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missjanjie · 3 years

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Taste of a Poison Paradise | Chapter 9

Title: Taste of a Poison Paradise Summary: Life at Jackie Cox’s strip club, Poison Paradise, isn’t just lapdances and g-strings. There’s enough drama, lust, and heartache to rival any soap opera. None of the girls know what to expect on any given shift, especially while navigating their torrid, complicated relationships. Word Count: ~2.9k (this chapter) / ~27.2k (total) Relationship(s): Lemyanka (Lemon/Priyanka), Crygi (Crystal Methyd/Gigi Goode), Sportsdoll (Jan Sport/Nicky Doll), Jaidie (Jaida Essence Hall/Jackie Cox), BVK (Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo/Kameron Michaels), Rosnali (Rosé/Denali Foxx) Rating: E TW: mentions of alcoholism

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Chapter Summary: In the wake of Lemon's outburst at the club, those closest to her process the fallout and realize something needs to be done before she spirals to the point of no return.

“Okay, I think that’s the last box,” Juice remarked as she dropped herself down onto the couch. “So, why’d your cousin kick you out again?”

Lemon scoffed and rolled her eyes as she piled up the empty boxes. “She didn’t kick me out, we both decided it was time for me to move.” She decided her college friend-turned-roommate didn’t need to know about the argument she had with Rosé. And she certainly didn’t need to know that she’d rejected her ultimatum of, “if you want to stay here, you can’t keep getting drunk every day.” It had been a week since the incident at the club and she was going to recover from it on her own terms.

“Alright, cool,” she shrugged as she took out her phone and began aimlessly scrolling. “You wanna do something tonight?”

The blonde perched herself on the armrest of the couch, swinging her legs. “We could go to a club and get shitfaced,” she suggested.

Juice shook her head without looking up from her phone. “You can. I mean, I’ll totally go with you and turn shit up, but I don’t drink.”

“More for me.”

Her friend looked her over with a concerned expression, eyes finally pried away from the screen. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked gently. “I mean, I know you’ve been through a lot, have you considered talking to someone about it?”

Lemon shook her head. “I’m fine, I don’t have the emotional capacity for therapy.” She got back up and looked around. “Shit, I guess you don’t have any liquor in here then. I’ll be back,” and after putting her shoes on and grabbing her purse, she was out the door, leaving a concerned new roommate in her wake.

------

Rosé sighed as she passed the joint back to Mik. “This doesn’t make me a bad person, right? I mean the last thing I want to do is make Lemon’s issues about me. But god, that really is what made me realize that I have to do this.”

Mik shook her head as she took a hit. “It’s not your fault, you saw a trainwreck and realized you needed to keep your ass on the tracks.” She finished off the joint and put it out. “Listen, the last thing you wanna do is be that girl who pines over the person she’s sleeping with until it’s too late.”

“You’re right, I know. I’m gonna talk to her,” she exhaled deeply as she pushed herself up. “If Lemon comes around, please don’t have sex with her.”

“Oh fuck off,” she huffed, “that delayed her mental breakdown by at least a week.”

Rosé rolled her eyes as she left. She wasn’t mad at Mik for that, if anything maybe it did help Lemon temporarily by giving her a distraction. But she had so much more on her mind, things that have been brewing since the club incident.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she knocked on Denali’s door, evening out her breathing while she waited for her.

“Hey Rosie,” Denali smiled warmly as she opened the door, leading her inside and shutting it behind them. “What’s up? You usually text me when you’re on your way over.” They sat down on the couch as she spoke, a tinge of concern in her voice.

She swallowed thickly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “I know I’ve been distant lately with everything that’s been happening with Lemon. But through all the chaos, I realized something, that keeping your feelings bottled up is dangerous.” Another deep breath, this time she forced herself to look into Denali’s eyes, eyes that she found warmth and comfort in every time she gazed into them. “What I’m trying to say is that I have feelings for you. I don’t just wanna be fuck buddies, it’s not enough. I need all of you.”

Denali blinked, taking her time to process Rosé’s confession. At first it was pure surprise, but once she let it sink in, it clicked that she felt the same way, that she had been falling for her all along without realizing it. “You have all of me,” she told her, cupping her face and pressing a deep kiss to her lips.

In that moment, a weight lifted from Rosé’s chest. If only for the duration of a kiss, she could pretend nothing in the world existed outside of Denali’s apartment. She could stop thinking, stop worrying. It was only them, everything else faded to black. “Are we alone?” she asked against her lips.

“Mhm,” she nodded, a slight smirk tugging at her lips, able to fill in the blanks from there. Her hands traveled down Rosé’s body, tugging off her shirt in one swift motion, her own following suit, though they took their time undressing each other, letting their fingers and lips gently caress each other’s skin.

By the time they were both completely undressed, they had gotten each other thoroughly worked up. Rosé had Denali sit up on the couch, then got on her knees in front of her, pushing her thighs apart. She moved in between them, dragging her tongue along her pussy before circling, then sucking on her clit as she eased a finger into her.

Denali’s head lolled back to rest against the back of the couch, a pleased moan escaping. “Mm, Rosie…” she exhaled, her hips pushing up when Rosé slid in a second finger. “Baby, just like that, feels so good.”

She basked in the praise, continuing her movements, occasionally switching her tongue and her fingers, but never leaving her unattended. She was focused and fervent, bringing Denali to an orgasm as quickly as she could, as if she were setting it as a challenge to herself. Once she’d won her game, she pulled back with a smile, gazing up at her. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re sappy,” she teased affectionately, leaning down to kiss her. “Come on,” she got up and pulled Rosé to her feet, “we can cuddle until I gotta get ready for my shift.”

------

Nicky watched Jan with a concerned expression. She wished she knew what to do, how to talk to her and help her. Ever since the incident at the club, she had been quiet, withdrawn, two words she would never think to associate with the bubbly woman she loved so dearly. It killed her to see her girlfriend hurting, enough for her to put her aversion to emotional conversations aside as she sat beside her on the couch, gently taking her hand. “Please tell me what’s wrong. You haven’t been the same since what happened with Lemon and I’m worried about you.”

Jan chewed on her lip, her gaze downcast. Logically, she knew she couldn’t avoid this conversation forever, but it didn’t make it any easier. “Lemon is like a sister to me and I’m worried about her. I know what alcoholism looks like… and I know what it can do to someone, it’s not pretty.”

She furrowed her brows, shifting closer to the younger woman. “What do you mean?”

“Well, um…” she swallowed thickly, “my dad’s five years sober now, but it hit a nasty low before it got better. I-I don’t know what that low would be for Lemon, I’m afraid she’s hit it, but I’m even more afraid she hasn’t.”

Nicky nodded as she listened. She had suspected Lemon might have developed a bit of a drinking habit, but not the severity, and certainly not the effect it would have on Jan. “I am so sorry about your father, and about Lemon. Is there anything we can do?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “My dad went to rehab while I was away at college, but I imagine my mom laid down some ultimatums, but I don’t know if Lemon thinks she has anything left to lose.”

“There has to be some way, and I'm going to help you find it,” she promised.

------

“Thank you all for meeting me here,” Juice said as she looked around the two pushed-together tables in the diner. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Julia - Juice - and Lemon moved in with me about four days ago.”

“What happened?” Rosé immediately asked. “Is she okay?”

The blonde hesitated and looked down at the table. “Technically yes, she’s nursing a hangover at home right now but otherwise fine, unless she’s started day drinking. But there’s a bigger issue, and I’m sure you guys have started to suspect as much. What I’m trying to say is she’s developing an alcohol problem, and if we don’t do something about it now, it could get much worse.”

Everyone else had similar expressions - sadness, concern, anxiety. But none of them were surprised. “What do we do, then?” Rosé asked, breaking a tense moment of silence.

“Listen, I’m not claiming to be an expert. I’m twenty-two, sober for eight months now, so I can relate to how she’s feeling. What she’s going to need is everyone to rally around her, because it won’t be easy to convince her to get help.”

“So can we stage an intervention?” Jaida asked. “Do you have someone we can talk to?”

Juice nodded. “I can talk to my sponsor and have her put us in touch with someone who can get her into a detox, put the whole thing together. It goes so far beyond just telling her to stop drinking, especially in a club environment.”

“Speaking of the club environment,” Gigi chimed in, “we have to address the elephant in the room. What are we gonna do about the Priyanka situation? She told Crystal she’s taking a day job until things cool off, but if Lemon gets help… maybe that’ll expedite the process.”

Jackie sighed, but agreed. “I can open auditions to take on another dancer temporarily, I don’t know how long she’s gonna need, but assuming she chooses to get help, I want her to know she has a place to come back to.” She was quiet for a moment, then added, “I’m going to reach out to Priyanka too, I know she hasn’t been answering most of our calls or texts, but I think I might be able to get through to her.”

“My god, we’ve been so caught up with Lemon, we’ve barely kept up with Pri. Are we bad friends?” Jan asked, feeling a mix of guilt and sadness.

Juice shook her head. “No, of course not. Everyone here is doing their best. You guys reach out to Priyanka and figure out a way to get Lemon to the intervention when the time comes, I’ll do what I can on my part.” From there, they all just had to hope for the best.

------

Jackie took a deep breath, making sure she was calm and collected before knocking on the door. When a woman with black hair and tattoos opened the door, she greeted her politely. “Hi, you must be Scarlett. Um, can you tell Priyanka that Jackie’s here to see her?”

Scarlett nodded, disappearing back into her apartment. There was a solid few minutes of waiting, but Priyanka eventually came to the door. “Hey,” she greeted meekly and led Jackie inside.

Jackie sat at the edge of the bed in the guest room Priyanka had been staying in. “How have you been? You know we’re all worried about you.”

Priyanka’s gaze never left the floor. She picked pieces of lint off of her shorts as she sat down as well, swinging her legs aimlessly. How could she even begin to tackle that question when everything she had ever known had changed overnight? How can anyone process that sort of thing? “Scarlett convinced me to try therapy. I’ve had a couple sessions so far… It helped, I think, but it’s just scratching the surface, you know?”

She listened attentively, nodding along. “I’m proud of you for that. How did your family react when you and Mark broke up?”

“It’s funny, as angry as he was, he didn’t out me. He said it’s clear I have my own problems to work through. My mom was furious that the wedding was called off, so I threw in the ‘I like girls’ news because, well, it couldn’t get any worse,” she sighed. “I don’t think it’s fully hit her yet. She asked me if it was an excuse to get out of the wedding. I haven’t heard back since I told her it was the truth, and I haven’t heard from my dad at all.” She laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I couldn’t even say that I’m gay. It’s too much, I can’t just be gay,” she sat back up and grabbed a tissue, quickly dabbing the corners of her eyes. “How do you get past it, Jackie? How do you stop being afraid of yourself?”

Jackie pressed her lips together as she tried to articulate an answer. “There’s no easy solution, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now. I don’t think I was ever ready to be gay, one day I just came to terms with the fact that I was miserable trying to avoid my own truth and that the only way I was ever going to be happy was by loving even the scariest parts of myself.”

Priyanka went quiet again, crumpling the tissue in her hand and staring at it as if the answers were there. “So you don’t think I’ll be able to be fully happy until I embrace being gay?”

“That’s for you to decide. But think of it this way; when you think about your future, best case scenario, what is it in your life that’s making you happy?”

The answer for that wasn’t in her hand, it was in her heart. It made its way into her throat, choking her from the inside and making her pulse race. After everything, it nearly made her angry that it felt inevitable. “Lemon.”

------

“Juice just texted me that they’re on the way,” Rosé read off her phone, her free hand squeezing Denali’s tight, her leg bouncing anxiously.

The woman they’d brought in to help Lemon, Widow, nodded calmly. “Remember, at the end of the day we are here to help her. We’re not punishing or lecturing her, but we have to be firm.”

After another review of the plan, they heard the door open and looked up to see the two girls walk in, Lemon’s expression immediately becoming confused as she looked around. “Are you guys fucking intervention-ing me?” she asked as she took the empty seat to the right of Rosé.

“Lemon, your friends and family are here because they care about you and are worried about your health,” Widow explained. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, ‘this bitch wants to send me to some random rehab until I come back sober for good’, but this isn’t like that. We get that you’re twenty-one, fresh out of college, no history of addiction.”

“So why am I here?” Lemon interjected.

Rosé arched her brow. “Well, for starters, you haven’t been sober a full twenty-four hours in nearly three weeks, you’ve been acting completely unhinged every time you get trashed. You’re actively trying to alienate yourself from everyone who cares about you, you-” She stopped short when Denali squeezed her hand, her cue to reel it in. “You’re going down a dangerous path and we don’t want you to get hurt.”

“This isn’t one of those ninety-day programs either,” Jackie chimed in. “It’s only three weeks, and the first five days are just for detoxing. We’re not saying you have to be sober for good, this isn’t AA, it’s a program that’s going to give you the support and help you need to still enjoy things in moderation instead of relying on alcohol as a coping mechanism.”

Lemon nodded and listened as the rest of the group said their pieces to try to convince her to go. And she took it in, but she was also looking around and at the door. After a while, it became clear that she was waiting for - hoping for - another person.

“Priyanka wanted to come,” Jackie told her. “But we weren’t sure how you would react and decided it would be better if she waited at least until after you detox to contact you. You have to know, though, she really does care about you.”

She sunk further into her chair, not angry, but embarrassed. It shouldn’t have had to come to this, she knew that, knew better. And she hated that everything they said was right, that she did need help. “Fine,” she mumbled, “I’ll go.”

There was a collective sigh of relief as the tension dissipated throughout the room. “Rosé and Juice will go back with you to your apartment so you can pack, we’re going to get you checked in tonight,” Widow explained. “The facility is in Westchester, you won’t be more than an hour away and visitation is every Saturday.”

Rosé looked at her younger cousin and could tell she was doing her best to cover her fear and anxiety. She wrapped her arms around her and hugged her tightly. “You’re going to be okay, baby,” she promised, “they’re gonna take good care of you, and you’re gonna be better than ever once you’re done.”

Lemon nodded quietly, wiping her eyes. “I just wanna get this over with,” she mumbled, still unwilling to allow herself to be vulnerable in front of everyone, though the group anticipated that from her and let it be. All any of them could do now was trust the process.

#rosnali #lemyanka #sportsdoll #rpdr rpf

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bibbykins · 4 years

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Thrills Found On Solid Ground (M)

A/N: I snagged a work at home job! (yay!) Less hours though, which is bittersweet. I will be a little strapped for cash, so I will link my ko-fi below and anything helps, really. I am considering opening up comisions, if anyone would like that, let me know! Less hours means way more time to write so color me a happy camper. As way to celebrate positive changes, and in honor of me putting in my two weeks at my current job, enjoy the next installment in the Soft Yandere BTS fics! Let me know how you feel about it, and I hope you enjoy.

Genre: Fluff, smut, angst if you squint a bit

Word Count: 9.4k

Pairing: Soft Yandere! Namjoon x Reader

Warnings: yandere tendencies, toxic traits, obsessive and posessive male, subtly unhealthy relationship, vaginal sex, cunnilingus

Summary: You had always been an idiot, you mistook this as being a risk-taker, a wild adrenaline junkie. As a result, you found yourself on some dating app, then on a bad date, then on a skywalk 1,000 ft above ground. Looking down, you felt impending doom, clutching to anything, or anyone, you could. You couldn’t have known the stanger you clutched onto, in the middle of two skyscrapers, too high above solid ground, had no plans to let you go.

The sky was clear, the wind combed through your scalp gently, and you watched the world below go about their daily routine. It was a cool day with an overcast, especially for summer, and you would have much rather stayed inside to witness it.

The sky was an ocean to drown in, the air was unbelievably thin, and the people below just looked like little ants to squash with your body hurling to the concrete.

What the fuck were you doing up here?!

