatever you want in return is yours." He repeats, finishing his original statement as she tilted her head, studying him with her unforgiving gaze. "Had you come to me all those centuries ago, I'd have turned every reality there is to bring you and your brother home. But you failed me - as a friend, as a lover, as a consort. I will never help you for I live to destroy your happiness. And she is a part of that, is she not?" A viciously poisonous smile crept up her lips as she giggled to herself, only for her smile to disappear in moments like it never happened and her face takes on an innocent look. Hermes knew she wanted to hurt him. "But does she want you? That is the question only I can answer for you...because I am her. Inside her mind, inside her heart." She spoke languidly, baiting him to come closer and make her stop talking for his clenched jaw nearly shattered his teeth and his eyes turned into fire as he glared at her.

"Maybe you can ask your brother? After all, he is currently buried inside her to the hilt. Tasting her warmth, every inch of her skin as she unravels in his arms, moaning his name." She chuckled, enjoying the hurt flashing on his face and in his eyes more even she expected.

"So how does it feel when the one you love decides to fuck someone else?" She raises her right eyebrow, her voice displaying just how happy she is, enthusiastic even.

"Do you really hate me that much?" Hermes sighed, watching Hecate tilt her head ever so slightly, enough to glare at him with those emerald daggers she calls eyes.

"More than you'll ever know." She responds, her voice oddly calm but filled with emotion. He can tell she is still very much hurt, but her anger toward him outweighs her love.

"Even so, I am not lying about your brother fucking her senseless as we speak. I'm sure you could hear them if you just walked up a couple of stairs." She pointed to the stairs, looking above her at the ceiling with her amused madness returning.

Enraged, Hermes stumbled forward, the knife he used to bleed now pointed at Hecate, the tip pressing just under her ribs, enough to kill her if he likes.

"Should I be scared?" She smirked. "Oh, if only the blade wasn't human." She licked her lips, leaning in for a kiss. But before she can connect their lips, Hermes drives the knife into her rib cage and through her heart, sneering at her with amusement taking over his eyes now. She gasped, holding onto his shoulders for dear life as her eyes widened in shock of the pain he caused. Digging her nails into his skin, she drew blood but to no avail, her croaks now coming out with ragged breaths.

"It isn't." He smirks.

And with that, Hermes pulled the blade out to make sure she bleeds out, tossing her onto the ground before walking out. He believed her to disappear as mombie dearest did, seeing her fade as he glanced at her while he cleaned the knife.

Despite wanting to watch the life fade out her eyes and her body return to Underworld, Hermes' rage simmered and grew.

Satisfied with a job well done, Hermes set his sights on a different task now.

Trying not to kill his brother.

      ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~       ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~       ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~       ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tags: @mutuallynotmutual @lanadeldolans @xalayx @accalialionheart @gia-kerks @historyheart  @heyits-claire @daddygraysonsbitch   @fallinginlove-16  @lanadeldolans @beautifulfound @thearachna-kid  @dinnerwiththedolans  @graydolan12 @justanotherfangurl272 @dxlansfxck  @godlydolans @flowery-dolan @dominatedolans @buckysjuicyplums @ethanhes @dolandolll @dolanstwintuesday

If I forgot someone, let me know!

#ethan dolan #grayson dolan #dolan twins #ethan dolan x reader #grayson dolan x reader #dolan twins greek god au #dolan twins au #GREEK GOD AU #Greek Mythology #hermes #apollo #ethan dolan series #grayson dolan series #dolan twins fanfic

[mikenips]

Pinheads

“What the fuck are you doing back here?  You aren’t even working tonight.”  One of the other managers at Bowlero, the new bowling alley and venue, says to me.

“I’m playin’ tonight.”  We all wish we had known the Stools were doin’ a live album recording down at OLL tonight before we booked it though.  Rae said Chuck told her before I picked her up that they don’t play till midnight.  So the goal is to rush the sets so we can get there in time for their set.

“That explains the war paint on the eyes.”  Chip, the mechanic that once got fired as a carny, says as he spits dip into a coffee cup.  “Ya know ya got some jeans with those holes though Mike?”  Damn.  That’s pretty clever.

My mom’s side of the family is down at lane one.  And my dad’s side is hangin’ in the lounge.  Even my uncle from New Mexico is in town for the holidays.  Jordan is setting up the kit.  Sound checkin’ the violin.  Drew walks into the storage room that doubles as a green room for gigs.  Me and Greg the bartender are hittin’ a vaporizer before I get on stage.  We play first.  “You see how Drew walked in here man?  He walked up like he owns this bitch!”

And the scene really does own this bitch.  I’m the bar manager at twenty one.  Drew just started training to bartend.  Dom works the front desk here and there.  Everyone else askin’ if we can pull some strings to get them hired or booked.  Just waitin’ on Sugar Tradition.  Gotta make sure they don’t get carded.  The kids are still in high school.  And we’re eighteen up.  Like the owners would really care though.  They got history too.  One of ‘em owning the Garden Bowl.  The other is one of the top lawyers in Oakland County.  Used to own the Falcon Club in Hamtramck in the nineties.  Actually even was Johnny’s lawyer to get Outer Limits their liquor license.

We open with “Haunted House.”  I’m fuckin’ baked.  And already forgettin’ the lyrics.  That shot of jezy Greg fed me probably didn’t help.  Nobody is here yet besides my family.  A few members of the Hand.  And some Royal Oakies waitin’ on lanes that don’t understand what the fuck is happening.  We’re botchin’ even our classics.  At least the Oakies are gettin’ a real weird show.

Yelp into a drone cover of “Real Cool Time” as Jordan saws away at his violin behind me.  Antonio rollin’ across the stage in front of me.  Glad they got in alright.

Fuck it.  We got a show to get to tonight.  “This is gonna be our last one.”  A piece of glitter falls into the corner of my eye.  “It’s about when it’s five am.  You’re blacked out.  Shirtless.  Pissin’ on the side of a 7-11.  Smokin’ a spliff.  Shotgunnin’ a tall boi.  If you could all raise your drinks.”  Rip through “Miller High Life” before boltin’ for a cig while Sugar Tradition sets up.

“Dude!”  Jordan says to me as we load some gear into the car.  “I think that was the worst set we ever played.”

Dee comes up behind us.  “What are you talkin’ about?  That’s the best part about Just Guys Being Dudes.  There’s no bad sets.  Every set is it’s own experience.  I really dug it.  The owner was behind me and Rae vibin’ too.”

Take a drag.  “Thanks Dee.  That means a lot to me.”

Walk back inside.  Didn’t even realize how many people had showed up.  Sean’s dad, my old high school film teacher, is here.  Still doesn’t know he showed my dick at the student film show at the end of the year.  Even fuckin’ Ian Ruhala showed his bitch ass.  There’s no way that was coincidental.  Not when his girlfriend’s sister is performing with Zilched at the Stools show.  Joey’s gonna lose his shit when he gets here from the wedding.

“That was sick Michael!”  My coworker Reagan says to me.  “Wanna celebrate by doin’ a shot of Jager with me?  You don’t even gotta give me a drink ticket.”  I’m about to be trashed tonight.  What am I talkin’ about?  I already am.

“Why not?  I’m gonna need seven shots of jezy too though.”

“Wakin’ up I got a nothin’ to do!”  Sugar T kicks into one of their many rippers.

Cy, my GM, walks over to me.  “These guys are really good.”  I can barely make out her words over Kevin’s spastic style of jazz drumming.  “They’re like a psychedelic Mudhoney.”

“Yeah.  They’re also only seventeen too.  Don’t tell the managers though I booked some minors.”

She laughs.  “Nobody should be that good at that young of an age.  Do they have a CD?”

“Nah.  We put out their debut album on the cassette label I’m helping run though.”

“What the fuck are you kids doing making cassettes again?”

“Cause they’re fuckin’ sick!  You wanna hear this fuzz on something just as fuzzy.  We don’t wanna clean this noise up!”

Walk back to center stage.  Jake is in the corner with Evan.  Owen layin’ on the floor in front of the couch.  Crossed the border for this night.  On the couch next to Rae is Joey Molloy goin’ hard to Sugar Tradition’s set.  Gotta love Joey.  Nobody goes as hard at a show as good ol’ Joey Molloy.  Bleached tufts of hair whippin’ through the air the same way their brain whips back and forth in the skull.  Everyone takes the Polish, purple nectar.  Jeżynówka.  A Hamtramck staple.  A little piece of home all the way out here.

Joey walks in, still in his suit, and helps Drew wheel three cabs into the crammed lounge as I meet Antonio at the merch table.  They spent over a mill on this remodel.  And the Hand is about to shatter all the windows here when they hit their first note.  This will be the first and last time they let a stoner metal band in here.  TJ stoned as fuck on the floor testin’ out the Juno.  Sean, equally as baked, clicks open the briefcase synth he made.

“Yoo Antonio.  Whenever you guys are ready I’ll take you to the office so the manager can cut you a check.  You just gotta fill out some tax forms.”

“Shit…  This is like a legit gig then?”

We weave through the overfilled lounge.  Drunks and stoners attempt to file towards the stage.  BO and fuzz forcin’ the yuppies to wait for their lanes elsewhere.  Tonight, this bitch is ours.

Paperclips and loose change vibrate their way off the desk in the office as the Hand strikes their first drone.  “Wait…  Kev,”  Antonio spins in the desk chair.  “What’s my social security number?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You guys don’t know your social security numbers?  How?”

“Dude.  We’re in high school.  We’ve never had to use ‘em before.”

“Honestly,” my coworker cuts in.  “We don’t really need the W-9.  If you take it with you and bring it back in a couple days it’s probably fine.  But I really don’t give a shit if you do.”

Head back to the bar.  All the freaks headbang in unison to Joey’s screams before Drew rips into a solo.  Greg hands over two shots before I even flag him down.  “I knew Drew was gonna shred because he never talks about his band.  The quiet ones always shred.  Good job putting this together Mike.  Not a huge drinking crowd.  But I’ll take a chill night.  Gettin’ stoned to some chuggin’ bands whenever it comes.”

Or at least I think that’s what he said.  I can’t hear over the riff.  Hail the fuckin’ riff!  Wrappin’ it just before midnight.  Nobody says goodbye to each other before we all dip.  It’s every man for himself.  Drag racin’ down I-75 to get to OLL.  Somewhere in the night Caveman Woodman is yellin’ about the Stools.  Tellin’ folks to fuck off if they think rock n’ roll is dead.

Walk into Outer Limits greeted by the familiar unbearable humidity of a crowd of familiar faces.  Not a single face you don’t recognize.  Greeted with a free Stroh’s and shot of Hornito’s courtesy of Johnny.  Kid Infinity on the stoop of the stage.  Documenting the entire night on camera.  208.  The Long Stairs.  The rest of the Waterheads.  Everyone from the Bowlero show there too.  Sweat gluing bodies together as flesh meets flesh.  “This one’s about a spooky dream Will had!”  KQ shouts into the mic as Chuck uses his already soaked shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead.  As Will’s screeching guitar bends, cuing “Black Fly Stew.”  Two step tune off their latest seven inch from Third Man Records.  Jack White may be a prick.  But he sure puts out some good ass music.

This time I’m not gonna concuss myself on Joey Molloy’s eye socket.  They speed and slop their way through their discography.  Dig into some tracks Will claims are older than some of us.  Kirk recording every second through the soundboard to be put out on Chuck’s cassette label Painter’s Tapes.  “How does two more sound?”  KQ asks after finishing up a version of “Q-Nails” that’s half the length of the studio version.  But still has all the original notes. Bodies make their way off the concrete ground to their feet.  Stomachs cramp from downin’ Stroh’s.  Lungs attempt to catch their breath.  Jake yells back to ‘em “Eat shit Mike Duggan!”  We don’t need no curfew.  Unplug us and we’ll scream louder.

Mikey of the Waterheads discusses Sigmund Freud on the patio while we all pass joints to each other.  Never give those lungs a break.  Kyle of 208 passes out Remove Records t-shirts.  Tells us none of us need to pay for ‘em.  But we all force money into his hands.  “This is what the scene is about man.”  My words come out half coherent.

“Exactly!  That’s why I’m so glad me and Shelby came here from Florida.  This is what music should be about!  Community.  Doing it for each other.  Fuckin’ being there!  Cause without each other, none of what’s goin’ on is possible.  We’re like one big, happy, chaotic family!”