You never take risks like this. The harness was choking you out and all you wanted to do was lay down in bed, but here you were: 2,000 ft above your comfort zone and shaking in the middle of log suspended in the sky, the next step looking farther and farther.

It was a dumb idea to put adrenaline junkie in you online dating profile. It was even dumber of you to try and live up to it.

Namjoon, on the other hand, was making his merry way along the gapped bridge. He was in black slacks and a gray button-up, feeling a bit silly with the harnas as well as he walked along in his Oxfords. It was the perks of being a PR head, enjoying the more wild attractions sponsored by the company he was executive for. However, this time, he was to see if this was worthwhile to put the company's name on. Ever the stickler, he only ever trusted his opinion on the matter and not a subordinate's.

He hopped along each log with a small smile, dimples prominent. Yes, he was enjoying himself, but he did feel quite ludicrous in his work clothes hopping along the city skyline. He was still having a good experience, it was serene yet daring, he could see the prospective hype. He felt almost like-

“I'm gonna die!” Namjoon jumped at the pure panic less than five feet behind him, causing him to turn around and bear witness to the scene you hadn't intended to make.

There you were, lip quivering, knees shaking, body quaking entirely as your hands searched desperately for something to hold you steady, “I'm the biggest fucking idiot!” You wailed as staff members began to strap themselves in to retrieve you. However, when the bridge shook with one of their jumps onto the bridged, you begged them to stop, the tears pouring from your face in a way Namjoon had never seen, or bothered to look at before.

It was a pitiful sight, really. You were a pretty girl, and judging by your presentation, only did this as a way to boost confidence. In his study of you, Namjoon hadn't noticed the way you hopped onto his log the moment he was about to turn around. You grasped his hand and he could feel the gravity of your fear.

“Hey, hey.” Your eyes were screwed shut on the log as you held this strangers hand, his voice trying to bring you back to reality, “You… alright?” You shook your head.

For the first time in his life, Namjoon had no knowledge of what to do. A girl was shaking violently and looking to him, of all people, to soothe her. At work, most people avoided his eyes in fear of being reprimanded. He was domineering and had a demanding presence, but here you were, demanding some comfort from him.

“I'm stupid.” You mumbled as you pushed your head into his chest, making a blush of shock and embarrassment bloom on his cheeks. He wasn’t used to such skinship, let alone from a woman. This was more intimate than his run-of-the-mill tussle in the sheets with one-night stands. He should be shoving you away, but you were so, so, soft. “This is why I never leave my house.”

There was something endearing about the odd scenario that Namjoon fought down. He had been through such a song and dance. He's been the love at first sight guy and it never went well. He was not a boy anymore, he was a businessman, one of the most intimidating executives, and yet, you clung to him like a ledge keeping you upright.

Namjoon didn't know what else to do but comfort you as he embraced you shaking form in his arms, “I doubt it,” He spoke softly, “What's your name?” He didn't know what he was doing, but this felt right enough.

“Y/n, you?” You jumped when you felt the bridge move, squeezing the stranger before you a little harder, making yourself cringe at how unsightly you were being, sighing out in a labored cry, “I’m so annoying.” You whimpered.

In reality, Namjoon should let the workers come retrieve you. The logical part of him knew this much. This was more than likely not an uncommon occurrence and they were trained to do this sort of rescue mission. Even so, he wasn't ready to relinquish his rights as safe haven to someone who carelessly shook the bridge and you to the very core.

Namjoon glared to the worker, gesturing to the sign that demanded only two people on the bridge at a time, to which the worker retracted, “Namjoon.” He felt a wave of inexplicable panic crash through him when he felt your grip loosen from his shirt, “Are you ready to walk-”

You shook your head, “I'm an idiot for even getting up here.” Evidently, you couldn't think straight.

“You certainly don't seem like an idiot.” His deep voice soothed your racing thoughts, “Maybe a little naive but-”

“Tell me about it.” You breathed a shaky laugh, “Would you believe me if I told you I was on a date?”

His jaw tightened. Who in their right mind would consider this a good date idea for a recluse? He scanned the area only to see an irritated guy shaking his head before proceeding to the exit. Good. He would only get in the way.

“First one too, so I don't see a second one happening.” You chuckled a bit, enjoying the feeling of the mystery man rubbing your back, “Considering I look more like yours.”

Mine. Mine. Mine. It didn't have a bad ring to it. Maybe the isolation kept his sanity at bay as the smell of your hair grew more and more intoxicating.

“And especially since you've found a new date during it.” You could hear the smirk in his voice and the flirting distracted you from the way he picked you up ever so slightly and took a step towards the next log. His legs were long enough to walk over the gap of sky you so feared.

“What a terrible date you're on then.” You giggled a bit, eyes simply closed as opposed to slammed shut.

“I beg to differ.” He took another step as you were none the wiser, “I've known you for less than an hour and I'm already thinking of where our next one will be.” Now the only thing keeping your eyes closed was the embarrassment of the effect his deep voice had on you.

“H-Hopefully not stranded in the middle of two skyscrapers.” You offered a chuckle as Namjoon made it across to the last step.

“Who's stranded?” His smug voice prompted you to look down only to see concrete. Sweet, sweet concrete.

The shriek of joy you let out when you noticed the stable ground under you was reward enough for Namjoon. When you wrapped your arms around his neck to engulf him in your form, it was bliss, “You're a magician!” You gushed, “I didn't even notice! I barely even felt it! I can't believe I'm alive!” Never in his life had Namjoon seen someone so expressive and fearlessly full of emotion. You went as far as kissing his check, “My fucking hero right here!” You squealed.

Namjoon's body almost seized when he felt your soft lips on his face. You were indeed naive, however, he quite enjoyed what it meant for him. The feeling of your body against his and lips on his face was addicting. He didn't want to let you go. Ever. You were a feeling he had been chasing for what feels like years and he didn't even know it. You were a missing chunk to a fulfilling life he thought he had. He could not let you walk to ground level without a promise to see you again, and again, and again, and-

“Holy moly!” Your gasp snapped Namjoon back to the present. Your eyes were wide as you scanned his face, “You're so pretty!” Your hands cupped his face, “You're like straight out of a romance novel.” You mused mindlessly, you evidently had no filter or sense of personal space. He wondered if you grew up deprived of personal touch or with it all along. Namjoon lost himself in the wonder you held in your eyes. You had a certain innocence that he couldn't quite understand, so trusting. It was in his starlorn gaze that you shook yourself back to reality, “Oh my, I am making a terrible first impression.” You murmured, hands beginning to robotically retract only to have Namjoon hold them in place, “Just touching on you like that, so creepy.” You scolded yourself.

“I beg to differ.” He mused and you realized how well his voice fit his adonis-like face. His smile was warm, making you forget the chill of being up so high. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, “You're hands are… soft.” It was a warm smile with two of the cutest dimples you've seen to accompany it.

“I'm a sculptor-artist-uh-person.” You fumbled through the sentence, not wanting to seem like you're bragging or assigning a title to yourself, “Hence the touching, your facial proportions are really pleasing to the eye and-”

“So are yours.” The giggle that left your mouth was embarrassing to say the least. Never had you been this blatantly flirted with. Never had you liked flirting this much.

“You’re trying to make me swoon right off this roof, huh?” You smiled as you wiped the dried tears around your eyes, trying to salvage whatever makeup was left.

“If there’s anything I've proven today,” He leaned down to look you in the eyes, “It’s that the only way I’m letting you fall,” He brought his mouth to your ear and you shivered, “is if it’s for me.”

“You’re silly.” You broke out into a contagious smile.

----

“And just like that, he enchanted me.” You sighed willfully, “He’s really such a prince.” You mused, eyes closing to envision him, “We've been kinda seeing each other for a little over three months, and it’s been great, so I’m trying to surprise him today with a cute coffee break at work, but I’ve never seen him in action in the serious business world, so I’m nervous.”

The barista at the counter gave you an uneasy smile, “That’s nice, ma’am, so uh… would that be with cream and sugar?”

Your eyes snapped open, “Sorry, right, coffee,” You smacked your cheeks lightly.

“You’re holding up the line!” A man groaned behind you as the other two people behind him avoided eye contact.

“Like yelling at me is gonna make me go faster!” You retorted before turning to the barista, “Yes, please, sorry.” You smiled and he returned it before handing you your tray with two coffee cups and a scone accompanied by a chocolate croissant, “Thank you!” You called as you walked out of the shop, throwing a glare to the man, “Have a great day.” You quipped to him before making your way into the main floor of the skyscraper.

The secretary seemed to assume you were Namjoon’s assistant and informed you that he was on floor 27 and in meeting room 2. You didn’t bother to correct her, instead, you sent her a bright smile as you made your plight to the 27th floor. Your stomach was churning and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the climb or the impromptu date you were trying to have. What if he was embarrassed by you? He was evidently out of your league, even if he never made you feel like that was the case. He was the most gentle and kind man you had ever encountered, but he did say he was different at work. Would he not want you here? Were you being too clingy? He did say he missed you this morning, but he also could have been just saying that. It had only been a couple weeks since you have been dating and he hadn't even kissed your lips yet. Maybe he saw you as more of a friend instead of what you wanted. Maybe you should just go home.

The ding of the elevator told you it was too late to turn back now.

You put on a brave face as you turned a couple of corners to find meeting room 2. You opted to wait until the meeting was over prior to going on. At least that was the plan, until the door swung open to hit your head reveal a string of stiff men and women all leading up to a very straight-faced Namjoon. The man who opened the door seemed to be sweating with a fearful look in his eyes as you rubbed your head.

“Ow, sorry.” You murmured, “Definitely my fault for standing so close-”

“Hwang, what is the matter now…” Namjoon's stern voice quickly trailed off as he met your eyes. The hardness in his eyes immediately softened, only to harshen when he noticed one hand rubbing your head and a look of pain crossing your face, “Meeting is adjourned, we will continue after lunch.” Namjoon spoke up to the bewildered room as he strode to your side, replacing your hand with his as he swiftly took the carrier from your other hand, “Maybe then you will have something worthy of my time to show me.” He quipped as he walked you wordlessly to his office. You took note of the shiver that ran down each of the employee's spines, none of them even taking note of your experience with their heads down in shame or fear, or both.

Namjoon's office was spacious to say the least, most likely half of your apartment. He was so silent you had wondered if you made him angry too. However, as soon as the door shut, he placed the tray on a coffee table and pulled you into a hug, placing a kiss on your head, “Joonie-”

“Are you alright?” He mumbled on the small bump you were developing. You were bewildered at the sudden affection. It was a definite switch from the scary businessman you encountered earlier, “Sweet pea?”

You snapped out of your thoughts with a small jolt, “Yeah, it's just a little dink.” You smiled softly against his chest, “Nothing to fret over.” You sighed softly in his embrace as a smirk grew on your face, “Sweet pea, huh?”

His chest vibrated with a small chuckle as he loosened his grip to look at you properly. His hands cradled your face as he stared at you with a genuine smile, the one you knew and loved, “Sweet pea indeed.” He hummed, “I find it suits you well.” You felt your face heat at this and your face told Namjoon the situation on its own as his smile grew more smug, “So, what has you gifting me with your presence today?”

Namjoon was always happy to see you. Admittedly, too happy. He felt himself falling into a certain love for you that he found to be timed way too soon. He felt his emotions begin to scare him, and he felt a strong need to fire the idiot that hit you with the door. However, when you were with him, everything was okay, just like you said it was. You were the master to his emotions and it terrified him.

“I wanted to surprise you with a small coffee date.” You chirped, “Surprise?” You presented the coffee on the table with a small smile.

Namjoon sat the both of you down on the white leather couch he had in his office, “Thank you.” He was the first to break the silence and you returned it with a quaint smile, “However, I can't help but feel like you're muting yourself.”

You were stiff as a board when he said that. Initially, it was a surprise date, but the elevator ride gave you time to doubt everything. Ideally, you wanted to get clarification on what Namjoon wanted from you, but the words were like a lump of clay in the back of your throat. If you said one, they would all come out.

“Well, it's stupid, really.” You nervously let out a small chuckle, “Childish, possibly?” Your eyes were transfixed on the leather below you.

His hand went to grip your chin and pull your eyes back go him. Your gaze was a drug, “Give me your thoughts, sweet pea.”

You shivered as you looked into his eyes, “I just want to know if… you like me, like I like you.” You forced out, only to try to turn your head away in vain due to his grip, “Oh, I feel silly.” You struggled for a moment, only to huff, "What do you think about me?"

Namjoon fought the urge to clench his jaw. The truthful answer to your question wasn't healthy. He needed more time to work through his intense emotions for you prior to acting on them. He wanted nothing more than to kiss you roughly, pin you to this couch, and have you feel what he thought about after each of your dates. However, he should not, by any means, feel the need to do such. And yet, he did. The way you made him feel so needed and the way he craved you so intensely in return was intoxicating.

He, instead, gave you a polite smile as he took a sip of his coffee, "I think you're adorable." Not technically a lie, but not the full truth you wanted.

Namjoon looked down at the scone, missing your dejected face. What the hell did that mean? Did he not see you as a woman? Were you just his cute friend? Had you been that childish, pining after a man who did not feel the same? You quickly shook the thoughts when Namjoon looked at you and you returned the smile. He noticed how it wasn't nearly as bright as usual and your eyes didn't hold its usual sparkle. Had he done something wrong?

The date, you were less and less sure whether or not to even call it such, went on just as all your others had.

"So how is your exhibition coming along?" He asked as he sipped the coffee.

You smiled and melted at the dimples that came when he returned it, "It's a process," You droned, "Being an artist is all fun and games until you have to pick which snack table won't clash with your work, and don’t even get me started about the business-y things, so boring." You rolled your eyes, "I know what I’m doing, and I know I’m good at it but I almost wish I had a manager, but isolation has become a part of my aesthetic at this rate."

"Well, you always have me," Your heart tugged, "I could help you, always, even just picking a snack table."

You shook your head politely, "I wouldn't wish that on you, Joon." You joked, "You'd think doing the art would be the hardest part of an exhibit, but the stuffy details are agonizing." You droned on, you always felt so comfortable with Namjoon, even if his unofficial rejection weighed in the back of your mind, "Like, who cares about the champagne or dress code, just buy or enjoy my art." You huffed, "I understand I'm lucky to have a career, but sometimes my passion can feel like such a...job." You sighed, "I sound like a spoiled brat."

Namjoon placed his hand on your head delicately, "As someone around stuffy people, and a stuffy person, I understand it's exhausting." He gave you a reassuring smile, "You're not a brat, you're an artist." He placed a hand on your knee, "You put so much whimsy into the world and deserve to experience that in return."

You giggled at this, "Thank you, but you're not stuffy, Joon," You hesitated for a moment, "Heck, you're the coolest guy I know." You offered in favor of your thoughts swarming around. The pain getting harder and harder to ignore.

You made Namjoon laugh, he made you laugh. You both talked about work, but you chose not to comment on his work persona, less and less confident about what to even say anymore. You said goodbye to Namjoon with a small hug, as you always did, and left wordlessly.

Namjoon couldn't help but have a bad feeling as he watched you step into the elevator. Your lip quivered right before the doors shut. Something happened during your date, and for the first time, he had no idea. He surely had to be blinded by his own feelings for you to properly read you. Suppressing these feelings were evidently affecting him, but it was what he had to do to play the long game.

You began to cry when the elevator doors closed, eyes screwed shut as your shoulders shook with your sobs. Namjoon showed you that you wanted a relationship, and yet, it didn't seem like he wanted one, let alone with you.

"H-Hey, don't cry," A hesitant voice caused you to jump, face detaching from your hands as you turned to face the man from this morning.

"You're that...meanie." You sniffled, evidently confused.

He smiled awkwardly, "I'm sorry I was such a prick earlier." He looked uneasy, hand scratching the back of his neck.

You sniffled again, "No, it's not you, I just…" You choked on a sob.

"I doubted it was, but I also doubt I made your day any easier." He spoke softly, "I was visiting my sister at work and she's a nightmare, so I was just taking it out on other people."

"Nobody's perfect." You smiled a bit, before it quickly fell, "Especially me." You whined before sobbing again.

Your sobs were cut off when the man put a hand on your shoulder, "Bad breakup?" You shrugged and he sighed sympathetically, "I know this cry, I do have a sister, ya know?" You lifted your head a bit and his hands wiped the tears that nearly dried on your cheeks, "I can just tell you're a good person." He smiled a bit and you mirrored it, "Any other person would have smacked me sideways earlier, I would've." You breathed a small chuckle that only grew when he grabbed your wrist to make your hand hit his face, "Here, ow." He only ceased when the elevator doors opened to a busy lobby, eyes all on him.

You broke out into full laughter as you both stepped out of the elevator, "Sorry." You giggled to the people in the lobby.

"Nothing to see here." He smiled awkwardly as you both made a bee-line for the exit. When you breached the building you let out a hearty laugh.

"You're funny." You couldn't suppress your laughter.

"Yes, but I'm also Seunghyun, actually." He bowed dramatically.

Your laughter finally died down into a smile, "I'm y/n." You curtsied in response with a chuckle, "Thanks for making me forget about my morning."

"Why don't I give you a better afternoon?" He offered slyly and you paused for a moment. You were more than ready to say no. You had Namjoon after all, right? "I can take you to a nice lunch place and you can take as long as you want to order, I promise." You looked back at the skyscraper. Namjoon was always above you, wasn't he? "I may even pay."

You smiled graciously at Seunghyun, "Of course you will, you owe me." You playfully said, skipping ahead of the stuttering man.

Namjoon sat at his desk, back facing the window where his worst nightmare would be in clear view. Instead, he scrolled lovingly through the texts you both shared. He carefully thought about how to bring up dinner for tonight. Despite not even asking yet, he had already fantasized about what you would wear. Maybe tonight would be the night he would get a kiss from your lips. He sent the text in the midst of his fantasies. Would you wear lipstick-

You said no.

You rejected him.

You said you had a date.

Namjoon stood promptly to avoid crushing his phone with his bare hands. Never in his life had a woman rejected him, and when the one he craved so desperately did, he did not react gracefully. Not that anything he had done upon meeting you had been graceful. Even so, they were merely fail-safes, and he had failed.

He sprung into action immediately, opening his personal laptop to scroll through the contents of your phone. His company owning your phone provider did wonders for your accessibility levels. Even so, you hadn't received any texts. There had been no one else added to your contacts. How did you have a date? Did you lie to him?

Why would you be with someone else? What did he do? He groaned in frustration he didn't understand your more zany emotions.

He lifted his head up in realization. That's it! He needed to understand your emotions. You were one of a kind, but he was as much of a disaster as Yoongi, and Yoongi has a girlfriend.

Namjoon quickly dialed Yoongi's number. The older male answered with a bored, "What?"

"I need to talk to your girlfriend." Namjoon spoke with urgency evident in his voice, time was running out.

"No-"

"Min Yoongi!" The aforementioned female's voice could be heard in the background.

"Sunshine, he doesn't need to hear your voice- hey!"

There was an evident scuffle, "I'll put him on speaker, you big baby." She quipped before taking a breath, "How can I be of assistance?"

Namjoon sighed out, unsure of where to begin, "I have this girl I really, really like, but I know I shouldn't like her this much, so I'm trying to take it slow." He frowned, "But today, I don't know what I said wrong, and now she has a date with someone else."

There was a long sigh, "You guys are terrible with being honest." Namjoon could tell she was glaring at Yoongi, "You evidently said something dumb, did she ask you anything?"

Ask him anything? You asked him about his day. You asked him if he liked the coffee. What else is there to ask? Until it dawned on him.

"She asked what I thought about her and I said she was adorable." Namjoon explained, "I don't see what's wrong there, she is-"

"Yoongs, hold the phone, I might just smash it." The female was rolling her eyes evidently.

"What's wrong, Sunshine?" Yoongi spoke, "I don't get it, he complimented her."

"Ugh, of course you don't." She retorted, "Why did you think I almost went out the night we...got together? You weren't," She put her mouth close to the speaker to prove a point making Namjoon miss when she was still timid around him with the frown he deepened, "Being honest with me." She accentuated each word, "Poor girl can't read your mind, she doesn't want to waste her time pining after someone who doesn't pine back properly." The female sighed again, "Seriously, the seven of you are nuts, I know, but come on," She groaned in frustration, "You all have the looks and the status, maybe use your brain while you're at it."

Namjoon slumped in his chair. Yoongi's girlfriend had a point. Namjoon should have made it painfully clear you were his. Not just to you, but everyone else. Maybe he was crazy, but that didn't change the validity of his emotions for you. You were all he could think about anymore. He just wanted to have unrestricted access to you, but he took it slow, and now he's falling behind. You were trying to leave him. He couldn't let it happen.

He wouldn't.

This was a bad idea. You slumped against your seat as you twirled your straw. You were unamused and Seunghyun was becoming less and less funny and even less charming as time ticked by.

This date was going terribly. Seunghyun was undoubtedly obnoxious. You were agonizingly bored as you sat in the dimly lit restaurant which you were ill-dressed for. It was far too fancy for lunch, and you could not read the french on the menu, so you ordered a sandwich and a water. You watched Seunghyun with a tired face. He really thought you took long to order this morning? It had been 10 minutes of him asking about the wine menu. Namjoon always knew-

No, no, none of that. Seunghyun was a nice guy, everyone had their quirks.

You gave the waiter a sympathetic smile as he stalked off, "So," You drawled, catching Seunghyun's attention from his phone, "What do you do for a living?"

"I am a pharmaceutical rep." He stated, all too proudly, "I go to medical offices and get the doctors to prescribe the meds I'm in charge of, making a pretty hefty commission over some phony drops with a fancy label." Your jaw clenched at this. You had your time as a receptionist. Some were nice but most of the reps were pushy assholes with name brand and expensive meds.

Be nice. You chided yourself, "Shouldn't doctors prescribe what is best, not what is sold to them?" So much for that. You really didn't know how to shut your mouth, "Pharmaceuticals are a very controversial field." You pondered aloud.

Seunghyun seemed to pay you minimal mind, eyes already geared to his phone, he wasn't listening, "And what do you do?" He was on autopilot.

"I'm an artist." You spoke politely, “I do mixed media, but my favorite thing is to sculpt with clay.”

This made his head snap up, "Oh, and here I was going to see if you want to split the check, but I guess not." He laughed a little too hard and you blanched.

Okay, he's an asshole.

No, maybe you're misunderstanding.

"Why not?" You offered him a shovel to dig his way out through clenched teeth.

"Well, you know," He suddenly was a lot less cute, "You're an 'artist'," You wanted to bite the finger quotes off his hands, "Unless you, ya know, dance, then maybe you can pay for the meal." He dug himself deeper, and yet you felt stuck.

Nope, definitely an asshole.

You ate in silence, and you wondered how such a crappy sandwich could cost so much. Namjoon always took you to a variety of places with great food.

Namjoon. You missed him. You missed his soft touches and kisses on the forehead. You missed the way he made your heart flutter. You missed how he spoke to you, how he would profusely apologize if he had to take a phone call. You missed the way he was as equally interested in what you had to say as you were with him.

You felt dejected at the very thought of his name. God, you really were naive to think someone like him would just come to you. You needed to confess properly and move on if he rejects you. You would move on, but, your eyes flicked to Seunghyun as you watched him stare at his phone as he ate, you would be more mindful of who. This date was a waste of time and money on both parts.

When the check came, Seunghyun paid it in the most obnoxious way as he joked with the very uncomfortable waiter. Before leaving, you took out cash for a good tip, doubting Seunghyun had the decency to leave one.

Namjoon drove to your house and used your spare key to get in. He was not thinking as clearly as he should as he set up candles and dinner for you. You were his, though. He had to make it up to you for not proving it sooner. He could only hope you would be back from this date soon. He was beginning to get antsy, not even entertaining the thought of you not coming home. Never in his life had Namjoon felt such a sense of urgency.

After setting up the dining room, Namjoon sat in the living room, facing the door on your frilly sofa. He had been to your place several times. It was nice, and coincidentally, one of the complexes he bought when he was into property acquisition. However, he could hardly wait for your lease to end and you could live with him. Surely you would want to? His place had more space for your art and it was a more convenient area. He could give you the world if you just gave him another chance.

Namjoon jerked when he heard a key unlocking the door. All he could do now was hope you were alone. He had no idea what he would do to any man you brought home.

You closed the door with a defeated thud as you leaned your head against the door, back to the rest of the apartment. You heaved a sigh before removing your shoes. You shook your head at today's events. You should've just stayed home.

You rolled your shoulders back before turning to put your purse away… only to scream upon seeing a male figure on the couch, "What-I… Joon?" You cocked your head as he stood, making his way to you, "What are you doing here?!"

He gave you a small smile, walking closer to you, "Apologizing." He stopped a hair short of being pressed against you as he towered over your form.

"F-For scaring the shit out of me?" You gasped when he ran his nose along your neck, inhaling your scent, thankful to find no one else's, "Joon, what has gotten into you?" You spoke shakily as you took a step back only for his strong arms to wrap around your waist, pressing you against him.

"I don't just think you're adorable." He breathed as you shuddered at his voice in your ear, "I'm so absolutely smitten, I was too cowardly to say anything." Your eyes would've shot open had his lips not fanned over your neck, making them close in bliss, "But I can't stand by and watch someone else try to take you from me." His voice came out as a growl and you felt yourself tingle at his sudden dominance.

"Take me away?" Realization dawned on you as you recalled your last message to him, "The date was a mistake." You blurted out and Namjoon pulled away from you ever so slightly, "He was super boring, annoying, patronizing, but what mattered most to me," Your hands locked behind his neck, "He wasn't you." You mused, and Namjoon leant down to catch your lips between his own without missing a beat.

You immediately responded mirroring his desperation as you clung closer to him. The kiss was soft at first as he massaged your lips with his plump ones. You gasped when he nibbled on your lower lip, giving his tongue one of the openings he craved to feel. His tongue entered your mouth with a delighted groan on his end that made your knees week.

Namjoon was high on the feeling of your mouth as he explored every crevice. He groaned upon stroking your tastebuds, his own picking up how sweet you felt for him. You moaned out when he sucked on your tongue and you felt his teeth graze the pink muscle as he let out a short grunt.

Never in your life had you been kissed like this. He was soft yet rough and you craved him. You took the initiative to take his tongue into your mouth and return the favor, suckling on the muscle only to have his hands grip your hips harder while he grunted. You understood why he did it to you first, it felt good. It was oddly erotic, and the feeling only furthered as your lips were against his. The hand gripping your hip squeezed and you let out a small groan, the anticipation between your legs only growing as you felt you knees buckle, thighs clenching.

Your sounds were putting him in a nearly hypnotized state as his hand went to stroke your thigh and you shuddered with anticipation. He let his fingertips drag across the skin while both of your mouths melded to one another. You whined when his hand teasingly dipped towards your core only to quickly move to the back of your thigh.

Namjoon couldn't help the smile that grew on his mouth at your brattiness. You wanted him. You wanted him so bad. He was the center of your desires and the feeling was the only aphrodisiac he needed. He held the key to everything you want. He was in control.

"Joon, I want you." You breathed, air dripping with lust.

"Whatever you want, baby," He dipped his tongue into your mouth for just a moment, "Just say the word, and I'll give it to you." One of your hands trailed down his toned body as your eyes were hooded, head clouded with lust.

You glanced up at him just as you hand made contact with his prominent bulge through his undoubtedly Armani suit pants. You watched, tongue peeking out of your mouth, as his head lolled back a rumble in his chest as he grunted when you squeezed the outline of his base, "Give it to me," You gave another squeeze, reveling in his deep moan, "Please." You nearly moaned the magic word before breaking from his hold to prance ahead of him to the bedroom.

Namjoon couldn't suppress the laugh that left him as he watched your ass while you plopped on the bed. With an extra pep in his step, he followed you to the bed, loosening his tie as he made his way to you.

He was in control, but you knew just how to bend him to your will.

The gravity of the situation hit you like a train as Namjoon unbuttoned his blazer, eye contact unwavering as he tossed it on the couch. The white dress shirt outlined his sculpted body ever so slightly and you let out a shaky breath, letting you head hit the bed as you leaned back, panties mindlessly showing from beneath your sundress.

This wasn't a fantasy or a dream, it was your life. This man was about to fuck you into oblivion and you had no idea how to make him feel good. Your previous experience did not prepare you for this at all. Your previous lovers had all been both ugly inside and out idiots who could barely get themselves off, let alone you. Not that you were a sex god yourself. You never sucked their dick before, nor did you have any idea how to effectively. Not that they ever went down on you. Oh shit, did you shave? Does he care? How does your breath smell? How could you not have considered-

"Fuck!" Your back arched as Namjoon pulled your underwear to the side, tongue licking a stripe up you bare slit.

Namjoon hummed in delight of your taste, dark eyes making contact with yours. He was warning you. He was telling you not to wander away from him. While he loved your overactive mind, he required your full attention. He needed you 100% with him in this moment, "You taste divine." His voice was heavy, "More." It was almost primal the way he slipped your panties down your legs, enjoying the way the dainty dress looked framing the bare sex. He elected to keep the dress on for now as he pushed the flowy fabric up to your hips which he leaned into your pussy.

Your eyes rolled back at the sensation of his tongue licking a deeper stripe, parting your lips with the muscle as he gather your juices on his taste buds blissfully. Your body shuddered at your own pleasure, "J-Joon." Was all you could manage as each short lick went deeper making you squirm.

"You're so fucking sensitive, fuck." He grunted, the dress fabric he held at your hips wrinkling under his closed fists as he went to work on your clit, sending your over the edge as you came quickly and with minimal effort on Namjoon's part.

However, instead of stopping him, the flow of juices only further spurred his as his mouth went to pay more attention to the very hold he couldn't wait to have for his out as his tongue lapped up the liquid, the lewdness and oversensitivity making your body jerk in vain. Namjoon had your hips held firmly in place as he enjoyed his meal. His tongue entered you and he let out a moan against you at how tight you felt just from his tongue fucking you.

"Too much- it- I came already- shit!" You attempted to roll your hips against his mouth as he overstimulated the brain function out of you. His tongue fucked you better than anyone in your past had as his nose nudged against your clit. When he pushed his tongue as deep as he could he could feel you squeezing. With this encouragement, he began to move his tongue ever so slightly, sending you over the edge again as your back rose from the bed, chest to the heavens, "Joon!" You moaned wantonly before deflating as Namjoon slowly withdrew his mouth from you, "Fuck me." You were breathless, fingers weak as he watched you attempt to unbutton your dress. He hesitated, but nevertheless assisted you as your dress was now spread, your body nearly bare until you unhooked your bra, "You'll give me what I want, right?" You pouted as you gossed the bra off your body and he felt his mouth water as he soaked in your body.

"I'll always give you what you want, my love, but you should rest a bit-"

"But I don't just want it." You struggled to catch you breath in the lusty atmosphere, "I need you, Sir."

Never in Namjoon's life had he stripped himself bare so quickly. Your words sent him into a frenzy until he was just as bare as you. You outstretched your arms and he leaned down so you could run your hands over his toned chest and stomach. He guided in and he hissed as your nails scratched his muscular body at the stretch. Despite this, you were nearly drooling at the pain, Never had being stretched felt good, but you couldn't get enough. You wanted to be full.