Jake punches my shoulder at the bar.  Radiating the energy of the Bananas in Pajamas.  A loose and excitable toddler ready to play.  We each get a shot of jezy.  “You here anything yet about HMF Nips?”

“Nah.  I saw they ‘leaked’ some of the lineup.  But it was all like Hala.  Legume.  Who Boy.  The indie bands ya know.”

“See.  And that’s what’s fucked man!  They don’t fuckin’ get it like we do.  We’re out here every fuckin’ night playin’ these joints.  We’re all at every show for each other.  They make one appearance a month.  Half the time not even in Hamtramck.  They don’t support each other.  They’re in it for the clout!  And fuckin’ Who Boy gets picked before any of us?!  That’s fucked up man.”

“It is dude.  But don’t worry so much about it.  I’m sure it’ll all pan out for us.  Cause we get it.  And they don’t.  You wanna come over to my place after?  Make some pancakes or some shit?”

“Oh heeeellll yeah!  Pancakes at Belmont.  I’ll rally the troops.  We gettin’ trashed tonight!”

As if we aren’t already.  Rip through a fifty pack of whip-its in twenty minutes.  Sittin’ around eatin’ pancakes at three in the morning.  Listenin’ to the 13th Floor Elevators as Joey tries persuadin’ everyone into watchin’ Pirates of the Caribbean.  “Dead Man’s Aaaaasssss…” his whipped voice whispers to every single one of us individually.

Jake does his first popper as if he’s huffed it before.  Panicking in the barstool in my living room.  “I’m sweaty.  My head hurts.  And my face is hot, man.  My face is hot!”  Before locking himself in the bathroom with a sealed fifth of tequila.  We continue to chainsmoke in the house I rent.  No mention of not smokin’ in my lease.  Dunkin’ chocolate chip pancakes in a bowl of syrup.  He re-emerges from the bathroom.  Quarter of the bottle now inside him.  Or possibly in my toilet.  “Rae.  You gotta finish this.  I can’t do it.”

Owen spits up on Giovanna while tryin’ to rush to the bathroom.  Attempts to wipe the bile off her knee before returning to the cool tile floor around the toilet to sleep for the night.  Jake arguing with me and Rae about ordering him an Uber home.  “You’d fuckin’ love it if I crashed on your futon Nips.  You’d fuckin’ love ordering me an Uber home wouldn’t you Rae?”

“Jake dude.  I don’t know what you want from me man.  Your car is at Evan’s anyways.”

“I just wanna shit on my toilet!”

So eventually he consents.  Tells Rae he’ll Venmo me the ten bucks she spent on him cause he’s “Venmoed Michael Nipples before.”  Even though I’ve never had one.  Yells back to us with the passenger door open “what’s its name?”  As he struggles to crawl into the whip.

And as Rae and I go to sleep.  My phone buzzes with three texts from the drunk Toehead.  “Uh oh…”

“Help…”

“We listenin’ to Dough Boyz!”

Fuckin’ idiot.  Pinhead.  That’s what we all are though.  Or at least what we pretend to be.

#bowlero #hail the riff #just guys being dudes #vague glimpses of beauty #outer limits lounge #the stools #the hand 420 #sugar tradition #remove records #painters tapes #grown up fucked up #detroit garage rock #detroit diy #a vibe

[ma-sulevin]

Mattie’s made it to the Henbane! You know what that means?

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw/Female Deputy Rating: E, but mostly for swearing Warnings: Canon-typical violence, but nothing particularly explicit I don’t think Word Count: 5939, chapter three of twelve

Read it on AO3 instead and say nice things.

It wasn’t so bad at the marina, but the deeper into the Henbane they get, the more Mattie feels like she’s been smacked right in the sinuses with like a bat or a metal pipe or something. The pollen from the fucking fields of fucking bliss is so pervasive that she sneezes once every ten minutes on the dot, more than once alerting a nearby peggie to her hiding spot.

She just wants to pop three Benadryl and take an eighteen-hour nap. Maybe that would help.

Hurk and Boomer stay with her, neither of them particularly bothered by the clouds of icky greenish pollen floating in the wind, sticking with her through all the snot and the sneezing. Hurk is a constant source of chatter, which could be annoying but is actually pretty nice when the alternative is sitting in her own head worrying about everything that’s going on.

Joey. Staci. Earl. Burke. She hasn’t died again, and now she’s not sure those times weren’t bliss hallucinations. If they were -- could they happen again? Is she going to wake up in a hospital in Missoula strapped to the bed as a 10-96, her reputation in Hope County ruined?

Listening to Hurk’s (made up, she assumes) tales of the Monkey God and Kyrat is a much nicer way to spend her time. It’s good for a laugh, at least. The man is a little scattered, but he’s a natural storyteller under all that.

Mattie keeps an eye out for rogue peggie helicopters, but getting Tulip back for Adelaide isn’t her top priority by any stretch of the imagination. If she’s meant to find it, she’ll find it, and she’s not going to waste time and energy driving around until she stumbles across the right vehicle. There are real lives on the line she needs to take care of first.

A couple days after they leave the marina, Mattie’s radio comes to life once more with a request for help that has Hurk cheering before she can really parse out the message.

“Hell yeah, Sharky here--” (excited whooping) “--brain-dead cultists at the trailer park.”

“That’s my baby cousin!” Hurk says, somehow fucking bouncing even with that RPG cradled in his arms like a thirty-pound infant. “He’s at the Moonflower, let’s go get him!” He pins her in place with a hopeful look that she assumes he perfected on his mother -- and then sighs because it works.

She knows Sharky by reputation, even if she’s never personally arrested him before. She’s heard Staci and Joey talk about him, and she’s seen his wanted poster still up by the Spread Eagle even though he’s not actually wanted and is out on probation, probably.

“Okay, fine.” She makes a shooing motion at him and he sets off at a jog, heading up the mountain at a pace she knows he’ll be tired of in just a few minutes. She follows anyway, more sedately, along with Boomer, and they catch up with Hurk soon enough.

About halfway up, they find a car abandoned on the side of the dirt road. There’s blood smeared on the front passenger seat and on the door, and Hurk happily climbs in the back with Boomer, leaving Mattie to climb in the relatively clean driver’s seat.

The rest of the way to the trailer park is peaceful, no cultists or bliss fields, and Hurk barely snickers when she sneezes hard and accidentally jerks the wheel to the right and runs them through the grass for a bit.

Okay, next time they come across a gas station or a truck stop or a corner store or just a regular old house that hasn’t been ransacked: she’s dosing up on Claritin. This shit is getting old.

“This used to be a real nice trailer park,” Hurk comments, leaning forward in his seat to speak almost directly into her ear. She parks the borrowed vehicle a safe distance away from another one that’s already on fire, and they both watch as something inside the fence explodes. “Not so much anymore.”

She snorts, then coughs into her elbow. “Apparently not. Let’s go.”

They climb out and Boomer runs ahead, nose to the ground and tail wagging. There don’t seem to be any cultists hanging around right now, so she keeps her weapons safely holstered even though Hurk doesn’t bother with the same courtesy, just waves with one hand when he sees a man standing on top of one of the trailers.

Mattie casts a critical eye around the place as they climb up one of the ladders to walk across the makeshift platforms. Obviously this used to be a pretty standard trailer park, small but with a cute little playground in the middle for the kids. There are no cars sitting around other than hers and the one that was on fire, and the only bodies she can see are wearing Eden’s Gate clothes. Most of the residents must have joined up with the cult or turned tail before Sharky took over.

When they get close enough, they can see Sharky is holding a flame thrower which, okay, it’s technically legal, but it still makes Mattie frown to see him with one, and apparently that frown makes her look too much like a law enforcement officer, because Sharky takes a whole step back and yells, “You’ll never take me alive!”

Mattie just stares at him. Sharky stares right back.

Hurk laughs. “Man, we ain’t here to arrest you. You think I’d bring the cops to a barbeque like this? The dep’s cool, man.”

Sharky looks her up and down and then cocks his head to the side. “ ...oh, you’re not here to arrest me?” When she shakes her head, still frowning a bit, he shrugs and seems to accept her at her word. “Cool, sorry. I am Victor Charlemagne Boshaw, but--”

She listens as he launches into his speech about who he is and what they’re going to be doing over the next few minutes, and she knows it’s a terrible idea, and it must just be whatever genetics Hurk and Sharky share beyond frankly ridiculous names, but his enthusiasm is infectious and she finds herself agreeing to help him even though she shouldn’t.

The people he’s luring in need help. They need to be taken away from the Seeds’ influence and given to someone who can de-condition them, whatever that looks like. She doesn’t know how this stuff works -- it wasn’t covered in school or in the training she got from the Sheriff’s Department.

Her mind changes when she finally sees an Angel up close. Its eyes are completely white, unseeing but not in the way someone who’s simply lost vision would look. There’s a green shimmer to them, and standing too close makes her head spin around like she’s wandered too close to a bliss field again. They fight with inhuman strength, giving more of themselves over to the trouble than any human in their right mind would, and they shake off injuries that would bring down a normal person.

They’re fucking zombies. She nearly gets bit by one, saved only by the stained white mask covering its face, and it grunts and growls and then screams when she puts a bullet between its eyes. The sound makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, a shiver go down her spine.

What the fuck has Faith been doing to them?

What the fuck.

After the last Angel is put down and the last cognizant cultist is also put down, and Sharky’s speakers are all disconnected from his stereo, and Mattie is done celebrating the fact that she managed to not fucking die this time , Hurk and Sharky jog up to where she’s sitting on the playground steps reloading her rifle. They’re both keyed up, excited after the battle and running on adrenaline, but she’s just tired now.

She keeps saying it, but she’s so goddamn tired.

The first thing out of Sharky’s mouth is, “That was fuckin’ hot and uhhh not just cause of the fire.” She freezes, her rifle across her knees, the magazine in one hand and a few loose bullets in the other. Hurk is grinning at him, the beginnings of a laugh starting to bubble up, and Sharky immediately turns red and starts talking faster. “I mean, that didn’t help, but. I mean. Anyway. You did good, shorty, and if you want me to join up with you and Hurky, just say the word.”

Mattie clears her throat and goes back to putting the bullets back in the magazine. The smoke and gasoline fumes are mixing with her already irritated sinuses to give her a headache, and she has to pause to sneeze into her elbow again before she comes up with an answer.

“Sharky? If you burn down every field of bliss we come across, you can follow me anywhere.”

He absolutely lights up at her promise, face breaking into a wide grin as he does a little jig like he just can’t contain his joy.

It’s cute.

She ignores it.

---

“I don’t wanna argue with your plan or nothin,” Sharky says, tone conversational and voice loud over the roar of his flamethrower, “but do you think this is like… lightin’ up a giant joint?” 

Mattie laughs behind the bandana she has tied over her face. “I wouldn’t be upset about it if it wasn’t a hallucinogen,” she says. “It’s one thing to be high and another to think you can fly when you’re on the edge of a cliff.”

Sharky glances at her over his shoulder, eyeing her up and down. “You’re kind of unusual, for the fuzz.”

She shrugs, glances away before he does, catching movement out of the corner of her eye that’s probably just Boomer or Hurk. “These are unusual times, dude.” The movement isn’t either of her other companions, so she wanders a little closer while Sharky continues burning the plants. 

“Be careful!” She can barely hear his voice now, but it doesn’t occur to her to turn back to him, back to safety. “You can’t trust your senses out here!”

There are lights flashing in her vision, and she pauses to rub at her eyes with her knuckles. The lights are still there when she opens them again, her chest tight, and she pulls her bandana down so she can breathe freely.

It’s a mistake.

The bliss hits her full force, knocking her off balance, the vertigo from the marina back as Faith steps in front of her.

“Welcome to the bliss.”

Faith’s hands are on her shoulders, slipping down her arms to her hands, then she’s slipping away, and Mattie is following her without question, without even trying to grab a weapon , just… blindly following this woman through bliss pollen so thick it might as well be fog.

Faith stays just a step away the whole time, no matter how fast Mattie moves or how she lunges, giggling and twirling and speaking about who she really is in a sing-song voice.

Mattie barely even notices she’s on top of Joseph’s statue because Burke is there too, and when she tries to tackle him, he just… steps off the statue as Faith urges Mattie to do the same.

And, still surrounded by the bliss… she does.

---

“Oh, she’s waking up. Come on, Dep, you okay, man?”