You shifted your body down and both you and Namjoon moaned out in harmony as you were now wrapped around his entire length. He cursed, "Fuck you're so tight for me, sweet pea." His moans were low as he moved ever so slowly, shallow thrusts as you went wild beneath him, "Look at you, squirming, stretching, such a brat." He thrusted hard and you squeaked, "You can never have enough, huh?"

Another hard thrust shook your bed as Namjoon leaned over you, his forearms on either side of your head as your arms clawed at his muscular back, "Never enough of you, Sir." You could hardly consider your words, but they struck Namjoon as he caught your mouth in sloppy kiss as he sped up. You made him alive as the pleasure only added to the high. The ruthless pace shook the bed even harder, much to your delight.

"I love you, baby." He was beyond fucked out as he chased his climax inside of you.

You were even more fucked out as you felt another orgasm approaching, and quicky, "Fuck, fuck, I love you Joon, I-" You cut yourself off with a scream as you clenched around Namjoon's girth.

This, along with your confession, sent him over the edge as he came, deep thrusts slowing down as he painted you from the inside with warmth you enjoyed. He slowly slid out of you and groaned lowly at the suction you provided until he was fully detached from you. He let out a heavy breath as he leaned over your form, placing a kiss on your neck before burying his face in it. You welcomed his weight as you both gathered yourselves.

Ten minutes must've gone by until Namjoon broke the silence beyond bated breath, "I meant it." He murmured and your heart squeezed.

The fear of your next words dissipated the moment pushed himself up to look at your face. He looked as though he was about to back track, but you didn't let him, "I did too." You gave him one of your signature smiles, "I love you, Sir." You teased and gasped when you felt his dick twitch ever so slightly.

"Brat." He playfully seethed before attacking your face and neck with soft kisses, making you giggle.

----

You made your plight up the skyscraper for the second time with a less nervous aura. It had been a couple months or so since Namjoon and you had sealed the deal, so to speak. Things had been going great. He was the best boyfriend you could've asked for. He was supportive, kind, attentive, and all good things between. Recently, however, he had been extremely busy, and you had been extremely bored. You were in between exhibitions and had already beat deadlines for the next one, so you were left with cancelled dates and your hand. Of course you helped him with work with your limited skills.

The tray of drinks and a bag of food occupied your hands as you took a peek at your watch. Another day of overtime for your loving boyfriend. You just about had it eating alone for these past couple weeks. He fucked your brains out and then abruptly had no time to after a short two weeks of domestic and euphoric bliss. It wasn't fair. Thus, you took matters into your own hands. He had a strategy meeting which, as he explained, would consist of him scolding his employees. Logically, you would hate to intrude, but selfishly, you wanted to see him.

Surely he wouldn't spend over two hours overanalyzing his subordinates' work and scolding them?

Right?

"...Turn to page 13 of the report and see where I've highlighted the blatant misinformation on line 7." Namjoon's voice was sharp despite being as exhausted as his employees. Monday was a big presentation he had to entrust to the newer employees and upon reviewing the handouts to accompany a good-enough pitch, he was severely disappointed. There had been typos, incorrect graphs, and blatant lies littered throughout. To top it off, the slacking managers signed off on it prior to it reaching Namjoon. This left him no choice but to cut hours in the week to make time for this colossal scolding for lack of attention to detail, "It's beyond me how anyone expected this to be remotely acceptable to present in front of me, let alone investors. This fairy tale book was a grandiose waste of my time, and for what? To save some of you managers a couple minutes of revision?" The department heads shrunk in their seats under his razor sharp gaze. The booklet was littered with yellow and pink highlighter marks along with red pen notations, making them feel like school children. Even so, Namjoon had been known to terminate and replace entire teams in the span of time he spent revising the proposal. With this in mind, the workers were just thankful to have a job to speak on.

The atmosphere was tense, filled with anger and shame among the employees until, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, it's like the principal's office in here." Your cheery voice sliced through the tension as you clicked your tongue playfully, "Nothing like a good scolding from the boss man."

"Sweet pea?" You flashed a smile and the employees attempted to shield their whiplash from Namjoon's suddenly cheery tone, "What are you doing here?"

You held up the food, "Being selfish." You winked at him before addressing the sweating office workers, "Hello! My name is y/n, nice to meet you!" You politely bowed and were met with wary smiles. The workers glanced to Namjoon only to see an uncharacteristic smile on his face, “I’m Namjoon’s girlfriend, and I have heard so much about you,” You beamed, “Mostly good things, believe it or not.” You winked as you nearly skipped your way to the aforementioned boss man, “Don’t mind me, dear, I can wait for you.” You smiled cheekily as you sat next to an extremely sweaty employee.

“Well, darling, I imagine they have heard quite enough of me today.” Namjoon mused as his hand went to pat your head affectionately, not caring about his stunned subordinates, “I’ll let you decide what I should do from here, because I still have some materials to go over, but I’ll make an exception in favor of your judgement.”

Hopeful eyes darted to your form. The employees studied you. You were dressed in colorful clothing, playful earrings hung from your ears as your nails shined with the glitter you gleefully painted on them. Your eyes were bright, eager, ready to take on the world it seemed. The employees couldn’t help but wonder when they used to have that shimmer. Some of them had bitterly determined you were some gold digger or mindless trust fund baby. You hadn’t been the sharp, calculated, female version of Namjoon they would’ve pictured his girlfriend to be. That, plus Namjoon was very evidently in love with you. Never had they seen him cut a meeting short for anyone, even the other directors had to wait outside the meeting room.

You leaned your chin onto your palm, tapping your cheek in thought. Namjoon would occasionally ask for your advice, your minor in business management finally coming into use. You were definitely the good cop to Namjoon’s drill sergeant, especially when it came to this proposal, “Well, what say you all get an extra credit opportunity?” Your voice was melodic as you stood, “I was initially coming up here to redo the proposal myself, since Joon was going to… uh…” You trailed off, unsure how to put it.

“Y/n here was the lovely pink highlighter, has been offered the position of Co-Director by the CEO herself, and she has the credentials to replace all of you.” His voice made the crowd of office workers flinch, while some of them eyed your gleeful form in shock while you gave another smile, “I had been debating whether to suspend the lot of you without pay or terminate you, but it seems y/n is your savior tonight.”

“You give me too much credit.” You lightly slapped his bicep shyly as the employees held in a gasp at someone coming in contact with the ruthless and cold director, “Why don’t you all redo the proposal, hm?” You flicked your wrist to look at your watch, “You have about three hours before it becomes alarmingly late, it’s not safe to be in garages that deep into nightfall.” You showed them actual concern, “I’ll be more than happy to look it over when you believe you're done before it gets to the big boss man, here, but I hope you all will carefully check your own work too.” You were met with thankful glances, “I’m much more forgiving than Joon here, but if I find you squander this chance, not even I can save you, okay?” Frantic nods were tossed your way and you beamed at them with an infectious smile, “Great!” You clasped your hands together, “Joon and I will be in his office eating, I brought some little snacks for you all too.” You mused placing the plastic bag you had in your purse on the table, “Good luck!”

The moment the door shut to Namjoon’s office, you were in his arms, “Why don’t you talk sweet to me instead, baby?” He murmured against your ear, “I don’t like how they look at you when you smiled like that.”

You pulled back to place a quick kiss on his lips, “I don’t like how you don’t look at me when things like this happen.” You countered with an irresistible pout which he quickly kissed away, “Plus, they only look at me like that because you’re so spooky.” You pointed out as you sat on the plush leather couch.

"I have been pretty absent, huh?" He scratched the back of his neck as he plopped down next to you.

"We've only exchanged business emails about that dumb proposal basically." You huffed, "Then, you make me all flustered in front of the poor souls by-"

"Pointing out how amazing and capable you are?" His eyes flickered to you as he took a bite out of the meal your brought him, "I could see the way some of them looked at you, like you didn't know what you were talking about." He seethed, "Not to even mention how some of them looked at your body. It's so disrespectful, I had to let them know that if I had it my way you would be the only one in my department."

You placed a hand on the clenched fist Namjoon had. He always got extremely worked up each time you were treated as anything less than royalty. You could only thank the stars that he didn't know you while you were beginning your career as an artist, who knows what he would have done to the countless creepy property managers and haughty curators. Surely, it would be a bloodbath. Figuratively, you like to say. Namjoon would never hurt a fly, but when it came down to people who looked at you with anything he deemed an ill-intent, he would just about see red. You couldn't say you hated this trait, because an extremely selfish part of you enjoyed his undying love, and proved to reciprocate his resolve when the tables were turned. However, you were thankful you could quell the fire he stoked with rage. You were thankful he told you such emotions before they got out of hand.

You watch as his hand relaxed, gripping yours tenderly as he smiled, "Well, as long as they know you're not just mine, but you're the most invaluable asset I could ask for."

You chuckled at this, "You need to work on your sweet talk, it seems you're still in director mode." You placed as short kiss on his lips, "But I love you for it anyway." You giggled a little, "But if I go another stretch of time without attention again I'll be much more impulsive than a late night dinner." You couldn't call Namjoon the crazy one when his affection proved to be a drug you needed constantly, a drug you could feel the withdrawals from. Just like any addict, you could get unhinged without it.

Namjoon nodded, understanding better than anyone what you meant before bringing you in for a longer kiss. He knew better than anyone what neglect could do to the human mind, especially when the attention was so addicting. He knew what crazy meant, and he would never dream of making you feel as he does all the time. His skin pricks when your hands aren't on him, his hands tremor without your own within them, and he finds his mind wandering to darker places at the thought of all the people who look at you just as he can. He had too much power, too many resources at his disposal to be devoted to you. Maybe you knew this. Maybe you both had too much to loose if it meant losing each other.

Maybe being with a man as potentially dangerous as he could be was the adrenaline you needed all this time. An addictive thrill. Your constant fix of dopamine and you, his continuous flow of serotonin.

The both of you junkies for one another.

Masterlist Ko-Fi

#bts fic #yandere bts #bts smut #bts fluff #yandere namjoon #soft yandere namjoon #kim namjoon #kim namjon fic #namjoon smut #yandere bts smut #yandere smut

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ckret2 · 4 years

Text

Ghidorah & Gigan Crash the Opera

It's hard for a blade-covered chicken-penguin cyborg and a three-headed snake-cat-bat dragon to get opera tickets.

But it's fine, Gigan has a plan: convince the ticket seller they're VIPs.

... Or, failing that, plan B: mug somebody.

Written to an anon’s prompt: "Hello! If ye be currently accepting ghid/gigan prompts rn (honestly love the ship too), how about the destructive duo crashing an opera performance or something like that? Love your work!" and to @soundwavereporting‘s prompt “Something for either rodorah or Ghidorah/Gigan? :D” from ko-fi.

This is part of an ongoing series of KOTM-verse one-shots. If you don’t wanna read the others, all you need to know is: Ghidorah was originally three dorats (small winged feline/lizard pets) who were turned into a monster by Xilien aliens; after Ghidorah escaped the Xiliens and before they arrived on Earth, they worked as world-destroying mercenaries and occasionally teamed up with Gigan; Ghidorah objects to being named so Gigan mercilessly nicknames them; and Ghidorah and Gigan have mutual semi-secret crushes. Links to the other fics are in the source at the bottom of this post.

###

"Where are the lines?" the triple threat asked. Gigan watched as they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to peer at the ground around their feet, and then toward the opera hall. "We can never remember our seating footprint," they said, a tad more irritably, "how are we supposed to calculate it?"

Every planet that served as an interstellar hub eventually had to deal with the fact that intelligent aliens came in as many different sizes as planets themselves did. Some planets carefully planned separate neighborhoods and business districts to cater to different sizes ranges, segregating aliens out by height; some catered only to aliens their own size, leaving any aliens too large or small to fit in to fend for themselves.

Stellae Binariae XI's entertainment venues took full advantage of easily-retractable furniture to provide seating for as wide a variety of sizes as possible. A standard bench was designed to hold ten aliens of the most average size in the local interstellar community. Benches were retracted into the ground to provide a seating space for aliens too big to fit on one, their seats assigned based on height—tallest in the back to avoid obstructing each other's views—while seats for standard-sized and smaller aliens were set up into bleachers in the front. The large aliens had their ticket prices calculated based on the number of benches one of their seats would take up—their "footprint"—while smaller aliens' ticket prices were calculated based on the number of standard seats they took up. The very smallest could pack together ten to one seat and see a show on a single ticket, as long as they didn't mind sitting in the front.

Gigan and his buddies, however, shelled out hundreds of times more than the average customer for the honor of sitting on the floor in the back.

"This isn't some cheap second-run theater, they don't have lines," Gigan said. The three of them were used to that theater chain that printed rectangles on the lobby floor you could stand inside to guesstimate your footprint. "Stop looking so cranky, someone's gonna think we're here to burn the opera house down."

"We are cranky, it's late. We're tired."

By their standards, "late" was "any time past sundown." Gigan sent a ripple of brighter red light from one side of his optical visor to the other in an attempt to imitate eyes rolling. "It's barely nighttime," he said. "Anyway, you suck at using the lines, you always buy twice as much space as you need."

"We do not. We get the smallest space we can stand inside."

"You always include your wings! You tuck your wings under you when you sit, you don't need that much space."

"We don't want to be crowded. What do we do if we get to our seat and it's not enough space?"

"You could stretch out on my lap?" Gigan said, the absolute picture of innocence.

They smacked his leg with the side of a tail. "Be serious."

He kind of was, but he wasn't going to tell them that now.

The Eburnean Opera House was, Gigan suspected, the only venue on Stellae Binariae XI that not only accommodated aliens their size but also was fancy enough to mandate a minimal dress code even for aliens with a license proving nudity was the cultural norm for their species—which, of course, having no ties to their home worlds, neither Gigan nor the trio had a license for anyway.

(Gigan—after what felt like an eon's worth of wheedling and a mountain's worth of gold bribery—had gradually persuaded the trio to give him enough of their shed skins to patch together a snazzy-looking vest and pouched belt. The three of them, for the sake of not getting any more dirty looks than they were already bound to just because of their size, had elected for the evening to conform to the cultural mores of one of the more influential species in this solar system, which considered any body parts in excess of a standard bipedal plan to be signs of an impending budding and therefore taboo to expose in public. They'd wrapped up in sheer red shawls—stolen tents—and draped two as veils over Front-And-Center and Righty's faces, leaving Lefty unobstructed and thus in charge of observing the world on their behalf. They all looked very fancy and felt very uncomfortable. Although Gigan was digging the belt pouches.)

Most facilities that prided themselves on their exclusivity tended to exclude bodies that didn't fit in the local cultural limits for normalcy, size included. But this two-thousand-year-old structure, from what Gigan had heard, had been sponsored by and named for some big patron of the arts—with "big" meaning both "famous" and "huge." That was probably only the reason they'd be let in the door at all.

No discounts for being the size of the guy they named this place for, though. An average seat in this place probably costed as much as one movie usually did for Gigan and friends. He was about to drop a small fortune on seats.

Worth it though, if he got to take the triple threat to their first opera.

"Don't worry about your footprint," Gigan told them. "I know what size you are, I'll buy your ticket."

"If you don't give us enough space, we will sit on you." They paused. "Don't look so happy about it."

"Happy? You're seeing your own reflection off my beak. You wish you had an excuse to take a seat on this." He gestured at himself.

He wasn't sure which head scoffed, but he'd put money on Righty.

As usual, they skipped most of the line to the tickets by casually pretending they didn't notice it as they stepped over it. Gigan crouched down to smirk at the knee-height ticket seller. "Hey!"

The ticket seller looked up at him disapprovingly, clicked a button at his desk, and waited while the entire box office slowly elevated to eye level with Gigan. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, we're here to get tickets for, uh, The Devil in Love?" In his peripheral vision, he could see all three heads perk up. Yeah, he thought so. He hadn't told them which opera he was going to take them to. This one, as far as he could tell, was their favorite—certainly, he constantly caught them singing songs from it.

"What name are your tickets being held under?"

"No no, we don't have them yet," Gigan said. "We're here to purchase."

The ticket seller's look of disapproval deepened. "We don't have spare seating for guests of your stature the day of a performance," he said. "Nor usually the month of a performance."

"Oh, no worries, you've got room for us. We're VIPs, see," Gigan said. "Here. Our credentials." He rummaged in a hip pouch on his belt until the magnetic back of his tablet stuck to his scythe, pulled it out and tapped with the tip of his other scythe on the screen, and held it out for the ticket seller to inspect.

He looked skeptically at the page Gigan had pulled up. "This is a news article about a planet being destroyed?"

"It sure is," Gigan said, leaning in with a faux conspiratorial hush to his voice. "And we're the monsters that destroyed it. Like I said, pal—we're VIPs. And we're willing to make ourselves very immense problems if we don't get to see this show."

Getting the picture, his buddies raised their chest and arced their necks to surround the ticket seller's box, doing their best to loom threateningly. "Threatening" didn't take much effort for them.

The ticket seller looked between them and Gigan. "Ah. Yes. I understand. Shall I call someone to escort you? He gestured with a flourish toward one of the larger stickers mounted on the box office window. It said "Zone Family Security."

Gigan's back went straight "Oh! Y—y'know what? You guys look like you've got a pretty busy night, we can... we'll come back when it's less crowded."

The ticket seller nodded smugly.

The trio stared at Gigan in disbelief. "What?"

"Come on!" Gigan leaned against Righty, slung an arm around their shoulders, and didn't make any efforts to be gentle as he dug his scythe into Lefty's neck. "C'mon, c'mon, it's fine. Let's go."

"What is it?" Lefty tried to peer at the sticker as Gigan tugged them away. Front-And-Center ducked around Righty to give Gigan a baffled look through his veil. "We're not running from security guards?"

"It's not just security, it's Peacelanders," Gigan hissed. "We don't mess with Peacelanders."

"Why?" "How tough can they be, they're called Peacelanders." "We wanna fight 'em." They tried to turn back around.

Gigan dug his scythe in harder. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh. No. We are not fighting the Zone family."

"So we're just going to leave without seeing the show?!" "After we got all dressed up?"

Gigan grabbed for the nearest head—Righty, as it happened—and tugged him over so he could whisper to him quietly enough that the sound couldn't carry to the ground. "Of course we're not leaving," he hissed. "I promised you an opera, didn't I?" He nodded toward a narrow alleyway—well, to them it was a narrow alleyway; to most other aliens it was a broad empty street that was blocked off with a sign that said Opera Access For Gigantic Patrons. "We're just not going in the front door."

###

"Seriously, why are you so tired?" Gigan asked, leaning away as Front-And-Center let out a massive fang-exposing yawn. "It's only a couple hours past sunset, you should be fine." And they'd only been waiting on the rooftop of the warehouse neighboring the alleyway for about half an hour.

"Ih's cloudy," Lefty said through a yawn of his own; Gigan elbowed him to get him to turn his face away. Now Lefty was gonna set off Righty and Righty was gonna set off Front-And-Center again. "We're always sleepy when it's been cloudy a few days." (And there was Righty's yawn.)

Gigan shook his head. "I swear that's the biggest irony of your lives," he said.

"Hmm?"

"The Golden Demise! Superpower number one: automatically summons hurricanes with every flap of their dread wings. Superpower number two: solar powered." (He noted, smugly, that Front-And-Center had just yawned again.)

"'The golden demise,' what is that?" "Did you just make that up?"

"I'm trying to think up a title for you guys to market yourselves under. Not a name," he knew how tetchy they were about the idea of being named, "just—something customers can look up if they wanna find you."

"Customers already find us."

"More would find you if they had a name they could search for instead of 'hey, we want this merc that's really good at flattening planets, no idea what they're called, ring any bells?'"

That earned Gigan a double snort. Fronty said, "'Golden demise' sounds pretentious as hell."

Gigan leaned away and gave them an exaggerated up and down. "You are pretentious!"

"We're sophisticated," they said pretentiously. Gigan hooted.

"Anyway," Righty said, weaving between the other two to lean closer to Gigan, "that's not the biggest irony of our lives."

"What, you've got a bigger one?"

"Yes," Righty said, mischief glimmering in his eyes.

"Okay." Gigan waited. "You gonna tell me what it is?"

"No," Righty said.

Gigan waved Righty off in a way that very nearly decapitated him, and leaned against Lefty. "So what's Righty's big irony."

"I dunno," he said cheerfully.

"What?"

"He won't tell us."

"What?!" Gigan flung up his arms in disbelief. "You can hide things from each other?"

"He can." Front-And-Center tapped his horns against Righty's. "We're not so good at it."

"Why do you even have that ability?"

Righty said, "Solely and exclusively to torment you."

"I'd believe it," Gigan grumbled. His attention was caught by the gate at the alleyway's entrance as it slowly rolled open. "Oh," he elbowed them, "here we go." A luminous ivory-colored slug riding on what looked like a parade float progressed down the alleyway, accompanied by practically an army of small quadrupeds wearing glowing jewelry that matched the slug's off-white glow. "Between slimy here and its entourage, they've gotta have a big enough seating footprint for the four of us, right?"

They leaned forward, their heads tilting thoughtfully. "If it plans on sitting on its big skateboard," Fronty finally said.

"I can't imagine it'd get off, where would they stow it?" Gigan stood. "Okay, showtime. Get your battle faces on."

Lefty shook his head to loosen up his neck, Front-And-Center stretched his jaw with a hiss that made his veil flutter, and Righty snapped his fangs a couple of times. "After you."

Gigan slammed down in front of the little parade, clashing his scythes together. "Good evening!" The triple threat hit the ground behind the parade, hissing static and sparks. Between them, the tiny bipeds clustered up around their slug, who rippled fearfully. Cheerily, Gigan said, "Wonderful night for an opera, isn't it? My friends here and I were hoping to go, in fact, but they didn't have spare seats for us. Imagine!"

He pointed at the slug, the tip of his scythe almost near enough to slash its quivering throat. "I don't suppose you have spare tickets, do you?"

###

Gigan pulled the curtain aside. "Nice! A private box!" He pulled down a cushion scaled to his size from the wall, dropped it on the floor, and plopped down. "Now this is real luxury. We wouldn't get this with orchestra section tickets." He pulled up the drinks and snacks menu on the touch screen at the front of the box. "Concessions too! Do you think they deliver or do we have to pick them up?"

They sat on the floor with their legs folded under them, crossed their wings on the box railing, and Lefty got to work scoping out the facility while Front-And-Center and Righty peered curiously at the stage. "Were concessions covered in their ticket price?" Fronty asked. "Or are they purchased à la carte?"

"À la carte, listen to you. You're almost starting to talk like people." Gigan elbowed them. They whapped him from behind with a tail. He must be on thin ice; the spikes almost got him that time. "No prices listed, so who knows. But we didn't have to buy tickets, so we can cover it."

With his mandatory survey of the room finished, Lefty twisted around to inspect the menu too. Righty asked, "Any fossil fuels?"

"Didn't see any in the snacks, but I haven't gotten to the drinks menu yet."

"Any samplers?" Fronty asked. Lefty butted Gigan's shoulder, "I want tapas."

"You'll just lick everything."

"You can eat what we don't like."

"What, after you lick it?" But despite his protests, Gigan scooted over to let Lefty take over the touch screen. He uncurled one wing to poke at the screen with the tip.

If there was a way to order, they couldn't figure it out from the touch screen. They decided someone was probably supposed to come around to take their order. By the time they started wondering where their waiter was, the lights dimmed, and so they settled in for the show.

###

For the first fifteen minutes, the trio was enthralled. Front-And-Center and Rightly flipped up their veils and all three stretched out of the box, watching with rapt attention as the performers on stage sang the opening numbers, quietly rattling their tails to the beat of the music.

Then Righty's attention drifted, followed by Lefty's. By the half hour mark, Fronty's attention was wandering as well.

At about forty minutes, Gigan gave; for all that he appreciated operas as one of the finer things life could offer, he didn't go to them for the entertainment so much as he did for the social cachet. This one sure wasn't doing anything for him, and if it wasn't doing anything for his friends then he could skip the rest. He elbowed them and scrolled a single word across his optical visor: "BORING?" One of them clicked his tongue in the affirmative. Gigan jerked his beak toward the curtain. The next time there was applause, they took the opportunity to cover the noise of their exiting the box.

"They just stood there singing at each other." "We at least expected dancing!" "And where did they get the lead contralto, she's clearly got her wings tuned to sing at equal temperament when the whole orchestra is using just intonation."

"Okay, I was with you but then you lost me."

They offered a triple sneer. "We could sing in tune with the marimba section better than her if we were using a tesla coil."

Gigan held back a squawk of laughter.

The right two shook their veils back down in place. "Let's raid the concessions stand, come back for the ingénue's solo, and blow this place."

"Blow like leave it or destroy it?"

They tilted their heads, considering the question. "Leave it," Front-And-Center decreed. "We can see a better show later."

Here Gigan had been afraid he'd turned them off to opera forever. "Hey, at least we saw this one free." They started down the spiral ramp to the ground level. "It'll be easier to afford the next one."

"We've got to find a cheaper way to get tickets. Think they'll notice if we keep mugging people for seats?"

"Maybe we can slap leashes on you and claim you're my support animal," Gigan joked.

They looked thoughtful.

"Oh no."

"Is this one of the states where support pets get their seating footprint for free?" "It's about half of Stellae Binariae XI now, right?"

For a moment, Gigan allowed himself to bask in the fantasy of locking three collars around the willing throats of a monster that could slaughter him without a second thought. It was a very nice fantasy.

But no. Playing at being a pet was one thing. He could get into it if it was just playing. Under the circumstances, though, he was pretty sure that would just go further to convince the trio that they were pets. How many centuries had he spent now trying to get them to treat themselves like people?

"Not gonna work," Gigan said. "We'd have to get documentation to prove your species is used as support animals."

"We were support animals," Lefty said, and Righty quickly clarified, "We weren't, we weren't trained for that. Our species was." Fronty said, "We're not about to call home for proof, though."

"Well, there goes that idea."

As they reached the bottom of the ramp, they slowed down. The way off the ramp was blocked by a small party standing in the lobby talking together: the giant slug they'd robbed earlier and its entourage, and several bipeds of wildly varying heights with matching silver armor and glowing eyes... Oh. Oh. Hoo boy. That was the Zone family. Gigan froze and held out an arm to block the trio from walking forward. They walked into it with a clang of metallic scales on metallic scythe.

The whole party in the lobby turned to look at Gigan and friends.

They stared back.

Gigan croaked, "Hey! Funny running into you, we just, uh... wanted to ask if you wanted to switch for the rest of the show? We're heading out early." In his peripheral vision, he could see flickers of yellow electricity as lightning slowly worked its way up two of the trio's throats. Gigan elbowed them.

The tallest of the Zones turned to the slug and said, "Are these the muggers who stole your tickets, Madam Goddess Eburnea?"

"Eburnea!" Gigan said, his voice going even higher. "As—as in the Eburnea that the Eburnean Opera Hall was named after?"

The Zone nodded slowly.

Gigan slowly nodded back. Then turned to the trio and said, very calmly, "Fly for your lives."

###

They made it out in one piece.

And the opera hall almost did too.

(And Gigan accidentally cut off his own belt with his abdominal buzzsaw. Now he had to drape it around his shoulders like a scarf.)

Eburnea's devout worshippers agreed to drop charges, if they agreed never to set foot in the state again and each prostrated themselves before Eburnea a thousand times.

Gigan wasn't sure how the triple threat managed to convince Eburnea that each one of their bows counted for three; but as they wandered around loudly griping about how long Gigan's was taking and debating (out loud, which meant they were only doing it because they wanted him to hear it) whether they should just fly off and leave him behind, he kind of hated them for it.

But not really.

###

The four of them retreated a couple of states away, found a neighborhood with some buildings built to accommodate their size, and grabbed seats at an outdoor table in front of a closed cafe as they pondered what to do with the rest of their night.

Fronty and Righty tossed their veils back to wear like scarves, no longer concerned about who they offended if they didn't have a fancy show to go to. Fronty scrolled through the tablet Gigan had loaned them looking for somewhere interesting that was still open and could accommodate their size, Lefty took in the street around them, and Righty leaned in toward the other two, gaze vacant, mentally withdrawn inward.

Gigan used to think that when their attention went three different directions like that, it meant only one of them was focused on the task at hand; but over time it had dawned on him that they did that because there was no reason all three of them should have to stare together at the same object when each of them already saw what the other two saw. Fronty went through the tablet, and because of that Lefty and Righty could consider the available options. Lefty looked around, and because of that Fronty and Righty knew what the street looked like. Whatever Righty was pondering, the other two were no doubt tuned in to.

And meanwhile, the outsider tagging along on this little committee meeting, Gigan sat backwards on a chair at the next table and watched them.

Sometimes, when they were in motion, looking at them was like looking at three marionettes someone had spray painted the same color, snipped apart at the joints, and tossed into a washing machine with a window in front: an anarchic tumble of shapes and body parts that never quite seemed to connect to each other in any logical way.

But then, sometimes when they were still like this—sitting on a chair turned sideways, leaning one side against the back, their feet curled up in the seat, their wings crossed on a table and taking up the entire surface, a single street lamp illuminating them in orangish light from the side—he saw them all as one continuous, sinuous, glorious shape.

Sitting behind them, the light shining straight through the sheer fabric delicately wrapped around their shoulders and back, he could trace the entire length of their left and right spines with his optic: from their napes nearly hidden beneath their crowns of horns, down the centers of their necks, over the curves of their upper back where their spines crossed through two sets of powerful muscles, down to the point where their spines narrowed toward each other along the small of their back, over their hips, along the length of their tails to their twin barbed rattles... He could see the slightest asymmetries around their spines, the evidence of ancient surgeries: the way their right upper back was a little bit wider and their left upper back hunched a little bit higher; the scarred lump near the base of the right tail where part of one spine had been grafted to another; the cleft between the vestigial shoulder muscles in the middle of their back where their middle spine dipped in and vanished from view. Their dull gold glowed in this light.

Gigan couldn't remember what his body had looked like before he'd been a cyborg—if he'd ever known what it had looked like. But he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that before he'd had scythes, he must have had some sort of—of fins, or vestigial wings, hell, maybe even tentacles—something like that at the end of his arms. Something that tapered to a soft point that could feel. And he knew that because when he looked at them like this, he craved so badly to run his whatever-he'd-had-down their back, tracing alongside each row of barbs that ran down their spines, all the way from the napes of their necks to the tips of their tails. But all he had was scythes.

"There's karaoke a short flight away. Open all night," Lefty reported without glancing at the tablet. Righty added, in that slightly dazed voice he sometimes got when he was exiting the triple threat's inner mental landscape and reconnecting with the real world, "We'll have to duck to get through the doorways, but we should fit."

"What're the drinks like?" Gigan asked.

"Let us check." After a moment, they grumbled, "Overpriced."

"For us, or in general?"

"In general."

He made an annoyed buzz. "We'll jack some rocket fuel on the way over."

"That works." They stretched their wings, slid off the chair, and waited for Gigan to retrieve his tablet.

"So, what's tonight's playlist going to be?" Gigan asked as he checked the map to the karaoke bar. "The opera we missed?"

They considered it. "No." "We're feeling more like cheesy war songs."

"Ooh, haven't heard the death growls in a while. Better get a private room."

He stowed the tablet in a pouch and they took off.

###

(Replies/reblogs are welcome & encouraged! Check the “source” link below for my masterlist of KOTM fics in this verse, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links.)