She opens her eyes slowly, forcing herself to move even though every fiber of her being is screaming for her to keep her eyes closed and surrender to the white black white she’s gotten used to, that she’s started to miss just plowing through Hope County like it’s her own personal sandbox to destroy however she wants.

“I knew we shouldn’t have stuck around after the bliss started burning,” Sharky says, his voice coming from her other side. She can’t see either man, just the blue sky above her. There’s a single cloud that’s almost a perfect circle. “And you know I love fire, man, it’s just the best.”

She squeezes her eyes closed again, tight enough that she can see white lights that don’t have anything to do with bliss, then she opens them and sits up. She’s wobbly, but two sets of hands are there to help her, overlapping chatter from the two men drowning out her spiraling thoughts.

One of them hands her a water bottle and she drinks from it, unconcerned with the dampness from the grass cooling on her shirt and sinking deeper into her worn jeans. The water is warm and unpleasant, but she forces herself to swallow three mouthfuls before passing it back.

“Mayor’s on the radio,” Hurk says, talking a little louder to cut Sharky off. “Says they got supplies over in the jail, maybe they can help. Here, cuz, where’s the radio?”

Sharky produces the little hand-held with a flair, and Mattie wonders if they took it to call for help but doesn’t have time to ask because it’s switched on and she can hear Minkler’s voice coming through all tinny. “ Anyone looking for refuge, come to the Hope County Jail. We have beds and food here. ”

The radio goes silent and Hurk clicks it off. Mattie stares off in the direction she thinks the jail is instead of looking at either of the guys, and then she takes a deep breath. She doesn’t really want to go back to the jail, doesn’t want to see what happened to it once Joseph’s people took over, doesn’t want to face anyone she might know.

“It would be nice to have some real food,” she says, voice hoarse and throat raw. “Like, some vegetables.”

Both the boys are nodding, but Sharky’s the one who opens his mouth first. “I am not going to lie to you,” he says. “I have not pooped in six days.”

Mattie’s attention snaps from the crest of the hill to Hurk’s eyes, then they’re both turning to look at Sharky, whose face is a little screwed up like he’s not totally sure he actually said that out loud , and then... 

They’re all laughing, the tension broken, worry she hadn’t realized was on their faces melting away. She starts to stand and they both haul themselves to their feet and pull her up with them, propping her up between them, and she lets them because it’s been weeks since she felt the warmth of another human’s touch.

She lets Hurk drive, lets Sharky sit up front next to him, stretches herself across the back seat with Boomer on the floor, listens to them chatting about how weird it is that Hurk and his dad have the same name, smiles at the absurdity of it all, then frowns when guilt at feeling happy when her friends are being tortured sneaks in.

It takes a few minutes to get to the jail, driving slowly down the mountain and along switchbacks that Hurk is taking much more carefully than she really thought he would, and she’s able to stare at the trees passing upside down over her head. 

“Oh, shit, man.” The car comes to an abrupt stop and Mattie almost slides off the seat and onto Boomer. “Looks like peggies got the jail.”

Mattie’s stomach clenches; a cold sweat stands out on her skin. She sits up, leaning forward with her hands on the front seats. Sharky looks over at her, but she just stares through the windshield, squinting to see the details. There are peggies absolutely swarming in the front parking lot, up the hill from where Hurk pulled the car to a stop. 

“Shit.” Mattie digs her fingernails into the front seats, letting the little pricks of pain ground her for the half-second she needs to pull her thoughts away from fresh food and back to fighting. The peggies are overwhelming the jail; they need to help. “Jesus Christ, fucking -- okay. Hurk, do not blow up the jail, there are civilians in there. Find something off to the side, make a distraction. I’ll come in from the other side.”

“What do you want me to do, Dep?” Sharky asks, still too loud but serious now. His fingers are drumming on the door handle, ready to go.

She bites her lower lip, accidentally pulls a piece of dead skin off. “Fuck shit up.”

He hops out of the car and cheers. Hurk follows suit, and she jumps out with Boomer more quietly, double checking her AR-C before she follows them up the hill.

The place is a disaster. There are burnt-out cars in the parking lot, enough smoke floating through the air to make her eyes water, peggies screaming and attacking the outside walls. There are people she doesn’t recognize up on top, behind the razor wire, and she hopes they see her red flannel, Hurk’s stars-and-stripes, or Sharky’s green hoodie and realize they’re not peggies, hopes the smoke and chaos won’t be their downfall.

She doesn’t want to have to do this again, too.

Two peggies fall under her spray of bullets as something explodes off to the left side of the jail. As she’d hoped, the peggies scramble around, not sure who’s attacking them, and it makes it easy for her to sneak around and snap the neck of a third man.

When her radio crackles to life, she almost doesn’t hear it. “ Hey is that you, Rook? ” Earl. Earl. It’s Earl. He’s alive. He’s here? She blinks hard to clear her eyes of tears that suddenly have nothing to do with the smoke and squats behind a car that smells of burned rubber, pulling her radio to her face to hear the rest of his message: “ Ah, Christ, help us out here. ” 

She starts to press the talk button but a woman spots her, runs over with a shovel raised, and Mattie has enough time to wonder who shows up to a prison siege with only a shovel as a weapon before she has her pistol up and puts a bullet between the woman’s eyes.

When the last parking lot peggie falls, there are a few seconds where the only sounds are the roaring of flames, and then one of the doors in the wall opens. She walks through, doesn’t look back to see if Hurk or Sharky are following her, just steps into the courtyard and waits.

“Holy shit.” She snaps around to see Earl weaving his way through the rubble, his hat on his head and a smile on his face. He looks good, he looks healthy, and he’s trying to talk to her but she’s throwing her arms around his neck and bursting into tears before he has a chance to get out a full sentence.

He grunts and staggers back a step, but his arms still wrap around her waist and he squeezes her almost as tightly as she’s squeezing him. He rubs one hand up and down her back, soothing, shushing her when it only makes her cry harder.

She doesn’t care that she’s standing in the middle of the courtyard where everyone can see her. She doesn’t care that she’s getting tears and snot all over the shoulder of her boss’ uniform. All she cares about is that he’s alive, and he’s healthy, and he’s not an angel or trapped in a bunker, and she’s so overwhelmed with relief that she doesn’t know how to handle herself anymore.

“You’re alright, sweetheart.” He cups the back of her head like he might a child’s, comforting, and she draws in a shaky breath in an effort to just stop fucking crying. “We’re okay.”

She squeezes him even tighter for half a second then forces herself to step back. It feels like she has to unclench each of her fingers individually, has to scrape the toes of her stolen boots over the crumbling asphalt before she can give him the space she’s supposed to. She wipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands, wipes at her running nose and makes an ungodly noise when she intends to make a dainty sniffle.

“Sorry.”

“You’re alright,” he says, again, this time clapping her on the shoulder like he used to sometimes. “You really saved our bacon. The peggies’ve been throwing themselves at these walls for days. They just won’t let up.” He looks at the injured stretched out on the ground, then back to meet her eyes, a grim look on his face. “We really kicked open the hornets’ nest.”

Yeah. Yeah. They weren’t ready to arrest Joseph, should have waited longer or should have done it months earlier, before John had bought up so much of the county, before Jacob started kidnapping the locals, before Faith perfected her bliss formula, before everything went to shit.

Their moment of silence is interrupted by a man yelling a warning from the high walls, then being pushed back by a grenade. He falls in front of Mattie, his body hitting the asphalt with a sickening thunk. Blood pools under his head and his eyes stare, unseeing, up at the blue sky.

Earl jumps into action before she does, numbed as she is by everything. He checks the man’s pulse, yells for a medic, and part of her brain that she’d tried to bury wants her to respond. I’m a medic. I know that man’s gone. 

He snaps her out of it. “I need you up on that wall, Rook,” he says, and he looks sorry to say it, but his silent regret doesn’t make the need less dire, doesn’t mean not fighting back won’t lead to all of them being tortured at the hands of Faith or her brothers.

So… she does it. She does what he asks her to, does what she needs to do to protect the people in the jail. Minkler fights by her side for as long as he can, but he’s a politician, not a soldier, and the second time he trips over his own feet, she shoves him in the shoulder and tells him to get the fuck inside.

Sharky and Hurk fight with her too, performing better than she thought they would when she first saw them. Hurk, in particular, is able to keep his mouth shut and grenades sailing through the air with remarkable precision, so much so that she starts to think there’s some truth to the wild stories he’s been spinning in their down time. Sharky swaps his flamethrower out for a more reasonable AK-47, and she smiles when she sees it but doesn’t bother to reflect on why she thinks that weapon is reasonable, just keeps fighting.

It’s all she can do.

Just keep fighting.

---

“So are you fucking the sheriff, or…?” Sharky lets the tail end of his question trail off, like he hadn’t already asked the most important part, the part that has her wrinkling her nose in distaste before she starts laughing. He blinks at her, lips pulling up in a grin when she starts to laugh, and pulls his hat off to run his hand through his hair. It sticks up when he’s done, dirty, greasy from hours of sweating under the brim, and she’s happy the jail still has working showers.

“No,” she says. “I’m not. I’ve never even thought -- why would you ask that?” She sits on the edge of the cot she’s been assigned even though there’s still dirt on the seat of her jeans, starts untying her boots as she listens to Sharky take a sharp breath before launching into what she assumes is going to be quite the speech.

“It’s just, you were pretty happy to see him, I guess.” He pauses and sighs. “I’ve never seen anybody cry that hard into a hug.”

Mattie sits up and scratches the tip of her nose. She can feel her cheeks heating up a bit as he stares at her, waiting. “The Seeds have all my other friends. I thought they had him too.” She shrugs and fiddles with the tail of her shirt, rubbing the soft cotton between her fingers. Sharky’s looking at her with something a little too understanding on his face, so she looks down into her lap and chews at the dead skin on her lip.

“Hurky and me, we’ll help you get your friends back,” he says, squeezing the bill of his hat between his hands. She watches the motion, the nervousness of it, then meets his gaze just before he says, “That’s what friends are for, right?”

The earnestness on his face, of his offer, makes her smile. It eases the tight ball in her chest, and she takes what feels like the first full breath of the day. “I really appreciate it, Sharky.”

He shrugs, dismissing her thanks. “Once you get the other deputies back, you still won’t arrest me, right? For all the fire, and the murdering, and all?” He pitches his voice lower, but he’s still too loud. It’s like the man never learned how to whisper.

She stands and knocks his shoulder with her fist. “If anyone’s getting in trouble for what we’ve been doing out there, it’s me. You’re fine. I promise we won’t arrest you.”

“Okay, good,” Sharky says, voice brightening again. “You gonna shower now?”

“Mhm. Be right back.” She knocks him in the shoulder again for good measure.

He throws his hat at her back as she walks away.

---

She doesn’t remember dying this time. She knows what it feels like -- getting shot, falling too far, having her neck snapped, drowning, being run over by a car, or being struck in the face with the butt of some peggie’s rifle -- but she doesn’t know which of those things put her in the black white black this time.

She doesn’t remember, but she’s trapped here, searching through a place she can’t see for an exit she’s not sure exists.

Is this the final time? Has she used up her thirty lives and is now doomed to run through this place for the rest of eternity? Was she supposed to do something different, behave better, make choices for good and she ran out of chances and this is what hell is?

She grew up expecting a lake of fire, not this… nothingness.

She can’t stop the sobs, can’t stop herself from screaming for help even though it's useless.

She screams and screams and screams and

She wakes up with a start, her limbs jerking like she suddenly fell, and she tries to sit up but there’s a hand in hers and another wiping tears from her face. It doesn’t feel like a threat, so she relaxes and forces her eyes to look at something other than the ceiling.

For half a second, she’s certain the gentle touches belong to Joey, like she’s fallen asleep during a movie night and Joey’s absently stroking her hair. A half-second after that, she’s certain the gentle touches belong to Staci, because the hands are bigger than Joey’s, and he never complained when she flopped on him like a cat needing attention.

“There you are, shorty.” Sharky’s voice reminds her where she is and who she’s with, and she draws in a wet, shaky breath as the reality of everything crashes full-force into her. His fingers tighten around hers, and she curls her body around that point of contact. “You been crying in your sleep and didn’t wanna wake up, but you calmed down as long as I was holding your hand.”

She wipes her face on the back of her sleeve. “Sorry,” she says, voice thick and wet. “Did I wake you up?”

He brushes her hair away from her face. “Nah, I was still awake. Don’t worry about it.”