#ghidorah #king ghidorah #gigan #godzilla #kotm #ghidgan #(if nobody else has made a ship name then I'LL DO IT)#fanfic #my writing #(also featuring: cameo appearance by Zone Fighter and family)

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artistic-writer · 5 years

Text

Sparking the Pavement :: CS Moto GP AU :: E :: Ch 4

Title: Sparking the Pavement by @artistic-writer Rating: E (it’s time!) Summary: Killian Jones has everything he has ever dreamed of. He likes fast bikes and even faster women, that is until almost losing his brother makes him rethink his life choices. And then a chance encounter with a blonde bombshell on the race track gives him the chance to change and find love, but as usual, team politics get in the way and for the first time in his life, Killian can’t just get what he wants. Moto GP racing AU.

AO3 - FF - Ko-Fi

A/N: Ch 4! SMUT TIME! Ahem. Contain your thirst, ladies. Wait, no, don’t. This chapter is going to make you realise that you have a new fetish. Just saying ;) Many thanks to @hollyethecurious who agreed to beta this, and to @doodlelolly0910 who regularly listens to me ranting about wanting to write when my fingers don’t want to work. And @darkcolinodonorgasm who understands how relevant real-life race rules are :D

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom @thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair @cs-forlife @notoriouscs @killian-whump @darkcolinodonorgasm @mariakov81 @strangestarlighttree @effulgentcolors @shardminds

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It was odd. When she had agreed to dinner, she was imagining something that had reflected his pay grade, maybe with a candle burning between them and a security guard at the door. She had known what it was like to date a racer and she was sure that they all thrived on the attention they got from fans. Killian Jones was not like Neal, she could tell that as soon as he had opened his mouth, but the picture the media had painted of him was flawed at best. There were women hanging off his arm in every photo, and she expected him to be a bit more confident.

What she didn’t expect was for Killian Jones to be a gentleman, in every sense of the word.

He had picked her up, just like he had promised too, on time and with a dashing smile that made her stomach flip into knots. All coherent thought had left her, and the only thing she could focus on was how blue Killian’s eyes were and how warm his hands were on the small of her back as he had led her to his car. He had opened the door for her, kept the conversation light and cheery, and totally ignored the look of confusion on her face when he had driven them to the race track where she has beat him not five hours earlier.

“May I show you to your table?” Killian offered her his hand after he had opened the passenger door of his car.

“You may,” Emma nodded, wrapping her fingers around his and allowing him to pull her out of the car. She frowned, looking around the deserted pit lane before turning to Killian once more. “Are we here for a reason? At the track. The track I beat you at.” She gave his hand a playful tug, stopping him from leading her down the pitlane anymore.

“Very funny,” Killian told her with a shake of his head. He turned, the tips of his ears that slight pink hue that Emma had noticed earlier and already enjoyed seeing.

“I can imagine it’s very painful,” Emma teased. “The memory of her, I mean.”

“Ah,” Killian rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on her hand. “Are you enjoying your new bike?”

“She’s not as fast, but she’s pretty to look at,” Emma stifled her laugh, letting him lead her further down the pit lane.

It was after dark and Emma felt the flutter of butterflies reappear in her stomach. Killian’s silence made her nervous, but when he turned to give her a quick, rakish grin, she relaxed a little. She was excited, more than she ever had been before, the smell of his aftershave wafting down wind and enticing her after him as he rounded the small corner that led out onto the track.

Killian stopped, turning to face her and blocking her view of the start line behind him. He let go of her hand, something Emma missed instantly, and dipped his head to catch her eye. He smiled, warm and inviting but laced with something Emma had never associated with the man stood before her. Killian Jones was nervous, all of his bravado gone, and she watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Your table,” Killian announced, stepping aside and motioning to what was behind him.

It took Emma’s breath. Lit by the floodlights over the start line was a small table, draped with a pristine white tablecloth and with two chairs placed opposite each other. There were two huge glass vases each with a deep red candle inside, both lit and casting a soft shadow over the table with their gently flickering flame. Two wine glasses accompanied the cutlery set out beside each plate and a huge bottle of what looked like champagne was chilling in a bucket of ice.

“Killian Jones, this is-,” Emma began, dumbfounded by the effort he had gone to.

“It’s nothing,” Killian assured her with a gentle grip on her bare elbow.

“I-,” Emma stuttered as she advanced on the table before her. It was more than she had ever dreamed of, from anyone, so small and intimate yet with such a personal touch, she almost forgot they were both standing at the start line of the raceway.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Killian offered softly, darting around her to pull out the chair for her.

Emma took his offered hand once more, letting him guide her to the dining table with a smile. She sat, all of the hairs on her arm standing on end when Killian lightly brushed his fingers over her shoulders and brought her back to reality.

“Are you alright, lass?” Killian asked, noticing the way her body shivered under his touch. “Are you cold?” Without waiting for her answer he pulled out a blanket that was hanging over the back of her chair, holding it by the edge and letting it unfold under its own weight. He gave it a shake before wrapping it around her, making sure to tuck it in down her back.

“I never expected this,” Emma said suddenly as she smoothed out a small wrinkle in the table cloth. The material was silky smooth under her fingertips and her eyes darted around, taking in everything set out before her.

“What did you expect?” Killian took his place in the seat opposite her and leaned forward until his elbows rested on the table.

“I don’t know,” Emma laughed, blinking in disbelief. “I thought-”

“That I was exactly the man portrayed by the media?” Killian surmised, reaching for the bottle of champagne and giving her a smile. “That I couldn’t win the heart of a pretty lady?”

Emma blushed, her lips ticking up at the corners. “Well, not to bring it up again, but you couldn’t win a race, so you know.” Emma licked her lips, her waterproof lipstick staying exactly where it was when she pouted her lips and rolled her eyes sideways.

Killian narrowed his eyes at her playful remark, loving the way her nose wrinkled just a little when she was smiling. He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle, ignoring the ice cold glass against his palm, before he pushed the cork with his thumb. It popped, making Emma jump. “I didn’t let you win, you know,” he assured her, leaning forward to pour her some champagne. “That really was all you.”

“I know,” Emma smirked, watching the bubbles in her glass dance up and down. “I’m a great rider.”

“And yet, I’ve never heard of you,” Killian teased, lifting his gaze away from his own glass momentarily as he poured.

“How do you know?” Emma shrugged, reaching for her glass and lifting it to her lips. Her blanket slipped from her shoulders and she saw Killian’s eyes dart to her exposed skin before she took a sip of the alcohol and the tiny bubbles fizzled on her tongue. “You’ve raced Moto2,” she shrugged. “Maybe we crossed paths once.”

“No,” Killian said vehemently, shaking his head and swallowing the champagne in his mouth. “I would have remembered.”

“Well, you don’t even know my name,” Emma suggested sweetly. “So maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I’m not worth the effort of all this.”

Killian smirked and rested his glass back onto the table in front of him before leaning back in his chair. Emma watched, the impossibly handsome man getting even more good looking as he changed position and nervously licked his bottom lip before tracing the pink flesh with a single fingertip.

“I would have remembered,” Killian reiterated after a moment's thought. “Because when you see something so beautiful, you’re changed forever.” He stared at her, his eyes the bluest shade of a thousand seas Emma had ever seen, and she felt her throat go dry and her stomach drop. “Your world is altered in an instant, and you can’t go back to before, when it was dull and grey, because the light is where you want to be, with whatever took you there.” He paused, holding her gaze so intently Emma thought he might burn a hole right through her. “So, despite not knowing your name, love, I feel like this,” he stopped again, motioning to his start line dining table, “is worth the effort. You are worth the effort.”

Emma coughed a little, covering her mouth as she cleared the dryness in her throat. “Good line,” she rasped through another coy smirk. “How many women have fallen for that Killian Jones charm?”

Undeterred by her bristled response, Killian grinned. “None so far, but there is a first time for everything.”

“Ah,” Emma nodded, not believing him.

“What, love?” Killian read her instantly. “You think between races, parties, sponsors, testing, and my family I have time for dating?”

“You don’t?” Emma pried innocently.

“Did you? When you raced I mean?” Killian pried back.

“Stop deflecting my questions back at me,” Emma told him sternly, unable to tear her eyes away from his when he simply stared at her and raised his eyebrow to accompany his playful grin.

“Why don’t you want to talk about your race days?” Killian asked, reaching for his glass once more. Condensation covered his fingertips and he gripped it harder so as not to drop it.

“It’s not a first date kind of story,” Emma said with a sigh. “Maybe after a few more,” she said, downing what was left in her glass. “Maybe after some actual food.” She looked around but there didn’t seem to be any food of any sort nearby. She couldn’t even smell anything but the stench of burnt rubber and oil, so she looked back to Killian with a questioning expression. “Is there going to be any food here tonight?”

Killian smiled, again humoured by her. “This is a race track, love, not a restaurant.”

“So, where’s the food?” Emma asked him, pulling the blanket around her arms a little tighter. The sun had gone down hours ago, and if she had known she would be sitting out on a track she might have worn something a little less revealing.

“Oh, that’s back at my place,” Killian smirked.

Emma tilted her head to the side and gave him a narrow eyed stare. “Presumptuous much?”

“I don’t know what you are expecting, lass,” Killian said innocently, pushing himself to his feet and tucking the chair back under the table. The wooden legs scraped on the asphalt underneath them, but they both ignored it. “But I am a world class motorbike racer who couldn’t just invite anyone back to his home. I mean, what if you were some kind of crazed fan.”

“I’m not.”

“Or someone who had broken into this track compound just to see if they could beat me in a race,” he continued as he approached her with a wry grin.

“I didn’t and you’re forgetting I did beat you,” Emma reminded him, pushing herself to her feet. She wobbled slightly when the chair snagged on a rough patch of the track, but Killian was there to right her when she threatened to topple sideways.

“I’m sure I will never forget it, what with how many times you mention it,” Killian smiled at her.

“Had I mentioned it?” Emma frowned, pursing her lips. “I don’t remember.”

“Alright,” Killian huffed in mock annoyance as he grabbed her hand. “Let’s go, miss?” He prompted with a genuinely honest smile that turned her stomach over again.

“Swan,” Emma said softly as she mirrored his smile. “But my friends call me Emma.”

“And am I a friend yet, miss Swan?” Killian looked up at her, his face a picture of childlike innocence as he gave her his best puppy dog eyes and lifted their joined hands to his lips. The feel of his lips on the back of her hand were like a brand, emblazoning the feel of themselves forever onto her skin.

“You’re getting there,” she smirked as a ripple of excitement passed through her. “When you are, I’ll let you know.”

It took less than two hours for Emma to realise that Killian Jones was nothing like what she had heard through the race circuit and media. He had gone out of his way to make her feel special, despite his own reservations. Clearly, something had happened to him before and she understood it completely. There wasn’t a rider out there who hadn’t come across an over zealous fan, and as a female rider, Emma had encountered her fair share of weirdos and stalkers, and as she polished off her last glass of wine, she was sure she was turning into one herself.

Sat across from her on his huge, L-shaped couch, slouched back against the cushions with a mellow grin on his face, Killian was more appealing than ever. Under the buzz of drunkenness, Emma had begun to appreciate him much more than she had before. Killian was something, a real specimen, highly athletic with muscles that bulged underneath the luxurious material of his clearly expensive shirt and drew her gaze every time he moved.

Two shirt buttons undone was not enough for Emma to fully appreciate it, but the chest hair that she could see was thick, and black, and cried out to be touched, it’s silky texture shimmering in the light of his lounge. More wine, food and some beers had taken their toll on him and he had almost succumbed to the pull of sleep, only snapping himself awake when Emma had moved and plopped herself down on the cushion beside him.

“Miss Swan,” Killian had squeaked in mock surprise, his hand finding her bare thigh almost immediately. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Can you see me though?” Emma cocked her head to one side before flopping it to the opposite. “You have glassy eyes.”

“That’s because you made me drink more than I normally do when entertaining a woman,” he laughed.

“Oh really?” She leaned into him, her breasts pushing against his shoulder and her hand resting on his chest. “And how often do you entertain women?” She teased, her finger slipping beneath where the two sides of his shirt were buttoned together to finally feel his chest hair.

“As a matter of fact,” Killian began, lifting his hand to point an accusatory finger at her humoured expression.

“Yes?” Emma prompted, knowing his words had probably been stolen because her fingertips had brushed over his nipple.

“I haven’t,” Killian admitted, blinking his eyes closed. “I mean, I don’t-”

“Right,” Emma droned out with a grin.

“No, really,” Killian nodded, his head a little floppier than usual. He sat himself up as he cleared his throat, his fingers tightening their grip around her thigh. “It’s been a while.”

“Hmmm,” Emma hummed, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You’re telling me that a guy as smokin’ hot as you, hasn’t had a woman in a while.”

“You think I’m hot?” Killian giggled.

“Shut up,” Emma scolded, pulling her hand from his shirt and giving him a playful slap on the chest. “Seriously,” she urged. “Why no women?”

Killian took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks as he contemplated her question. Why hadn’t he? Race rules, team duties, the loss of his brother? None of those could explain the gaps of time between race seasons when he still chose not to entertain a woman. He liked the attention in front of the cameras when he was Killian Jones, World Champion. But when he was home, and he was just Killian Jones the man, what mattered most to him was finding the right someone to share his time with. Someone who cared about Killian Jones the man more than his title or wealth.

“Come on, tell me,” Emma nudged him with her elbow, shaking him from his reverie.

Killian turned to look at her, really look at the woman beside him. He had known her for less time that a working day, and yet, he felt like he had known her his entire life. She was gorgeous, there was no denying that, and any man would have been lucky to spend time with her. She was intriguing but also funny, witty beyond comprehension and she made his skin come alive with her little touches here and there. His body’s reaction to her was obvious and he would be a fool to ignore it.

“How about a tour first?” Killian suggested with a nudge of his head. “Come on,” he urged, standing up on wobbly bare feet and offering her his hand for the second time that evening. “I have something I think you’re going to really like.”

Emma took his hand, letting him pull her from the couch, their bodies crashing together unexpectedly. She blushed and he gasped a breath at the contact, his fingers gripping tightly at hers by their side like he wasn’t sure what to do. Emma looked up at him through her lashes, lips gently parted to help feed her starving lungs since her heart had sped up in her chest, with eyes that had darkened instantly with the desire that Killian fuelled inside of her. Emma could feel his rapid heartbeat against the palm of her hand pressed to his chest and she didn’t mistake the darkness in his own eyes when she caught his gaze.

“Where is it?” She almost whispered, her eyes flicking to his lips.

Words failed him and all Killian could do with his last vestiges of will power was step back, blinking himself back to reality. Emma missed the contact immediately and was reluctant to release her hold on his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to her own reality. Killian gave her a friendly smile, squeezing her fingers and tugging her arm gently until she decided to walk with him.

“This way, love,” he told her softly. He licked his lips and turned around so he could see where he was going, a relieved sigh escaping his mouth silently as he exhaled a steadying breath. He wasn’t lying. It had been a while and he wasn’t about to risk his career with a woman who insisted on name formalities. Even drunk he wasn’t that much of an idiot.

“What is it?” Emma asked excitedly, her bare feet padding across the warmed flooring as she almost skipped after him.

“You’ll see,” Killian smirked, reaching a door at the end of a darkened hallway. There was a lock on the door and before she had time to ask him what he was doing, Killian had released her hand and was going to work unbuttoning his shirt.

“Here?” Emma raised an eyebrow, shifting her weight a little to watch him.

“Stop objectifying me, woman,” Killian said with a grin. “I know it’s hard, but please try,” he added as he finished undoing the line of buttons on his shirt and pulled the edges open.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Emma promised weakly, unable to stop her eyes roaming the thatch of glorious, dark chest hair that adorned his torso. Her hands itched to feel it, to trace the shape of his nipple as it pebbled under her touch, but she refrained, instead spying the small, silver blunted key hanging around his neck and giving him a confused look. “You wanted to show me a key?”

“No, love,” Killian grinned boyishly as he lifted the thin chain over his head and held the key in his palm. “This key opens this door,” he motioned behind him. “Behind which is something I think you are going to really appreciate.”

“Is it a sex dungeon?” Emma laughed.

“I’m not that exciting I’m afraid,” Killian laughed with her, feeling like it was the most natural thing he had ever done. “But I do want to share it with you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Emma mocked, swaying her hips a little as she circled him and leaned back against the white panelled door. The wood was cold against her body, the thin material of her skimpy red dress barely enough to keep her warm, but she didn't even notice as soon as Killian shortened the gap between them leaving barely an inch between their bodies.

“Turn around,” he rasped darkly with a coy smirk.

Emma complied without hesitation, rolling her body against the door until she was facing away from him. Her hands spread out beside her head and she pinched her eyes closed, the thrill of what was coming next causing the welcome flutter in her stomach once again. Her chest heaved up and down, the wooden door cold against her bosom, and when Killian stepped forward and pressed his body against hers, she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her lips.

“Easy,” he whispered into the back of her ear, setting every hair on her neck on high alert as a prickle ran over her skin and they stood to attention. Killian slipped his hand between them, poking the key into the lock and twisting it slowly, enjoying the way Emma gasped when his bare chest pushed against the patches of skin her barely there dress revealed. “Ready?” Emma nodded, unable to form words. “Good.” Killian nuzzled his nose into the patch of skin behind her ear, inhaling her scent and letting the fog of his breath affect her even more. “Close your eyes.”

Emma couldn’t stop the giggle of excitement that tumbled from her mouth when she heard the door latch click open and then felt Killian’s hands covering her eyes. Her hands found his forearms, gripping on for dear life as he walked her into a room that she could tell was huge just by the way the sound of her laughter echoed off the walls. It smelled clean but not antiseptic, not a single chemical smell to be found but instead the familiar, metallic smell of engine cleaner and lubrication spray mechanics often used to clean parts with. Her enthusiasm heightened, Emma shuffled her feet forward on Killian’s tender instruction until he stopped her and she felt him smile against her neck.

“Alright,” he announced, pulling his hands away from her eyes and sliding them down her body until they rested on her hips. He let go of one briefly to flick a switch but it returned to the warmth of her body quickly. “Open your eyes.”

Emma peeled her eyes open, ignoring the blinding whiteness of the room and blinking to adjust her focus. It was nothing like what she had imagined would be behind such a mundane looking door and all she could do was gasp, her heart stopping dead in her chest.

“Wow,” she breathed, stepping from his embrace in shock.

The room was filled with motorcycles, each on its own dedicated display stand like they were in some sort of museum. The more Emma looked around, the more variety she saw, from some of the rarest antique classics to some of the most sleek looking modern constructions, her heart was a flutter with each and every one. But there was one, sitting alone in the middle of the collection like a giant black and yellow wasp, that caught her attention and well and truly held it.

Emma gave Killian a quick glance over her shoulder before stumbling forward on legs that were shaky from a combination of alcohol and disbelief. The centre piece to Killian’s collection was none other than one of the rarest motorcycles to ever exist, requiring even the most professional of riders to complete a two week course before even being able to own one. Killian followed her with a proud smile, simply watching her appreciate the bike like he knew she would.

“Is this?” Emma gasped in shock.

“Aye, love, it is,” Killian confirmed. He loved the way she reacted, a girlish giggle falling from her mouth as she reached out and hovered her hand over the cold, matt black and yellow finish of the bodywork.

“Killian,” she paused, wide eyed when she turned to look at him. “This is an Ecosse Spirit ES1.”

“Aye, I know,” Killian grinned in boyish glee.

“One of the best handling, lightest, most powerful F1 inspired motorcycles to ever exist.” Her rambling was cute and Killian took another step towards her with a nod.

“Aye,” he agreed with amusement.

“Don’t these cost like $3 Million?” Emma frowned, turning back to the bike one more time to make sure it was really there.

“$3.6 Million, actually,” Killian clarified, finally reaching her and grabbing her hand. Emma tried to resist but he pushed her, coaxing her that final step forward until her fingertips brushed over the yellow and black paintwork. Killian laid his hand over hers, flattening her palm to the machine’s huge fuel tank, watching her features turn from shock to satisfaction. “There are only ten in the world,” he told her, moving her hand over the curve of the tank and along the supple leather of the rider’s seat. “And only one in this colour.”

Emma was stunned to silence. The Ecosse ES1 was unattainable to most people, its huge price tag and strict purchase requirements putting most people off of anything more than photos. Emma had admired the concept since its inception, intrigued by the combination of a superbike and an F1 car in one package, something that would most likely never be affordable to many teams, let alone one person.

“Wow,” Emma repeated, moving around the bike deliberately, putting the machine between the two of them. “Can I see you on it?” She looked up to meet his gaze, the shock in her eyes evident but laced with something else Killian hadn’t noticed before.

“Is that a turn on for you?” Killian smirked, lifting his leg over the back of the bike and settling into the softness of the seat. His toes stretched out instinctively towards the floor, but the bike was firmly fixed in position on its stand and would not topple over.

Emma bit her bottom lip at the sight, her fingertips caressing the taught fabric over Killian’s thigh. “You know,” Emma began salaciously. “I’ve always wanted to fuck on a bike.”

“I don’t believe you haven’t,” Killian told her, patting his lap, unable to take his eyes off of her as she hitched up the skin tight dress she was wearing. When she was done, she set one foot on the peg of the footrest and lifted herself up and over the bike until she was sitting astride Killian’s lap, facing him.

Emma slid down the fuel tank, her open thighs on display to his hungry gaze as Killian smoothed his hands up them in an attempt to steady her. Her skin was soft under his roughened finger tips and he sucked in a steadying breath through his grin. When she was settled they were almost eye to eye, his breathing catching in his throat when she raked her nails over the definition of his chest and abs that were hidden under his chest hair.

“Never,” Emma rasped, her arms coming up and resting on his shoulders. She buried her fingers in his raven locks, cupping the back of his skull in her hands, her lips millimeters from his as she looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I’d like to,” she told him and felt his fingernails dig into the skin of her thighs in restraint.

“Love,” Killian said huskily, resting his forehead on hers. “I don’t even know if we are friends yet.” He let his lips skim over hers so softly they were almost not there, his attention focused more on searing the imprint of them into the beating pulse point of her neck. He wrapped his arms around her much smaller frame, hugging her to him as he ravaged her neck, following a path down the perfect column until he stopped, fogging the swell of her heaving breasts with his words. “Are we friends yet, Emma Swan?”

Emma felt her nipples harden at his words, her name on his breath laced with sweetness and a darkness that made her skin hum. She laughed, clutching his head harder so he couldn’t leave her skin alone for a second, torn between letting him continue his assault that was clearly heading south, or finally tasting his lips on hers. The latter won out and she pulled his head up, crashing her lips into his with a force that knocked him backwards for a second, his own feverish return delayed until he heard her moan down deep in her throat and his resolve snapped.

“Yes,” Emma panted between kisses, the feel of his lips on hers like a ray of sunshine in a rainstorm. They were soft and even though his kisses were forceful, they were like a caress on the exact right side of painful that made her flood her panties with a sudden wetness that she hadn’t felt for a long time. “Say my name,” she insisted through her haze, tearing her lips from his so that he could focus on her instruction.

“Emma,” Killian rasped in a gravelly voice, chasing her lips. “Gods, it’s Emma,” he sighed, almost wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets as he aided her in pushing his shirt from his back. “Such a beautiful name.”

His lips were back on hers in an instant, the hunger behind his kiss evidently taking its toll on his body. Emma smirked against his lips when she felt him harden, the already minute space between their bodies disappearing as his erection pressed up into the apex of her thighs and he rolled his hips, eager to feel her pressing down on him even more. Emma shifted forward, rolling her own hips forward and downward, letting his length press up into her folds even more, an action that had him growling out loud in frustration.

Without even asking, Emma knew exactly what he wanted. She reached down between their bodies, working on the button of his pants, fighting with the material that had been pulled taut by his erection. When the button finally popped open, Killian let out a sigh of relief, tearing his lips from hers and moving his mouth to her shoulder, nibbling at the flesh there as his hand tore the thin strap of her dress aside. He grazed his teeth over the joint, fingernails scraping down her upper arm in his attempt to get as close to her as possible, his lips finally finding the swell of a breast and peppering her chest with more aggressive kisses.

He held her as she involuntarily arched backwards, his hands splayed out over the expanse of her back as he rested her against the curve of the fuel tank. His lips never left her skin, hands tugging down the material of her dress to expose his prize and a satisfied groan escaping his throat when Emma’s nipples hardened even more as soon as the air hit them. She palmed them, grabbing the flesh roughly and sliding even further down the bike until she was sure Killian could feel the dampness between her thighs against his rock hard length.

“I don’t have-,” Killian began hoarsely, sliding his hands to his groin and finally freeing his hardness despite his mind’s protest. He pumped himself a few times to relieve the ache in his balls, the skin shifting over his sensitive head and making him hiss. “We should stop,” he ground out, his body fighting his own words.

“What? Why?” Emma asked in a daze, grabbing the sides of his scruffy face and lifting his chin so she could look in his eyes.

“We can’t be careful here,” Killian said, unable to stop himself from leaning forward and tasting her skin. He pushed out of her hold and latched onto one of her nipples, pulling the bud between his lips and humming against her flesh in content. He clawed down the side of her body, gently scraping his nails over her ribs and leaving her nipples for a second so he could kiss the sensitive skin underneath the swell, the faint lines of her bra still lingering on her skin.

“Where?” Emma barely managed, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Killian let her go with a growl, ignoring the mutter of protest as he lifted her off his lap and sat her back on the very top of the smooth, yellow fuel tank. She giggled as he grabbed her thighs, pawing the flesh in protest of his own idea, swinging his leg back and dismounting the bike all the while mindful of his raging erection rubbing against the fabric of his underwear as he moved. Emma watched him intently, worried for a second that he might leave her, before he moved to the side of the bike and hauled her up into his arms.

Her lips were on his before a second had passed, the urgency of her need for his return clear by the way she grabbed at his shoulders and her legs wrapped around his waist. His muscles rippled under her fingers as he moved in long, determined strides to somewhere else in the house that Emma had yet to see. Teeth clashed and tongues duelled, hot, sloppy kisses giving each of them a renewed sense of passion as they headed to Killian’s bedroom and he kicked open the door.

Emma giggled, squealing in joy as Killian reached his huge bed and as soon as his knees touched the frame, tossed her onto the mattress. Emma hit the comforter with a bounce, righting her half naked body just in time to brush her hair away from her face and feel Killian tugging on her ankle. She flopped back, hair fanning out around her head as Killian lifted her leg to his face and kissed her ankle, caressing her heel in both hands like it was a delicate egg. The scruff on his chin, with its small, ginger hairs glinting in his bedroom lamplight, tickled her skin and she yanked her foot from his grasp with a chuckle.

“I’m sorry,” Emma snorted a laugh, watching his dejected expression. “That tickles!”

“Oh,” Killian sang, kneeling between her legs as he climbed half way onto the bed and reached for her dress. The material was bunched up around her waist now, having been pulled down then upwards, but it was easily maneuvered back down over her hips with a forceful tug. “You shouldn’t have told me that,” he growled with glee, shedding the remains of his clothes at the bedside before diving naked onto the bed and rubbing his scruff over the silky smooth skin of her stomach.

“Killian!” Emma cried out, pulling her knees to her chest and trapping him against her body.

His name on her lips was enough for him to take pity on her, and as his teasing turned into kissing, he felt her body relax once more as she stretched out like a cat beneath him. Emma’s body felt heavy as she let all her limbs fall to the plush, cotton covered comforter and cast a quick glance down her body to where a very talented Mr. Jones was currently worshipping every inch of her naked body. Every kiss made her wetter, every brush of his fingers over the jut of her hip bone made her squirm and finally, as he dipped his tongue into her navel, Emma could take no more.

Hooking a crooked finger under his chin, she dragged his head upwards until he paused over her cleavage and their eyes met. His made her gasp, the previously bluebell spark almost totally gone and replaced by a stormy, lustful grey that made her nipples harden even more on each of her breasts. Emma pulled his head and he had no choice but to follow, climbing over her body like a tiger stalking prey and seizing her lips once more. Emma’s body reacted without a beat, her back arching up and off the bed until their bodies were pressed together, and her legs wrapped around his waist.

Killian broke the kiss to catch his breath, pushing himself up by his arms and looking down at the petite blonde beneath him. She was a marvel, curved in all of the right places and skin so soft to the touch it felt wrong to caress her with such race roughened hands. Not that Emma minded at all. She was loving the feel of him, any part of him, and he had come to realise, in this short extra curricular activity, that he would never be away from her for too long before she was changing things in her favour.

Emma, true to form, rolled them over in a move so smooth, it almost felt choreographed. Truth was, it wasn’t. They were just two people who fit well together, in any position they found themselves in, one always teasing the other, in the bedroom as well as the race track. Like right now, as Emma repositioned herself into a straddle and ground her wetness down onto Killian’s bare length in an attempt to really drive him insane.

“Emma, Gods,” Killian ground out through gritted teeth. He slammed his head into the mattress, the chorded muscles in his neck straining and his fingernails digging into her thighs spread eagled over his length.

Emma simply smirked at the pleading nature of her name on his lips, bracing her hands on his chest and sliding herself up and down, coating his cock with her essence. “This is what you did to me, Killian,” she rasped accusingly through a coy smile. She leaned forward until her lips were level with his ear, smirking against the shell of the pointed flesh. “You made me so wet,” she sang into his ear like a siren and Killian thought he was going to come there and then.

“You feel amazing,” he growled, kneading the flesh over her hip with a forceful grab.

Emma sat up a little, setting her weight down on his length, pinning it to his stomach. She could feel the throb of blood rushing to his erection and with a sly smirk, clenched her inner muscles knowing full well he would feel her. “Just wait until you feel the inside,” she added darkly.

Killian sat upright suddenly, hands holding her to him as he kissed her again. It was more ferocious than before, more needy, a silent plea for Emma to end his torment and fuck him until he saw stars. His hands buried themselves in her hair, cradling the curve of her skull and holding her mouth to his as his tongue explored. Emma moaned, the sound nothing more than a whimper that sent a fresh surge of blood to Killian’s erection and made it bob against the hardness of her clit between them.

It was too much, her grinding alone almost getting her off. Emma felt her arms tingle, her legs beginning to shake before she pushed her weight forward and Killian held her as they both fell back on the bed behind him. “Get it,” Emma commanded, sitting back upright and clawing lines into Killian’s chest. “Get it now.”

Killian didn’t need to be told again, half rolling himself sideways until he could reach the bedside table. There were three drawers but he went to the middle one, rummaging around behind his socks until he pulled out a small foil wrapper that Emma snatched from his grasp as soon as he rolled back into position underneath her. With a salacious grin she shuffled down over his thighs, trapping him in place and, for the first time, taking in the size of his member as it bobbed against his stomach.

“Don’t worry, love,” Killian smiled slyly, one eyebrow rising on his head. “It won’t hurt.”

“Pfft, please,” Emma dismissed, tearing open the wrapper and making sure the condom was fitted in the right way. She pinched the tip, seating it on the velvety smooth head of him before taking him in her grasp and rolling the latex slowly and deliberately down over his shaft. “You think this is the biggest thing I’ve ridden in my career?”