It doesn’t seem right that this large, boisterous man should be the one comforting her in the middle of the night, but she can’t help the impulse that tells her to nuzzle into his hand. She turns into it, blinking up at him in the dim light of what used to be the department’s bullpen, and he grins back down at her.

He’s sitting on the floor at the edge of her cot, long legs stretched out on the dirty tile floor, still in his jeans but now without his boots or hoodie. He’s got a ratty wifebeater tank on instead, stretched out at the neckline, and she can see faded swirls of ink on one of his biceps. She huffs out a laugh, and he squeezes her fingers in reply.

“How long’ve you been sitting there?”

She doesn’t mention their entwined fingers. He doesn’t seem keen to bring it up either.

“Uhh, dunno, like thirty minutes?” He shrugs, still playing with her hair. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

“I took like… four benadryl after my shower.” She starts to roll onto her back to stretch, and he releases her, moving back a little like he’s going to get on his bed. “I was dreaming that, uhm.” How best to describe it? He won’t believe her. “I was just trapped and no one could hear me.”

He nods again. “Don’t like small spaces?”

She actually does laugh this time, a sharp noise that surprises them both. “You could say that, yeah.” She considers telling him more, then remembers something he said earlier. “Wait, you’re still awake? Not sleeping?”

“Can’t always make my brain shut off,” he says. “Specially these days.”

She turns back onto her side and props herself up on one elbow, considering, weighing the pros and cons and the chances he’ll take what she wants to say the wrong way… then she decides a guy who’s willing to sit on the cold, hard floor holding her hand for half an hour to make her feel better is exactly the kind of guy she can trust.

“Come lie down with me.”

He blinks at her, cocks his head to the side like a puppy, like he’s not sure he heard her right. 

“I always sleep better when there’s someone with me. Maybe you will too.” When he doesn’t respond right away, she adds: “Humans need touch. It’s good for you. Just hop up here and go to sleep.”

He’s surprisingly silent, but he moves from his cot to hers, sits on the side to test the waters, then stretches out next to her when she doesn’t do anything to make him think her offer is a joke. She makes room for him, waits for his head to hit the pillow before she cuddles against his side, curling into his warmth with a self-satisfied sigh.

“See? It’s nice.”

It helps her forget the cold emptiness of the black white black in her dream, reminds her that this is real and she’s real and the people she’s fighting for are real too.

He jumps a little when he hears her voice, then he rolls onto his side, toward her. She gives him room to settle, then moves back in, head tucked under his chin.

“All good?”

He takes in a deep breath, lets it out in a slow exhale before he replies. “Yeah. You’re right.” His arm loops over her waist, just resting, then pulls her a little closer. “All good.”

---

Sharky doesn’t say anything about her nightmare or her offer-slash-demand for three a.m. cuddles, just slips out of her bed without waking her up from the second half of her nine-hour benadryl nap, leaving behind a cold spot and a pillow that smells faintly of gasoline. She was right though, sleeping with another body next to her soothed her until she was able to float dreamlessly through the rest of the night. 

She can only hope he feels the same.

Breakfast is instant coffee and a crumbly granola bar eaten at Earl’s side as he and the mayor take turns talking about events around the Henbane: bliss in the water, bliss plants growing unchecked, angels wandering along the roads, and Burke still with Faith.

“I can’t leave Joey and Staci to go after Burke.” She feels guilty even as she says it, knows the importance of the Marshal, but… “I can’t. You haven’t seen what I have.”

Minkler looks shocked, but Earl is nodding before she’s even finished her sentence.

“You do what you need to do, Rook,” he says. “We’re counting on you.”

She nods at him even though that makes her angry -- why is everyone counting on her? Why is this her responsibility? She’s not the only one in Hope County who’s physically capable of fighting back against the Seeds; she’s not even the most qualified.

She’s just the one person who managed to completely escape the Seeds on that first night.

“Hey.” His voice, pitched low, draws her out of that cloud of anger, and she blinks up at him as he says, “Stay safe out there, okay?”

The fight bleeds out of her as she sighs. “You too.”

Sharky and Hurk are already dressed and kitted up, standing by the jail gates and arguing good-naturedly about something. She catches just the tail end of the discussion, right when Hurk raises his voice and throws his arms out to the side: “--show my chimps, that’s right, they’re chimps, some respect! And don’t go slanderin’ their names!”

Sharky catches her eye and her confused expression and starts laughing even harder, tipping his head back and letting the sound echo around the courtyard. It’s catching, and she finds herself laughing before she has time to remember why she’d been frowning in the first place.

“You boys ready to go?” She stops a few paces away from them, tucks her hands into her pockets while she waits, and Hurk turns around to look back at her.

“I think I’m gonna head back up to the marina,” Hurk says, “maybe see if I can’t find Mama’s helicopter. You’n’Sharky’ll be okay without me?” He looks nervous like he’s afraid she’s going to say no, so she makes sure she keeps smiling at him even though the idea of him flying a helicopter makes her super fucking nervous.

“We’ll be okay, Hurk. You do what you need to do.” It’s the same thing Earl said to her, and she sighs a little even as her smile stays.

His face lights up. “Okay! Call me when you come back around, and I’ll come help you, okay?” He’s grabbing her up in a bear hug before she has time to nod, and she can’t do anything but chuckle as he picks her up off her feet and sets her back down. “Don’t get into too much trouble without me.”

“You too,” she says, breathless, amused, and she waits quietly as Sharky gets a similarly enthusiastic goodbye.

“Have you seen Boomer this morning?”

Sharky answers by pointing; Boomer’s on his back in a patch of sun, a woman Mattie doesn’t recognize kneeling beside him to scratch at his belly. Boomer blinks his eyes open when his name is called, then rolls to his feet like he’s just remembered he’s late for work. He gives the woman a wet kiss, which makes her laugh, and then runs over and jumps up onto Mattie with his front paws.

“There’s my good boy,” she coos, and ignores Sharky’s vague noise of disgust when she accepts a slobbery Boomer-kiss of her own.

When Boomer calms down enough to sit by her feet, she puts her hands on her hips and looks up at Sharky. “Ready to fuck up John’s day?”

His face lights up. “Hell yeah, chica. Lead the way.”

#sharky boshaw #sharky x deputy #hurk drubman jr #far cry 5 #female deputy #oc: mattie covington #my writing

[harrieatthemet]

I Can Fix It

request (:

She’s learned to block it out.

In fact, she’s gotten pretty good at it. Even though she’s almost positive she blew out the speakers buried inside her headphones.

Sometimes, when the bickering takes longer than usual to die out, the door to her bedroom will start to rift open a little bit. And she can see it out of the corner of her eye, a messy mop of loose brown curls, poking in through the small-scale crack separating her bedroom and the hallway. 

“You can come in,” she’d say, keeping her eyes glued to her phone, “s’alright.” 

And her younger sister would come teetering in, eyes sad and shoulders hanging. The baby of the three would follow right on her heels, mimicking his sisters’ facial expressions.

The cycle has gotten old, tired, played out and just emotionally taxing. The arguing, the rising of voices, you storming off and Harry sulking in his room for the rest of the night. And at first, it was tolerable. At least you had the decency to pick a fight with him the the kids were out of the house, at school or spending the afternoon with Anne. 

But the courtesy of waiting for the kids to be out the door had been abandoned, as these little debacles blew up to become something far more raw, with a deeper meaning. Each day passed, and with that came the reoccurrence of arguments. Twice a day, sometimes three. 

She let her younger siblings crawl on her bed, creating enough space for all three of them after ordering the youngest to make sure the door was closed all the way. Leaving a crack was an invitation for voices to carry.

“What do they fight about?” The youngest asked, and neither of the girls had just one good reason to provide him with.

And though all three kids can’t seem to put a finger on exactly what it was that resulted in their parents constantly going at each other’s throats, Harry seemed to have the hardest time figuring out where things went sour. 

Constantly, after a fight big or small, he’d have to rack his brain for so much as a little inkling to what he’s done to have gotten you to this point. And for the life of him he can never figure out why. He always comes out of these long sessions of curiosity, deep in thought, empty handed. 

And his very worst anxiety, a worry of his that he’d been doing his absolute best to keep at bay, had soon morphed itself into a reality. And it shows, as all 5 of you sit at a dinner table in ear shattering silence. The entire house has become uncomfortable. 

Literally, nobody has spoken a word. And the only noise that can be heard in the kitchen, in the entire fucking house, is table utensils scraping the tops of plates or the bad habit of open mouthed chewing that the youngest can’t seem to shake. 

You don’t look up, at anyone, during most of the meal. And Harry watches as you fumble with a piece of stray string on the cuff of your sweater, deep in thought. He knows because your face is stoic and blank, aside from the small furrow in your eyebrows. 

“Are you guys getting a divorce?” His voice is solemn, though Harry knows his question is not to be rude, but stems for nervousness. Even fear, maybe. 

The oldest is livid. She’s eyeing her younger brother, practically seeing red. Her body goes stiff, amidst mumbling something borderline snarky under her breath. Because of course they’re not, they would never. Those are her parents and it just doesn’t make sense for them to get a divorce. She doesn’t want it to happen, so she believes it won’t. 

“Why’d yeh ask tha’?” He frowns, as it deepens when the youngest delivers an unsatisfied shrug. 

He’s looking to you for a little assistance, hoping you’ll jump in at some point to lend him in a hand. But he’s met with nothing, just the continuation of your mental absence as you sit there, across the table, and keep to yourself. Which leaves him with the question unanswered for both him, and his inquisitive 7 year old son staring at him while awaiting an answer. Are you guys getting a divorce?

“I don’t,” Harry demands, your back to him still, “don’t want it.” 

“I wasn’t asking you whether or not you wanted it.” 

His eyes are trained on you, his gave voiding because he thinks he’s choking. That or he’s gonna be sick. And his head is hurting now because he cannot even believe the words that came out of your mouth. This, too, will turn into an argument because it’s just another thing neither of you can seem to see eye to eye on. But he doesn’t mind fighting this, he doesn’t care if he needs to raise his voice again. 

He built a life with you and divorce just isn’t in the cards. He won’t do it.  

“S’alright,” Harry exhales, “s’okay, (Y/N), really. S’just a rough patch, yeah? Can get it through it, just gotta work on it.”

The way he’s saying it, how he’s talking, it’s so fast. And he feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you. 

You’re unswayed. For fucks sake, you haven’t even turned around to look at him yet. He knows he’s more important than folded laundry, he wants you to turn around and look at him.

“Can y’fuckin look a’ me?” 

“Harry,” you lament, “I’m tired. Feels like we’ve been ‘working on it’ forever and I’m tired. Aren’t you? This isn’t exhausting to you?”

Of course it’s exhausting to him. Do you think he likes this? Think he wants to constantly be at war with you? He doesn’t. It is, it’s extremely exhausting. Coming home after a trip, after working, just to be shut out by someone he’s built a life with, started a family with? Someone he loves? Exhausting. 

“No!” He’s lying, “No, s’not. I’ll fight with yeh forever if tha’s how I get yeh t’stay.”

“Doesn’t really seem like a way to live,” you emit, and he lets out a frustrated groan, “and I don’t want that for either of us. Or the kids.” “The kids,” he yells, “s’right, the kids! Think they want this? Know they don’t.”

“That’s not fair.”

“This isn’t fair!” 

He’s borderline hysterical, and he swears if he hears the word divorce in a sentence one more time he won’t be opposed to resorting to ripping the hair straight from his head. No part of him can understand. He can’t fathom the thought of giving up. After everything, all the things he’s done alongside you, and vice versa. This life the two of you worked so hard for, became accustomed to, the life he loved. 

“Got a good thing here,” he respires, “can fix it.”

“Harry don’t make this-”

“I can fix it,” he hisses, “let me fix it, (Y/N), please.”

#harry blurbs #harry styles one shots #harry one shots #harry styles blurbs #harry imagines #harry styles imagines #harry styles angst #harry fluff #harry styles fluff #harry angst #dad!harry #harry fic #harry fanfic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry fanfiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles x you #harry x you

[quinnhayden]

we've seen both bucky and quinn as the soldier and fenrir but what if it was steve instead that was the winter soldier or captain winter or whatever the fuck they would call him cause you know they would be using his old title to fuck with him but anyway steve falls of the train and bucky puts the plane in the water and later quinn is taken by hydra and becomes fenrir and i am super curious as to what fenrir and steve winter soldier would be like together. or even seeing all three of them

So, I was diving through the inbox and saw this and for some reason got really super inspired?

On Halloween, it’s her. He knew it would be. The man that his team expects she’ll assassinate has women and children locked up in his basement that he plans to sell at an auction once this masquerade ball is over. So, this is personal to her. She’s alone, but he didn’t expect them both to show up. His brain understands that it’s a tactical decision—one is arrested, kidnapped, or killed then the other can continue on with their work. His stupid, lovesick heart wants to believe it’s a desperate attempt to keep distance between themselves and him. He knows some warm memories come back to them when he’s around. Put them all three in the same room? He wants to think it’d make them crack and cave. It’d make them come home with him and that scares them. They want to be wild and free and he threatens that with his promise of domesticity.

There are old stories that he’d heard back in the war. About werewolves that could be cured and turned back into a human. All that needed to be done was to have someone the werewolf trusted and loved whisper their true name. Fuck, he wishes that was true, but those stories don’t talk about what to do if the werewolf doesn’t remember who they used to be. That still doesn’t stop him. Sometimes, all he can ever do is scream their names. He still loves them both. He’ll do whatever he can to make them remember.

When she makes her appearance, the irony of her costume isn’t lost on him. The maroon corset pushes her breasts up and her lips are painted the exact same shade. The hooded cape is, too, and it has velvet material. Rather than the skirt he’s seen other women wear, she’s in black leather pants and boots. Doesn’t make the costume any less of a hot little number, but now it’s more practical should all hell break loose. And it will now that she’s here.

Because it isn’t Little Red Riding Hood that stands in front of him. Here, she’s a hunter. These are the missions where she thrives, he knows. She touches his chest and slides her hands up to his shoulders. When she smiles up at him, it’s sharp. No wonder she’s called Fenrir. She’s the Big Bad Wolf. A predator in sheep’s clothing. But, oh, does she try to play up the innocent act. There’s a little wooden basket in her hand that she pulls something out of. Then, she holds it up between them and sweetly asks, “Apple?”

“Poisoned apples are a different fairytale, sweetheart,” he tells her over the music.

And his back is pressed to the bar. She brackets him in with her arms as she places the apple and her little basket on the bar behind him. But she doesn’t move away. “Aw, I’d never poison you. Just wouldn’t be as much fun without you around.” She wraps her hands around the leather straps of his uniform and pulls him close to her. “Oh, I didn’t wish you a happy Halloween. Why don’t you find a quiet room where I can let you have a treat?”

“And leave you alone to play your tricks?”

“Why do you even bother to pretend you’re here for anyone but me?” Jesus, she’s always made his knees weak when she leans in the way she does now. Hovers her lips over his. “Or that you wouldn’t let me do exactly what I want? All I have to do is say that I haven’t been able to do what I want almost seventy years and you would let me burn the whole world down.”

“Baby, I’d hold the match.” He would. God help him, he would.

That coy and playful smile disappears. She presses her thumb to the dimple in his chin and stares into his eyes. “They really should’ve left you in the ice,” she mourns almost to herself. “My beautiful boy, this world’s too mean for someone with a heart like yours.” Isn’t that a kick in the balls? Because that’s what he’d think about her, back in the war. Good woman like her never should’ve been thrown in war. But then he went and crashed a plane and left her behind to be swallowed up by the nastiest parts of the world. “And look where you’re at now. You’ve taken monsters to bed.”

“You’re not monsters.”

“We are,” she croons. As quick as the emotions came, she’s back to the superficial sensuality. “Because I plan to kill all the men who plan to show at the auction and I’ll love every second. I’ll make them howl. I’ll tear them to pieces and write on the walls with their blood to make all the people like them scared. They’ll have a slow, extremely painful death and that makes me happy. We don’t take orders anymore. Now, we kill because we like it.”

“And all those women and kids locked up, what about them? You plan to let them rot inside their cells?” Her lips purse and she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. “No. You won’t even wait on my team. You think I don’t know about the little network you two have set up to help victims? You two do the same work I do, but you’re as brutal with the bastards as I wish I could be. I wish I could drop this all and come with you two. I want to watch them burn, too.”

She leans in to nip at his earlobe. “I love when you talk dirty to me.” Her cheek presses to his. “I’ve never had beard burn before. And I’d be so much happier to kill them all with your come inside me. Want to help me out with that?”

Why the hell does she even bother to ask anymore?

One second she’s there and then she disappears the next. He suspects she does it so on the off-chance that someone clocks him, he won’t be seen with her. Sometimes, he thinks she cares more about his reputation than he does. The world would lose their shit to see him with an ex-Soviet assassin turned mercenary. He could care less.

Like a lovesick pup, he follows after her. She never makes it hard. A door is cracked open on an upper floor and he sneaks inside the emptied office. She’s sprawled back on the leather couch and smirks at him, pleased as punch. As he locks the door behind him, he notices some drawers are open to the desk on the other side of the room. Papers strewn across the floor. It’ll probably be information about the people who host the auction, will attend it, and all their known associates. A head-start for his team, but she and her partner are always one step ahead of them. It’s a courtesy. An excuse. Natasha and Sam tend to not ask questions when he’s not empty-handed.

“Y’know, here lately, you look real tense in all the pictures I see of you, Cap,” she drawls in the southern accent that makes his heart ache. “Why don’t you c’mon over here, huh? I know how to help you relax.” She spreads her legs, a blatant invitation, and pops the button of her pants.

And he shouldn’t because the more he does this with them both, the more he falls back in love with them. No doubt, they’re all on the road to ruin and his heart will end up broken, but he’ll ride this out. They’ve always been his addiction. He tried, before he knew they were alive, to sleep around in hopes he could…could feel more than the ice and the pain and the loneliness. It never worked. Man or woman, he couldn’t even get it up. They’re it. They’re the ones for him.

Before he knows it, he’s down on his knees between her parted thighs. He rubs his cheek against her inner thigh, nipping at her soft, pale skin. He takes a deep breath and his eyes almost roll back in his head. He hasn’t seen her in months. Been even longer since he tasted her. “Fuck, it’s true. You canbe cruel. To make me go all this time without tasting this sweet pussy.” She starts to chuckle breathlessly, but it morphs into a quiet sigh at the first press of his mouth on her. “I missed your cunt, y’know that?” She fists his hair and moans quietly. “Come home with me. I’ll spend the rest of my days between your legs.”

“Well, isn’t that a pretty offer.” She tilts her head back and her eyes flutter shut. He licks into her and she finally unclasps the front of her corset. He knows she plans to touch herself, but he reaches up before she has the chance. “Fuck,” she whispers as he rolls a nipple between metal fingers. “Oh, that mouth of yours makes me want to climb in bed with you and never leave,” she gasps. “You make me want to do a lot of things I shouldn’t.”

He slides back up her body and presses his mouth to hers. They kiss while he fumbles to get his dick out. Her hands slide over his and she helps him, uncharacteristically patient. Something changed in her after that confession. Her kisses and her touches are charged with emotion now. He touches his forehead to hers as he slides inside her. It’s burning hot here. Hotter than she ever was in the war. He tucks his face in the crook of her neck and rolls his hips. The keen she replies with and the way she reaches down to dig her fingers into his ass spurs him on.

“Моя луна,” she whispers like a prayer. She runs one hand through his hair and has the other wrapped around his shoulders. His pelvis is rubbing on her right. Her legs are shaking and each hot breath near his ear pitches higher and higher. “Я мечтаю о тебе каждую ночь. Я вою только для тебя. Я тебя хочу. Я не имею права. Волки вечно гоняются за луной.” Then, her body clenches up and she’s coming.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow after her. As he spills inside her, he breathes out, “Quinn.” He leans back so he can stare her in the eyes. He cups her cheek and his heart is in his throat. “Stay with me. Please.” Fear is in her eyes. The first time he’s ever seen it this side of the century. Is she scared because she wants it? It’s so close. She’s so close. “Quinn, baby doll, please don’t leave this time. Come back with me. Make my place a home.”

Quinn doesn’t stay and the kiss she leaves him with tastes like a goodbye, or so she tries to convince herself. But Bucky knows the next time he sees her, she’ll stay.

—

Once upon a time, a heartbroken woman had been lured into the deep, dark woods. Lured by a mindless beast that wore the face of her soulmate. The bastards that took her soulmate wanted to take her, too. They had reasoned she could be the fair maiden to soothe the rabid animal they’d turned her soulmate into. That woman she used to be…she was swallowed up in the darkness. And the darkness won, but her captors sure as hell didn’t. They had no idea. Didn’t know that there are wolves. There are stories about wolves and girls. Girls in red, all alone in the woods, about to get eaten up. Dumb assholes didn’t stop to think that wolves and girls both have sharp teeth.

—

Different person, but the story ends the exact same.

There’s no one in his hotel room when Bucky walks inside, but when he comes out of the bathroom after a shower, Steve is there. Propped back against the headboard. This time, he doesn’t even bother to talk. Just slides off the mattress, pulls his shirt up over his head, and moves into Bucky’s space to furiously kiss him.

So, here Bucky is, on his back. Bottom lip between his teeth as Steve looms above him. Sinuously rolling his hips and Bucky doesn’t think he can get any deeper inside Steve, but goddamn does Steve try. Steve hunches over, touches his cheek against Bucky’s, and Bucky usually takes that as the go-ahead to bend his knees and put his back into it. That doesn’t happen this time, though.

Steve loosely wraps a hand around Bucky’s throat. “You have some nerve, Barnes,” he husks into Bucky’s ear. “To make her cry the way you did. To think you can take her away from me.” Steve squeezes, only a little, only a threat. The danger that suddenly radiates from Steve should not turn Bucky on. “I’ve killed men for less. For simply looking at her. You’re lucky that you fuck me so good. I’d miss your cock too much if I slit your throat here.”

Bucky’s the definition of dumb fuck. The last thing he should do is stoke Steve’s fiery temper. “Jealous, baby boy? You scared she’ll wizen up and take me up on my offer? God forbid she not want her hands bloody anymore.”

Steve chuckles and it’s low and dark and sends sparks up Bucky’s spine. “Do you reallythink that’s my problem? Do you think I don’t want her to have peace? No, you’rethe problem. You—” he catches Bucky by the chin and squeezes so hard Bucky thinks his jaw may break. “You can’t protect her,” he whispers into Bucky’s mouth. “I didn’t have a choice when I went down. You did. You left her all alone, Buck.” Jesus Christ, his boy’s always known how to make it hurt. “I’mthe one who protected her all these years. I have the scars on my back to prove it.” He kisses Bucky, gasping because he’s about to come. “You don’t deserve to have that shield.”

It’s fucked up that that’s the moment Bucky comes. And Steve’s always been hot for having a load inside him as much as their girl, so streaks of white are coating their stomachs the next second. “Fuck, Steve, I know. Don’t I fuckin’ know it.”

#this au actually turns me on a lil bit not gonna lie #UNF #power couple steve and quinn #but falling to their knees over bucky #they're angry they want bucky so bad but can't have him #ws!steve #ws!quinn #my fic #taylor answers magical people

[elcorhamletlive]

fandom: MCU ship: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark tags: Crack/Fluff/Humor

(inspired by this post)

“How are we doing, J?”

“Everything in order, Sir.” The robotic voice of the A.I. echoed on the room. “The laser is ready for activation.”

Tony turned on his chair, eyeing the monitor. There it was, right on the wall, in all his star-spangled glory: Captain America, also known as Steve Grant Rogers, also known as Tony Stark’s biggest nemesis.

As a villain, Tony wasn’t a big believer in maintaining long-term rivalries with heroes. He had heard enough horror stories of villains who got so caught up in defeating their counterparts their plans ended up slacking, turning lazy. Having a designated hero to fight could seem simpler in the surface, but in the long term, it just got messy. And if there was one thing Iron Man, twice-named most influential villain of the world by People’s magazine (take that, Gotham city), definitely didn’t need, was for his plans to get messy because of heroes who couldn’t stop sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.

However.

The Captain had been a different case. They came across each other by complete coincidence – Tony was running a very common world domineering plot, definitely not one of his most inspired works, and the Captain showed up with a few people from his team, What’s-His-Name and What’s-His-Name-With-Wings. To Tony’s surprise, the Captain cracked the steps of his plan easily, managing to surprise him when he marched into Tony’s lair, shield in hand, strong posture and confident voice as he turned his azure eyes towards Tony and proclaimed: Nowhere to run, Iron Man.

It had been rivalry at first sight.

Tony tried to fight it, but as time went by, it was impossible to ignore. Captain America was the embodiment of everything Tony disliked – he was a model hero, fighting for freedom, justice, and protecting and helping the weaker. He fought against Tony’s evil plans so valiantly: He’d charge into battle majestically, stronger and braver than any hero Tony had ever seen, and Tony would feel a rush inside his chest, presumably of joy of finally finding a worthwhile opponent. Other costumed clowns had attempted to stop Tony before, of course, but none of them had ever succeeded, and none of them were able to catch Tony’s intere- Ahem, hatred, the way the Captain did.

Tony rested his chin on his hands, watching as the Captain struggled on the table. It had taken a while to get him there. He had fought Tony’s bots admirably. It was always such an incredible display of a mix of grace and power, the way the man moved, effortlessly defeating enemies Tony knew an army would have a hard time dealing with.

Now, though, he was trapped, held down by separate gauntlets of Tony’s suits. Still, he didn’t give up, constantly struggling. Always so stubborn. Tony took a sharp breath, taking in the Captain’s endless determination. God, he was so…

“Sir?” Jarvis’ voice interrupted his thoughts. “Perhaps you should proceed with the plan?”

Oh. Oh yeah. The plan. Tony pushed a button on his panels, activating the laser beam. It was programmed to keep moving through the room, starting at the wall on the far end opposite to where the Captain was trapped, until it reached him. The energy levels were lethal – not even a super soldier would be able to survive it.

“Five minutes now, Cap,” Tony said on the mic. It had been a fairly clichéd plan, he had to admit – the good old oh no, there’s a bomb in the building – oops, not really, and now you’re trapped in my lab play. But Tony preferred to think of it as a classic.

The Captain frowned, scrunching his nose. It was cute, in a very hateful way. Tony adjusted his HD resolution of the video feed to see better.

He was pleased by the fact that his choice of an underground isolated bunker had, apparently, been processed by the Who-Cares-If-It-Even-Has-A-Name organization the Captain worked for as a stealth mission. That meant the Captain was wearing his stealth suit, the dark-blue uniform that fitted his body perfectly. That was just according to Tony’s plan, because the suit made the Captain look… Very, uh, very…

Vulnerable to Tony’s evil weapons. Yeah, that was it.

“Iron Man.” The Captain looked around, immediately finding the main camera. Tony bit his lower lip. So fucking smart. The bastard. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Oh, come on, Cap, you’ve got better lines than this.” Tony grinned, making sure the monitor camera was catching his best angle. He had spent a long time trimming his goatee in the morning and picking out a lovely red tie that he knew complimented his skin tone.

What? Looking good for one’s nemesis was basic courtesy.

For a moment, the Captain didn’t say anything. His expression was a bit strange, but his body kept struggling (Jesus, that suit was fitted. Whoever designed the uniforms at Don’t -Give-a-Fuck-About-The-Place was a pervert).

“I just don’t understand why you keep doing this,” The Captain said. His voice was strangely low, as if he was thinking aloud.

Tony felt confused. The laser had moved a few inches by now, and, while no self-respecting hero would ever cave into full terror, Tony expected a more enthusiastic response. A rivalry was a two-way street, and, in order to allow it to bloom, Tony needed the Captain’s feedback to his plans. Some amount of fear or tension was to be expected, while facing a respectable villain plot. However, for someone who would die in less than five minutes if they didn’t find a way to get untied, the Captain seemed almost… Calm.

Tony frowned. Could the Captain be… Bored? The thought made Tony’s stomach clench. Sure, it wasn’t the most original plan in the book, but Tony had thought the execution would be enough to provide a good challenge. Had he misread it? Maybe the Captain wasn’t very intrigued by the classic villain aesthetic. Suddenly, Tony wished he had shaved his goatee.

“I’m a villain, that’s what I do, buddy,” Tony blurted, and, God, that was such terrible banter. What was he doing? At this rate, the Captain wouldn’t want to deal with his schemes in the future anymore. God, he’d probably send the Wings guy to handle Tony – or, worse, he’d move on to attempt to defeat all those other classless, tacky villains who kept fighting for his attention, like that ridiculous Batroc or the creeper with the red face. None of them were good enough to provide the Captain with a decent challenge, they’d just hold him back.

The Captain’s expression was impossible to read. “You know, Iron Man, with a mind like yours, you could actually do some good.”

The compliment sent a burst of relief over Tony’s chest. His face was also strangely warm, presumably because of a healthy amount of purely professional pride. “Well, Cap, I think we both know that-“

“What is this table made of?”

Tony raised his eyebrows. The Captain had never seemed curious about his design choices before.

“The trap table is perfectly covered by the softest synthetic material, originated from pure Peruvian cotton,” Jarvis chimed in.

Tony wished he hadn’t said anything. Jarvis had argued against the changes to the table, saying it would be a waste of time resources, but that was a total overreaction, Tony thought. Sure, he had spent some money on it – yeah, maybe a few thousand more than it was strictly necessary, but, well, it wasn’t like he had to save on infrastructure. Besides, the other table had been so… Cold and impersonal. This time, the Captain was going to be held down for a while. There was no point in making it uncomfortable. Tony wasn’t a monster.

“It’s really soft,” the Captain whispered. “Softer than last time.”

“Uh,” Tony said. “Thanks,” he blurted, for some reason, and the Captain’s mouth curved in a smile. Tony felt a weird rush on his chest, and looked away, checking the timer. “Three minutes now, buddy.”

To his complete surprise, the Captain sighed. “Is this really necessary?”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“This.” the Captain apparently tried to move his arms to gesture around, but the armor secured him further. “I’m trapped. Can’t you just shoot me?”

Tony’s eyes widened. “I. Uh, that’s…” He said, his head spinning. What was the Captain talking about? And why wasn’t he focusing on disabling the laser bean?

“Uh,�� Tony cleared out his throat, attempting to gather his thoughts. “Not that I wouldn’t love to melt you immediately, Spangles, but unfortunately, there’s not enough energy to make the laser move faster.”

“Actually, sir, there is,” Jarvis interjected. “We could easily revert the power used in other less necessary functions.”

“What?” Tony asked, feeling betrayed. “Less necessary functions? What less necessary functions?”

Tony had the impression that, if Jarvis could grit his teeth, he would have. “Superficial features, sir.”

“Such as?”

“The ambient music, the water fountain on the background, and the artistic lightning system set up to hit Captain Rogers’ hair.”

Oh. Tony blinked slowly. “Those… Those are aesthetic choices. They… They’re important.”

On the screen, the Captain’s mouth curled again. It was really distracting.

“In fact, sir, they aren’t,” Jarvis said, sound strangely tired. “Removing them would allow us to use their power to force the laser bean to move more efficiently, killing Captain Rogers instantly.”

“Wow, wow, wait a minute,” Tony said. “There’s no need to do that. I mean,” He scrambled his brain for something say. “It’s… It’s more fun to watch him going down slowly.”

Giving Jarvis the ability to sigh was a mistake. “Sir, the plan is bound to fail.”

“What? No, it isn’t. He’s trapped.”

“No, he isn’t,” Jarvis insisted. “If he manages to wriggle his body slightly to the left, he will be within the magnetic reach of his shield, allowing him to summon it and get rid of the gauntlets restraining him.”

“Jarvis!” Tony exclaimed. “You’re – how can you…”

“I think what Jarvis means,” the Captain interjected. ”Is that you’re not really trying to kill me. If you were, you’d have already done it.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Jarvis traitorously replied. “Sir, not only could you easily kill Captain Rogers now, but you could have killed him at least a hundred and eight times during the past month.” As Tony gaped in indignation, he added: “I’m afraid this situation can’t keep going any longer. It is against the principles of my programming to keep designing deliberately inefficient plants, sir.”

“Deliberately– what are you implying– He is my mortal enemy, of course I’m trying to kill him–“

“Well,” the Captain interrupted, sounding strangely casual. “I’m not trying to kill you,” His blue eyes looked away from the camera, fixating in the ceiling, while a slight smile formed on his lips. “Haven’t even been really trying to arrest you, lately.”

Tony stared at the monitor in complete shock. “What? No way,” He babbled. “You – you live for arresting bad guys.”

“Yeah,” the Captain nodded. “But you’re not really a bad guy, are you? I mean,” – he turned back to the camera, with an almost amused expression – “you don’t target anyone except me. And none of your plans ever hurt any civilians.”

Tony felt his face warming. “What the hell are you talking about? You don’t see me as threat, Rogers?”

“To the world? No. Not at all.”

“Then why the hell are you still here?”

To Tony’s surprise, a slight flush spread over the Captain’s cheeks. It… Wasn’t a bad look on him.

“To be honest, fighting your evil plans is the most fun I’ve ever had in this century. I… I’m not very good at relaxing.” He said, a little sheepish. “But decrypting your codes, fighting your bots, figuring out your schemes… Makes me really happy.”

Oh. Oh.

Tony’s hand touched his chest. Was he… Was that really what seemed to be happening?

“Your hero antics make me happy too,” He managed to say, his eyes finding the Captain’s through the monitor. “I… I like your catchphrases.”

“I like your monologues,” The Captain replied, with a gorgeous smile on his lips.

“I like your inspiring speeches,” Tony blurted. He felt the Captain’s eyes staring deeply into his through the screen, his heart fluttering on his chest under that deep blue gaze…

“Thirty seconds for the laser to reach Captain Rogers’ body, sir.”

“Oh, shit,” Tony said, snapping back to reality abruptly, reaching forward to turn off the gauntlets, which loosened their grip on the Captain’s limbs, letting him go. “Sorry, Cap.”

“Call me Steve,” he said, that lovely flush on his cheeks deepening slightly. “I’d, uh. I’d really like that.”

“Steve,” Tony echoed, a bit ridiculously, true, but the name sounded wonderful leaving his mouth. “You, uh. You can call me Tony, too. If you want to.”

Steve stood up, facing the camera. He pressed his lips together, seeming a little giddy, when noise started coming from his comm device. Tony immediately regretted not breaking it. “Well. I guess I should be going now,” he said, picking up his shield from the floor.

“Oh.” Tony said, a little disappointed. “Okay. I guess I… Will see you on my next evil plan?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. “Though, uh…” He bit his lower plush lip, making Tony forget the basic fundaments of human language. “Maybe your next evil plan could be, hm, this Friday? There’s a restaurant a couple blocks from Shield that’s very, uh… vulnerable.”

“Sounds great. Yeah,” Tony blurted, and Steve’s face brightened wonderfully. “I could start putting my evil schemes in motion at around… Seven?”

“Seven, seven works,” Steve nodded, a bit breathless.

Tony grinned wildly. “This time, Captain,” He said, exaggerating his voice in a cartoonish tone. “You won’t be able to get away from me.”

He was expecting Steve to laugh, but as he turned, his smile was more sly than anything. “I’m counting on it.”

#stony #stevetony #superhusbands #stony fic #stevetony fic #my fics

[activatingaggro]

I’LL BRING THUNDER (i’ll bring rain)

RICCIN KAYATA | 9 SWEEPS / 21 YEARS OLD

A SEATOWN IN THE EASTERN SEA | 5860 WORDS

"You look nice," Liyiji tells you. "Almost like you're a decent fucking person."

The times that you've worn full paint can be counted on one hand. True paint, at least - concealer and cover-up has always felt lighter than the pigment smeared across your skin, pulling it gray enough to match Gliese, and it's always let you breathe. Concealer and cover-up have never felt like a shield between you and the crisp night air. You'd thought, even only a few perigees ago, that wearing full paint was just another burden that the indigoes were forced to adorn. The dank sort of joke that the Messiahs laid down upon the most blessed of castes, to even them out and pull them the fuck down when they got uppity. Grease paint always seemed like it was a punishment, as much as it was proof of your devotion.

But the weight of the paint's almost fucking merciful, right now. It's a different sort of sensation, something new and novel, and exactly what you need to distract you from your deja vu.

Because as you step off of Li's ship, and onto the thick, pink bridge anchoring his to the nearest houseboat, it feels almost like you're four perigees again, and you're finally coming back home.

You're deep in the Eastern Sea, at one of the seatowns that you'd used to visit as a sprog. It's too small to have ever gotten a name from the Empire. Only the largest of the Rickshaws get that sort of endorsement. No, the only name you've ever learned for it is what the locals called it: Kah Kin, to hurry, the place where everything is always moving, and nothing ever stays still. Because while some of the seatowns are anchored, entire flotillas of planks and boats permanently anchored around abandoned oil rigs and flooded lighthouses, Kah Kin is different. It's mobile, and the location changes every perigee.

So does the size. High above you, the moons have tucked themselves away behind their veils, and the sky is blood deep in its absence, deep enough that even the spackling of the nebula far above can't fucking light it. In the distance, it streaks into the horizon, rich purples blurring into the wine-dark sea until there's no way to tell them apart. If it weren't for the lanterns aboard each ship, you might've missed them entirely. But the sails are bright tonight, huge banners of white that pulse in the night sky like clouds, and fires sit on the deck of every boat, casting off just enough light to illuminate the next. Some nights, there's hardly any ships here at all.

Tonight, you think, there might be six hundred ships here, all hooked together by teetering ladders and bridges made of rope. It certainly sounds like it could be that many, the din loud enough that even you can hear it.

It's a queer feeling deep in your chest as you take it all in. You hadn't known you could be nostalgic for something like this, but here you are, mooning like a wriggler witnessing their first murder, and.. it's not often that you want to stand still, soak in the atmosphere. The air reeks of salt, harsh enough that your throat chafes at the stench of it, but it smells like the markets, too, that you'd grown up in. Prior to the program. Prior to Kindra, even, back when it was just you, Myrrha, Orpheo, Melete, and -

"Stop gawking," Liyiji scolds you, and gives your braid a sharp tug before he pushes past you on the rope.

"Who says I'm gawkin', brother?" You shake your head, casting your braid back over your shoulder, and the way the veil shifts across your shoulders is unfamiliar enough to stir you from your thoughts. "Maybe I'm just thinking." The last time you'd come here, you'd been four and a half, bright-eyed and eager for an adventure that Melete had promised you. Your hair'd still been short back then. That's another difference. You just need to keep remembering those.

"I said you're gawking. Are you deaf," he drawls, warm, "or just fucking stupid?" Liyiji's pushing forward, ignoring the welcoming volley of words from the shopkeep he passes. The way the boats are set up, everything's connected. If you were the right kind of psionic, you could leap high into the sky, take it all in proper, but you don't have to - you know how things are situated, out here. The boats are woven together like the strands of a net, tied to each of their neighbours like flies caught in a web. If a Rickshaw came across the lot of you without that network, you'd be ruined. There's be no room to flee, no room to flee: the boats would crash into each other in their hurry to get out, the frantic rush to save their own hides even at the expense of everyone else together. If the ropes were hemp, this sort of set-up would never be viable.

But the nets hooking the lot of you together ain't hemp. It's biowire, harvested by some stalwart soul before the adult Exodus, and kept in hand ever since. It's not made for space, these gunky pink lines: nah, they're old, made specially for ships, and the Empire can't bring itself to care about tech so fucking outdated. The biowire connects the logic centers of each ship together, like cells in a brain, and when one sends off an alert that they're being attacked, it draws on the energy from all of them to put up a shield, made of the same psionic energy that some folks use to go deep underwater. It'll let things out, but anything bigger than air just can't filter in.

It's the sort of thing that means there's a helm here, buried deep into one of these ships guts, with just enough ability to put that sort of thing up.

It's the sort of thing that's got you dressed in indigo from head-to-tail, with a clown's full paint coating your mug, all despite the fact that your veins run with liquid gold. You can be whatever chrome you want on land, where the law protects you, and folks have the Messiah’s sense to know what the white on your face means. Out here? The only time law matters is if it’s around to see you.

And the legislacerator’s on the seatowns keep their eyes closed shut.

"If you gotta ask.." You fall in step beside Liyiji as he steps onto the next bridge. The air's heady with incense here, drifting from the burners resting on each ship you pass through. None of 'em have had the courtesy to coordinate: the first you pass by has oranges burning away, the sticks still smoking, and the next has cloves, heavy enough that you can taste them on the back of your tongue. For you, it's just a bother. For Liyiji..

Well. Your invertebrother might be navy, but he's always been the weakest out of all the motherfuckers you've ever met. His ears are pinned as he navigates the crowds, dead-set on a spot that you ain't quite sure either of you know. Wretch must be bothered by the smell, living as he does all on his lonesome - but least he ain't showing it. Ain’t like there’s anything the either of you could do, if he did. "Oh, brother, look at this mug. Look at this goddamn rack. This pan’s too gilded to be fucking empty," you tell him instead, as a distraction, and he snorts, ears flicking forward for the briefest of seconds. "Unlike your ugly-ass mug. You tip out your pan to the gods, brother, or you actually know where we goin'? ‘cause when you said you had someone for me to meet, shit, I was expectin' - iunno - a goddamn teashop?"

You pause, peering at the next ship over. They're a ramshackle of a boat, with plywood nailed in to cover the holes in the cocoon, and a deck that keeps leaking what you hope's gotta be slime. They've got the door of their cabin swung wide open, covered from top to bottom in bowls, and the rest of their ships covered in baskets and displays, each full of stoneware that mostly ain't broken. "I ain't seen a teashop anywhere," you complain. There's snakes coiled over the plates, their eyes strange and wet like they were freshly painted, but that ain’t uncommon. The seafolk always decorate with snakes, like calling down on his kin will stop the Leviathan from wreaking their homes. "One that don't look like a lusus took a bite out of it."

"Why the fuck would I take you to a teahouse? So you could hit on the waitress, and I have to tip to make up for it..? Please, Riccin." He sounds peevish. But that's the delight of Li, you reckon: if he’s got the energy to act like someone shoved a sack of bees up his nook, then he’s still calm, not letting himself get bothered by the crowds brushing past the both of you. He’s navy, and you’re dressed in indigo, but that’s the wonder of the seatowns: so’s everyone fucking else. "No, I'm taking you to someone I think you want to meet. That's all."

He pauses. The tip of his ears flush blue, same way they always do when he gets to paying attention. Then he looks back at you, lashes low. Boy's got heavier lids than even Dysseu: when he does this, it's hard to get a feel on him at all, but for a moment, you almost think he's going to apologise.

The moment passes. "She's almost as foul as you," he says instead, then sets back to walking. "But she's got foresight. And you have questions. She takes payment in alcohol. She'll cut you for it to work."

Foresight. It's a tricky psi, that, and one of the rarest: there was a jade in Chiloa and Ico's creche that'd sported it, back when you were young, but you haven't thought of her in sweeps.  You whistle, low and impressed, then arch your eyebrows at him. "Foresight, brother? Does that shit work better than yours, or are we about to get fucking fleeced?" The crowd’s thinned around you as you’ve walked: it’s just the two of you on this next boat, and the boats surrounding you, the merchandise abandoned as their residents drifted towards the center.

"Mine is perfectly standard." Li's got a way with words. Each one drops like it's a personal goddamn disappointment, but you know him: the fact he's saying them at all is a sweet enough kind of affection. "And more useful. So fuck off. She does probabilities. She can tell you what’s most likely to happen, and how likely it is, and divine from there. Or you could just ask me, and I’ll -”

“- tell me all the grisly ass ways a motherfucker could die?” Something shifts inside one of the houseboat’s doorways, but when you squint, it’s just a ward, catching in the wind. A snake winks at you from the edges, all gild in gold, even as the shape calls for protection. “You ought to give up the divin’, brother, and just sell here. Why, look at these poor fools. Look at the lines they have fucking writ.” There’s another set of wards on the next boat’s shack, three stacked in a row, calling for protection, for health, for light. This tradition isn’t of the Mirthful faith - it’s some remnant kept live on the ocean floor, the sort that trickles up in streams and gasps to the sea’s surface, so you’ve got no qualms pulling it from the wall, waving the ward right at his face. “Look at this shit!” you crow. “They fear death so hard, they bring it into their fucking homes.”

“Sell divinations, so I can be surrounded by strangers, even when I’m asleep?” he asks, dry. “I’ll pass. Stop playing with the deco, Riccin, and hurry up. We’re almost there.”

And indeed, you almost are. The ships are abandoned this far out. The air’s clean, with naught but the fucking salt on the wind, and even the sounds are so far away, they’re muffled. The last few ships are spartan in their solitude. There are no lights on their rails, no candles in the windows or leds along their awnings. There’s just wards, their gilded edges catching the stars light, and the faint pink pulse of each bridge, visible now in the absence of the light.

When you cross the final bridge, onto the boat at the farthest outskirts of the town, you think the sea’s churning around you. But then your eyes adjust. It’s not the sea.  It’s a dozen little canoes with shutters drawn tight on their lanterns, staring in.

You pause mid-step.

“Li,” you say, but he’s seen it, too, and he’s pushing past you.

“Loxias!” he calls, then he pauses.

The brownblood sits in the middle of the boat, her head thrown back and her braids strewn across the floor around her like a cloak. From this angle, the line of her long neck looks like the sort of things trolls would've fought wars for, but then she moves. She's too long-limbed, too bony: the skin pricks at the back of your neck as she pulls herself to her feet, hands splayed with their spider-thin fingers flat against the deck.

She stands up, each movement jerky, like she ain't quite sure how to make each bit of her move on its own, and you take a step back. Liyiji’s paused beside you, his ears pinned back, eyes wide in the darkness.

"Something's wrong," Liyiji says, his voice strained. "Just -" He drags a hand down his braids, mouth drawing thin into a slash, then he glances at you side-long. "Just wait here? I'll check in on her."

She's not looking at the either of you. She's standing, half hunched, her back crooked like she can't quite manage to stand straight. She's still got one long, ungainly palm lying flat on the deck, but she doesn't look up when his feet hit the deck. She doesn't react at all, even, as he steps in closer, but your mouth's gone dry. You're right behind him, never mind his goddamn order, because there's something feral about the way she's holding herself.

It's the sort of look that you've seen on lusii gone rabid, and while you're sure trolls can't go rabid..

Well. It's not worth a risk, is it? Because she’s not looking at the two of you yet, but when Liyiji’s heel catches the deck hard, her ears twitch up. She looks at the two of you then, braids falling away, and there’s something queer about her eyes --

"Oh, for fuck's sake - don't go over there!" someone shouts from the nearest boat, hangs cupped around her, and Loxias pivots.

There ain’t nothing troll about the way she moves, that's the thing. It's limbs pushing like they don't know how limbs work, like a puppet with three strings cut: she jerks and she tilts to the side hard enough you think she must be about to fall right over with those foot long horns, but she manages to haul herself upright just in time.

She lunges for the side of the rail, fingers wrapping hard around it, and she tenses -

- then screams as the troll snaps the shutters on their lantern open. They swing it out wide and hard, so the oil splashes up against the walls and her face is caught in the full light. Your eyes ache with the change, enough that orange floods the corners, but it ain’t any cause to scream. It’s a sting, that’s all.

But she’s howling like something hurt, like the oil has gone through the glass and is eating into her skin.

"She's gone dark!" the troll hollers over the noise of her. "Get off the fucking boat! We’re burning it to the ground!'

"Gone dark," you repeat, looking at Li - but his face's gone bone pale, all his blue fading at once. "Li, what the fuck they on about?"

He wets his lips. But he's not looking at you. He's staring at Loxias, who's taken in a long, shakey breathe, deep enough that you can see her ribcage rattle with it. She slips back to the deck like all of her bones have been lost, her hair falling forward, her hands pressed to the front of her face to block out the light. She's back to moving her lips, words too high for you to hear proper, but you catch snippets - shit that don't make any sense, angels and songs and homes, but said all wrong.

"Li!" you snap, and you lean in, landing an elbow hard on his shoulder. He doesn't quite react, not until you hook around his horn, claws curving in - then he jerks away with a snarl, his pupils slit fear-thin against the blue of his iris.

"The fuck do you think it means?" He starts to curl his arms around himself. Then he stops, shoulders drawing up, and he drags a hand down his face instead. "We've got to go, Riccin," he says, ragged, but for all that he's speaking to you, he's looking at her. Loxias is back to looking almost harmless, but after the way you saw her moving.. there's nothing attractive in that shit now. "She's contaminated. If we stay near for too long, she might infect us, too."

"Contaminated with what?"

"With something dark," he snaps, "something worse than any of your fucking gods! Seatown bullshit! The reason they had those wards up! And we don't have anyone here to get rid of it, so we're just - we -" He swallows, takes a step back. "We're just going to have get rid of her. And if we stay on this boat any fucking longer, they're going to get rid of us."

"Get rid of her," you say, slow. "As in - what, brother, they gonna burn her? Her own people?" But of course they are. The troll off in the distance is still waving their lamp, their face too bright under it to make out their colour. And for all that there's a sea of faces all around you, everyone collected against the edge of their canoes to watch, ain't nobody stepping up to do a damn thing. Should you care? You don't suppose you should. This isn't your town. This isn't your fucking people.

The ward hangs heavy in your pocket, where you’d crammed it down. What point to care is there, when their own ways did fucking naught?

But you know what it's like, to have folks that ought to stand by you turn on you instead. Raphae did his job right when you asked him, no matter how Chiloa sniffed, or how distraught Kindra became. There's no ache left when the thought strikes you anymore, no pain: nah, there's just the sour-sweet sting of the truth, and that's a taste you're learning to get used to. You've never wanted to get used to it. But there hadn't been a choice, had it?

You’ve got a choice now.

"No," you decide. "We ain't."

"Riccin -" He snatches at your shoulder, but you're already striding forward. He doesn't follow, and that ain't a slight. Li's seatown raised, seatown bred, and who are you to ask him to turn against himself? He's true to his nature, same as any lusus, but he's loyal, too: when you look back, he's pulled his trident off of his back, and angled to look towards the crowd. His chin's up, his horns angled in a rake, in the sort of dare that no one seems keen to protest.

He won’t follow you on, but he won’t let none of ‘em intervene, either.

Let him hold them back, then, as you approach the girl. Or, no - the adult, for what you'd taken as an adolescent's gangliness is just the queer shapes of an adult underfed, lengths all wrong for any troll ascended. She's got the knobby knees of Dysseu, when you get closer, stretched thin whereas Sipara'd been squashed short. She's got his long fingers, too, and when she looks up, she's got his gaunt cheeks.

But her eyes are the opposite. These ain't bone-white: they're black, deep as any pit, and your breath catches in an involuntary growl when you see them. The colour's too dark for psi, too curved to pass of as an empty socket. You would've blamed contacts, if you thought anybody was fool enough to play that kind of game. But it ain't contacts. It's like gas, almost, and as you stare into it, you think you can see it moving, strand by strand, thick as an atmosphere over a planet. You can't see her bulbs behind all of it, but she angles her head towards the sound of you, like she can see you.

You can't even see if she's got bulbs, still.

She pulls herself up, rickety, her shoulders bending like they might pop straight out.

"What's going on? Is she - is she burning out?" Liyiji calls, but it's not quite a question

For the best, because it ain't one you can answer. Loxias isn't stepping towards you. Nah, girl just flings herself straight at you, hard enough that you have to catch her with your hands, and she's keening, low and heady in a set of sounds that just don't work together, a lusus's keen of 'come here' hooked in with a pupa's screech for blood, for food, for attention, for anything and everything they can receive. It’s all slip-slod over words too low for you to properly hear, her mouth-gestures too mealy for you to properly read, if you had the attention for it.

You don’t. It's a good thing she's bone thin, more waifish than even Pheres for her size, or else she might push straight past your grip. As is, she pushes and she presses, making that sound until your ears pin to escape it, and - Messiahs fucking above.

This close, you can see the way the things over her eyes coils, the movement undeniable. It's like watching stormclouds, almost, in a way that makes you bare your fangs, your words caught in a tangle at the back of your throat. You hate it, is the thing, for all that you don’t know what it is. A pupa doesn’t have to know the sun to fear the light, and the urge to pick her up, throw her into the sea or the flames each time that smoke churns, is almost impossible to fight.

But you're not going to cull her, no matter how much your pan’s screaming it needs to be done. You're going to help her, and with that thought, you shove her back, hard, then step into her space while she staggers. Your elbows brace against her shoulders, then you hook your hands under her chin, thumbs pressed firmly to the corners of her eyes. Part of you is surprised, when the ink rolls over your fingers, that it doesn't hurt. It doesn't stick, either, because it's not liquid at all. It's like gas, almost, or smoke from one of Iconic's cigars. It doesn't stain your hands: it just pours over them, like something curious, or like aura. And that's it.

This must be psionics, you think, but then you catch a whiff of something else, something sharper, like the smell of ice at the heart of winter. She’s stilled under your hands, losing the wild energy that’d overtaken her, and now you can read her lips. It’s still nonsense, for the most part.

But part of it’s legible enough. "The angels are calling me home," Loxias mouths at you, with a cadence just short of song, and then your hands are burning, a sharp, aching pain that cuts straight through to the depths of your awareness. It's more than just hurt. It's everything, for one heart-stopping moment, sensation so much that it blocks out everything else -

- you're jerking your hands back, hard as if they were scalded.

When you look down, they're bleeding, gold seeping through the lines of your palms and curling down your wrists like water. It aches like frostbite, or like needles in your skin, soaking all the way to the deepest parts of you, but there's a kind of shock to it. There's gold meeting the indigo, brilliant as Grand Highblood Myddus's palms, and.. you can taste the pain in your mouth, almost, the sickly sweet tang of iron, but you can't quite process it.

So you take a deep breath, then grab her face again, more firmly this time. She actually chitters at you, baring her teeth. This close, she could tear out your wrist. This close, with your palms bleeding and bile falling from her eyesockets, she could be contaminating you with the same filth that's taken up in her core. What proof would you have? What protection could anyone fucking give to this?

"Oh, sister, sister," you breathe, like your heart ain't wrenching to escape, like there ain't bile on your tongue. No: your words are like the water around you, still and soothing and more weight than any one troll ought to muster. You speak to her like she is a lamb in your flock, and she has been lost, and like your soul isn't curling away at the sight of the black coiling over your fingers. Because what else can you fucking do? "What have you done? What lies with which did they fucking lure you? These mirthless fucks have taken you astray. They have stripped away your sense. They have stolen away your dignity. But they ain't taken your mind, have they? There is a soul in here, one that is being bound in the chains of this noissome song. There is a troll buried in that deep, dank space, too weak to break free."

"But don't you worry none, little brown," you say, "for I have brought a fucking light."

Deep within you, you pull your psionics together like armour, curling them one point at a time over your mind. You link them together, tight as a shield, and you take a breath, and you think to the past. Myddus of the Golden Palms, they'd called him back before he was the Grand Highblood, and Myddus of the Golden Tongue. He'd pulled the angels from the heart of a sinner, and he had called her soul back with the song on his lips, and the Messiahs had loved him for that.

They'd killed him for that, in the end, but it'd been his place. And what troll can reject their place?

It strikes you, suddenly, that you might die here. But you don't want to die, no matter if it's your place, no matter if it's the Messiah's fucking plan, so you draw your psionics tighter. You think of the Messiahs, their eyes bright, their words full of mirth. You think of the light of their moons, the cast-off spawn of the terrors, and how they'd caught them in the sky - how Pink had stripped them of their tails, and Lime had stripped them of their feathers, and those castoffs had become the angels, who longed for their old bodies, but were destroyed by the glow within them.

You think of the ward in your pocket, painted with the gold of the angel’s servants, and the call for light scribed upon it.

"I'm going to help you, girl," you tell her, and if your voice is shaking, then who is around that would tell?

Then you lean in, placing your mouth to her nearest eye.

The stories had never mentioned the sting of this. To breathe in the gas is like swallowing the sun. It feels like it's flaying away your flesh as it pours down your throat, stripping away everything it touches and making it its own. You've never tolerated pain well, never had much cause to learn, but what other choice do you have? To let her die at the hands of her own? To toss her away, like so many have tossed you?

Life is a sacrifice, the fifth Highblood told his choir. Life is naught but a set of strings set to be snipped, and the joke of it all - the truth of it all, the noise that the Empress tries to filter is  - is you decide if you'll be the strings, or the hands holding them. You'd never thought much about that quote, before, but now it's weighing.

When the sting is too much - when you can't handle it any longer - you pull away. Her face is sallow under your hands.

"Sister," you say, or you try, but the words that come out ain't nothing that you've ever heard before. They ain't words at all. They're just filth, tearing out of your throat like cicadas from their coons, and there's iron in your mouth, coating your tongue as thick as the ink on her face.

Chiloa and the IEP - they'd raised you to be the string, and they told you there would be nothing sweeter than the snap, and they held the scissors to you, and you'd never even thought to fray, not until it was nearly too late. And has it ever helped you? Has it ever done jack shit but cost you?

Maybe it's worth it to be something else, just for one night.

You’d made a choice, when you stepped onto this ship. Right now, all you’re doing is abiding by it.

Loxias blinks. When she opens her eyes, one eye is clear, free of the filth, and flooded with only her blood.

So you lean in, you press your lips to her other eye, and you pray.

Second time around, it's not any better. If anything, you think it's almost worse, for now you've got the taste of the pain in your soul, and you know what's coming. There's no shock to keep it away from you now. It's just pain, washing over you like a wave, and all you can do is close your eyes, and kick towards the surface. Because sure, there's pain, but you know, now, what sort of sick beast is raining discord upon her soul. You can feel the coils of it, pressing in on you from every side. You can feel the way it -

- and you can feel the way it recoils, when it brushes up against your psionics and the light flares.

The world flashes orange. When you open your eyes, the sky's bright, brighter than it ever should be, even this late in the sweep and with the boat lit aflame. But nah. The boat ain't lit. There's no heat save for the reek of your own blood, streaming down your face and leaking from your hands. Loxias's eyes are clear, but the light ain't from her or hers. Her irises are blown big, large enough to take over most of the yellow, but there's scarcely any glow to them, even this close: the dusting of brown light across her cheeks could just as easily be blood.

No, the light's coming from you. When you reach out, careful, to wind it back in, all it does is flare brighter, with a pulse of energy that leaves your veins burning in the aftermath. Your eyes are shining, bright enough that they feel ready to start weeping. There's sparks drifting down around you, like the snow that ain't yet come, but it's fine. There's none of the pain of burnout, none of that sick siren call that comes with destruction. Your psionics are just there, flared, caught up in the grid of armour you'd wound them into, and you'll have to figure out how to fix that later.

And you’re just tired, right down to the bones.

But right now, you have different problems. Loxias's gone limp in front of you, but when she lifts her hands, it's with the movement of a troll, not whatever fuck had been wearing her skin. And when you turn to face the crowd behind you..

There's a few hundred eyes all on you, watching, and in the darkness, with shadows cast harsh on their faces and jaws, it's impossible to tell what they're thinking of you: all dressed up in indigo, with the morning sky in your eyes and the sun's light dripping from your palms. You ain't Iconic. You've never had to go and figure out the beat of a crowd, whether the crook of their arms was to clap, or to grab a rope. You've never fucking wanted to, but Liyiji's tongue-tied and pale next to you, and you know he won't be any help at all.

So you take a breath, you cast your eyes across them, and you pull yourself up tall.

"And what the hell," you ask, voice pitched low, and oh - your throat's gone raw, so the words fucking rasp, deep as any highblood's purr. "Are all of y'all looking at? Do you even fucking know? Has fear stripped the sense from you, that I have laid down salvation in front of you and all you can do is stare? A terror would've plagued your goddamn cities. They would have ripped the bones from your flesh. They would've supped on your quadrants, and left you to fucking watch, for how could some fucking flame - the detriment of the land, the Messiah's first joke - ever quench what comes from the origin of us all? Do you drown your fish in the waters, cousins? Do you hold them there until they stop fucking moving? Because if one does - if you have ever - that would be the most rank of goddamn miracles."

"And you have not earned a miracle." Your mouth tastes of iron. It drags down your throat when you breathe in, but what is that discomfort compared to the patter of your heart? There’s a fire in your veins, burning like it’ll eat its way free of you, and it pours out in your words, like a lash with which you could burn away their sin.  "You have earned jack and shit, motherfuckers, save for the most righteous of ire. What sort of shit is this? Trouble comes, and you sinners, you feckless fucks, all you do is fucking cower. You swing a lamp, and you promise a resolution that you cannot - will not - fucking deliver.  You don't deserve a fucking miracle.”

“If the gods were just, I would have let this motherfucker wreck all of you."

"But the gods ain't just," you tell them, heat enough to match the pulse in your veins, "so we must be, you worthless wretches. Remember that, next time you think to fucking cower. Think of that the next time you go to claiming you'll light a flame upon a motherfucker still occupied. C'mon, Li." The crowd isn't moving. They're just watching, but that's fine - you don't expect they'll move at all, not after that show. "Get your girl, and let's fucking go."

#[prose] #[drabbles] #riccin kayata #fantrolls