Killian couldn’t take her teasing any longer and grabbed her behind the knees, yanking her entire body up until she was seated back across his groin. She let out a small squeal of shock, before relaxing and letting him position his length at her entrance, just the tip of him enough to give her that burning stretch she hadn’t felt for so long. A gasp and a furrowed brow told Killian he had hit the right spot, inching into her a little further with a gentle pull down of her hips. When Emma was fully relaxed, his entire length inside of her, he bent his knees up behind her and let her recline against his thighs, content that her smug remark had been thoroughly seen to.

“No,” Killian ground out as Emma began to cant her hips, swiveling them forward and back, rocking on the hardness inside of her with a soft whimper. “But it’s going to be the best thing you’ve ever ridden, period.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Emma sighed with a nod of her head and a bite of her bottom lip. She changed her rhythm, rising up and then sinking back down onto him with a force that bumped her clit just right. She repeated it, only this time Killian met her half way, thrusting up into her and expelling all of the air from her lungs.

“Yeah, that’s it, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Ride me, there’s a good girl.”

She was so wet, slickness easing each of his thrusts, and Emma wasn’t sure she could even make any more lubrication until Killian had said those words. She felt the warmth pool in her stomach and the tingle inside of her walls that signalled her imminent orgasm. Normally she would have taken much longer to reach euphoria, but Killian was perfect, in all the right places, and she chased down her pleasure intending to firmly grasp a hold of it and never let go.

Again she switched it up, falling forward until her hair framed both of their faces and they were breathing in each others air. Emma clawed at his cheeks, the bristles of his beard soft under her fingertips as she began panting in a new rhythm of breaths that made Killian even harder inside of her. She was close. He could tell because of the muscles inside of her, contracting as she ground her clit against his pubic bone over and over, a thin sheen of sweat covering her entire body.

She let out a squeak, smashing her lips into his despite their need to breathe, and her movements became staggered, her hips moving erratically suddenly because she was about to come. The angle was right, the pressure on her clit was just perfect, and when Killian felt the muscles in her thighs tense up, her took it upon himself to extend Emma’s pleasure. She let out no protest when he wrapped his arms around her body and plowed himself into her core, the spongy walls there tightening with every thrust that prolonged her orgasm. She was numb, unable to do anything but cry out in ecstasy, her wails on the verge of crying because of the sensitivity following her release.

It wasn’t long after she had gone completely stiff on top of him and Killian slowed his movements to shorter, more forceful thrust, that he came, spilling his seed into the latex barrier between them. He kept thrusting, even as he began to soften, content to feel the pull of her inner muscles as ripples of euphoria still made her core flutter with activity. Finally, he let her go, softening his hold on her and brushing her hair aside so he could kiss her shoulder, his lips pecking tenderly at the sweaty flesh like a soothing balm on a burn.

“Oh yeah,” Emma panted, weakened but still able to lift herself to meet his gaze. Killian smiled expectantly, one hand drawing lazy circles over the base of her spine whilst the other divested himself of the spent condom, mindful not to let anything spill out as he discarded it on the nightstand.

“Yeah, what, love?” Killian pried, repositioning so that he had one arm behind his head and could take in the beauty of her straddled across his body.

Emma shook her hair away from her face, tucking some strands behind her ear before pressing her lips to Killian’s with a content hum. “Now we’re friends,” she chuckled, grabbing his face between her hands and pulling his smile to hers once more.

#stp #sparking the pavement #ch 4 #cs fic #cs au #cs ff #cs fanfic #moto gp au #Killian Jones #emma swan #smutty smut smut

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bespokeminutiae · 5 years

Text

1 Phoenix 1325

Feorylle,

You'll be pleased to hear that your letters are reaching me— the quartermaster was kind enough to bring them to the supply drop. I've also been writing to you as I have time, and I'm sending my letters back with the boat. I do apologize, there is no proper reply anywhere in the envelope I’ve sent you. The boat can only stop long enough to hand things off, so I don’t have enough time to read your letters and reply before Magnus leaves. I'll write more as soon as I can, I promise.

Trahearne

84 Zephyr 1325

We’ve made it to the first camp safely. You won’t receive this letter until this news is irrelevant, but I wanted to to tell you. Especially since getting here was so difficult. Are there more risen here than I remember? Or have I simply forgotten what it’s like to travel through Orr? I couldn’t tell you which it is. I hope it’s the latter.

I owe you an apology for brushing you off in my last letter. I’ve been duly reminded that I see Orr differently than most people. As soon as my companions and I crossed the strait, they put on masks, so as to not breathe the miasma. They swear it’s so that they do not contract any of Zhaitan’s many plagues, but I’ve seen sylvari explorers do the same, complaining of the smell of the land. I do not agree. The dragon’s corruption is sour and sharp, and even I don’t care for it, but there’s a salty, earthy smell underneath everything that I find pleasing, even… homey. You should still talk to Cinnia if you get the chance—she’s got valuable experience and an interesting perspective of her own. It should tide you over until I manage to gather my thoughts.

I don’t know why I feel so much more at ease in a country where everything can kill me than I do anywhere else. I try to think about what it is that welcomes me so, but everything I can think of feels insufficient. It’s more than just the landscape or the history here, or even the lack of small talk. I’ll have plenty of time to ruminate on this question during my watches, but I wish I could answer it. It bothers me almost as much as the masks my companions wear—I do not begrudge them their comfort in a land that offers little, but I’m still bothered. Similarly, I can set aside my discomfort and carry on without answers, but I’m still bothered.

A last question: will you see things the way I do, or like everyone else does? Probably neither. I look forward to finding out.

86 Zephyr 1325

It occurs to me that I should explain my purpose in Orr.

Of course, my end goal is to discover a method to cleanse Orr and complete my Wyld Hunt. That’s what I hope to find every time I come here. But this expedition, I’m specifically looking at relics or rituals related to the human gods. I did mention that this expedition is sponsored by the Krytan Ministry? They’re also very interested in the human gods, although more from a cultural and historical standpoint. I’m sure there’s more at play in the politics of this, but I’m not concerned. Travel in Orr is so unpredictable it’s likely none of us will find what we’re looking for. We plan visit several of the temples to the human gods in the Straits of Devastation and Malchor’s Leap. Hopefully there’s something useable left. I’d love to continue into the Cursed Shore, but I wouldn’t risk companions on such a journey, especially since there’s nothing in Orr they can forage for food, and thus they’re very reliant on our supply drops. In all honestly, there’s barely anything I can forage for food, but that’s less of a concern unless it’s the rainy season. I do fine as long as there’s enough sun.

We’re also trying to find a way south from the straits to an unmapped area to do some mapping work in addition to searching for relics. One of my companions, Okobii Fans, is an archeologist that has done a fair bit of research into Orr, and is certain there’s six reliquaries there, one for each of the human gods at that time. If we can make it down there, I’m confident that we’ll find something satisfying.

First, though, we’re going to try and make it to the temple of Balthazar tomorrow. It’s less than a day’s journey from tonight’s camp, even having to sneak around all the risen.

87 Zephyr 1325

Today was a complete waste. We couldn’t get within three kilometers of Balthazar’s temple, because it was so overrun with risen and thick with traps. Olio, our scout and hired muscle, accidentally tripped over a wire and into a spike pit and almost got himself impaled. Thank the Pale Tree for his reflexes, he was barely scratched. But there’s no way we’re going to get anywhere near the temple. Now we have to rewrite our entire route to avoid it.

Why would Zhaitan bother? It’s a human temple, it didn’t have any relevance in death rituals I don’t think, and it’s not even in a terribly defensible location. Miss Fans is perplexed as well. She can’t think of anything the dragon would want there, and without being able to search the temple, she can’t confirm those suspicions. Obnoxious.

When we doubled back, we at least found a mansion in the ruins of the nearby town and were able to search it for artifacts. We didn’t find anything related to the gods, or anything with a scrap of magic on it, but Miss Fans found a partial census record in a watertight box, and that helped rescue the mood. I found a fork. I’m going to take it back to minister Merula—you remember, the one who wanted me to find and carry back a whole silver set? I doubt this fork even belonged to her ancestor, but if she gives me any grief about it, I’m going to shove it up her nose. None of those coddled silken idiots understand what it’s like here.

The fork is an amusing consolation, but I was hoping to not be disappointed so early.

89 Zephyr 1325

Being unable to reach Balthazar’s temple has left us with some time before the first supply drop. We’re spending it probing the mountains on the southern edge of the Straits of Devastation, hoping to find a pass or a cave system we can use to get through to the reliquaries. Morale is low: we’re not finding much of use and we keep running afoul of risen patrols. If we kill too many we’ll attract attention to ourselves and have to pull out early, but we keep being left with no choice as we keep being surprised in areas I remembered to be safe. It’s not my imagination or my poor memory: there are far more risen than when I last came here. It raises some concerning questions: where is Zhaitan getting the bodies? And what does he plan to do with them? I don’t like to think of the answers.

I hope you’re faring better than we are.

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#Guild Wars 2 #GW2 #sylvari #Trahearne #commander #Feorylle #Living Legends #masha writes

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autisticblueteam · 5 years

Text

Your Friend, Connie (TexCT)

[AO3] [Ko-Fi in Bio]

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 4849

Summary: Connie’s running out of options when a mission gone wrong gives her an opportunity she never expected to have: the chance to talk to Texas, one-on-one. But complicated problems rarely have such simple solutions.

Notes: Final fic for @rvbfemslash February! An immediate heads-up: this fic is not as overtly shippy as I first intended and whilst it’s certainly intended to imply TexCT, it’s not explicit and it focuses more on the potential in their relationship. So it’s toeing the line of counting for this month, but it was written with the ship in mind.

This was ridiculous.

Connie huffed, twisting her wrists in their bindings a little more, trying to get the right angle. There was a little give now, but not enough to get her hands free without breaking a couple of bones and dislocating a couple of joints. She’d rather not do that. Easy fix with some knitting polymer back at the ship or not, it wasn’t pleasant.

She couldn’t believe this had even happened. She was better than this, she didn’t get captured by untrained goons and thrown into the back room of some shady warehouse that smelt like centuries outdated petrol and god knows what else—noxious and distracting, painfully so. Yet here she was, in exactly that situation, with her wrists tied behind her back and her armour nowhere to be seen.

This wasn’t going to help her tenuous standing at the Project. Getting captured two times in as many missions was going to catch much too much attention from command.

If only it hadn’t come so soon after her last intel drop. Sending intelligence over the Project’s own communication networks, even routed through a variety of proxies and other safety measures, was getting too risky. So, rather than take that chance, she’d arranged for her contact to ‘capture’ her on her last mission. It was simple enough; she tripped an alarm that she’d never have fallen for in an actual infiltration and let Sleeves, their muscle, grab her. Cutting off her own comms was easy and the drop went smoothly; by the time someone had made their way to retrieve her, her contact had retreated and she pretended that she’d escaped part way on her own.

Simple. They got what they needed from her, she kept herself out of the suspicions of the Project.

Whether or not that would last now, she couldn’t be sure. Things were getting… precarious.

Time was running out and she couldn’t see the countdown.

Shaking the thought away, Connie focused back on the bindings wrapped around her wrist and the situation she was in now, not the one she faced when—if—she got out of here. The warehouse was far out of the way; it had come up on the Project’s radar only after reports of them using—maybe even attempting to sell—experimental equipment had reached the UNSC.

Going by the strange way her armour had locked up, allowing them to grab her without her even throwing a single punch, those reports were true. Experimental or not, it did its job and completely shut down her armour’s systems, she hadn’t even been able to trigger her emergency beacon to call for immediate help.

Hours had passed since and she knew that, by now, they had to know she was in enemy hands. Or, more importantly, that her equipment was.

Agents were disposable, if worst came to worst. But their armour, their modifications? Never.

So she knew someone would come, eventually. For her gear, if not for her.

The two guards that stood over her changed out fairly regularly, as someone got bored or they were needed for another duty. Watching them gave away no organisation or pattern of any kind, so that was a bust. Even with her bindings almost loose enough to remove, to do so without access to a weapon or her armour, with armed guards so close by? It would be suicide.

And so it became a waiting game.

More guards came and went. No one seemed to know what they were going to do with her, not-so-subtle whispers passing between the assortment of grunts about their options—should they have killed her already? Dumped her somewhere? Tried to actually interrogate her and find out what she was here for? Something else entirely? No one knew. Capturing a UNSC-sponsored prisoner was clearly not part of their plans for the day.

At first, she didn’t notice when those whispers shifted target. She’d almost tuned them out entirely before a sudden yelp came from one of their earpieces, the high-pitched sound of someone being struck down mid-word.

The guards shared a look.

“I’ll… go check what’s going on,” one said, taking a few, reluctant steps away. His current partner, who looked somehow even less enthused about the concept of investigating than he did, just nodded.

“You do that,” he said, before turning to Connie with his rifle raised. Connie tensed her shoulders. “And don’t you try any funny business. I can still shoot quicker than you can move.”

That was almost certainly true.

Unfortunately for him, they wouldn’t have chance to find out. Moments after the words left his mouth there was a loud CRASH behind him as his buddy was slammed against the wall with inhuman force.

He jumped out of his damn skin, turned his attention away from Connie—

—who tore herself free from her bindings, planted a hand on the floor and swept his legs from under him.

A yelp, a clatter, a shimmer, the snap of bone—

He dropped to the floor dead.

Connie landed back on the floor, her heart pounding at the rush of adrenaline after hours of sitting still. Looking up at her rescuer, she exhaled; it could only be one person. “Texas.” The clean-up crew.

The shimmer in front of her solidified, smooth black armour reappearing in swathes of reality and an outstretched hand. Eyeing it for a moment, Connie took it and let herself be pulled to her feet.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were showing off with that entrance,” she said, rubbing her wrists. They’d definitely bruise. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of blankness in Tex’s posture, before something clicked into place and she chuckled. Delayed social reaction. That checked.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. You okay?” Tex stood almost an entire foot over her. She’d be imposing, if Connie didn’t know as much about her as she did. Oddly, it made her more… human, knowing that she wasn’t. “No injuries that are gonna stop you moving?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m fine. They didn’t subdue me physically, it was tech that got me.” Speaking of… “Did you get my armour?”

“Not yet.”

Connie raised a brow. “I’m surprised. Shouldn’t you have been grabbing the important stuff first?”

Tex’s tilted head held the same sarcastic confusion. “Yeah, well, my orders are to prioritise your armour and the tech, but hey, I found you first, what am I supposed to do? Backtrack on myself? Nah.” Then, a shrug. “Besides, I know you’re our best intelligence agent. That seems pretty important to me.”

Stance relaxing a little and her face softening, Connie sighed.

“But hey,” Tex continued, “you don’t wanna be saved I can just leave you here, go grab the armour and swing back to you if I have time, no skin off my back.”

“Alright, point taken,” Connie said, before pausing. “…and thanks. I don’t mean to sound… ungrateful.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’ve been stuck here for hours, I’d be grouchy too. You know where your armour is?” Tex said, taking a pistol off her thigh and offering it to Connie. She took it. “Fully loaded. Haven’t touched it.”

“Didn’t need to, I’m guessing.” A knife would have been preferable, but a pistol was better than nothing. “I have a rough idea. I imagine it’ll be wherever they’re keeping their other tech. They have some kind of armour locking technology, more advanced than things like the paint. It locked my entire body up with some kind of energy field.”

“Huh. That’s the kind of shit you’re out here for isn’t it?” Tex nudged the dead guard with her foot and glanced over at the other one—not dead, just unconscious and collapsed in a pile of broken crates. No threats in the room.

“Essentially. So, all going well, we’ll be able to complete the mission anyway.” Connie took a deep breath in. Being without her armour on a mission she was meant to run with armour was a new kind of vulnerability she didn’t appreciate at all. “Okay, let’s get this over with before I think too hard about the fact I’m only wearing a kevlar bodysuit.”

“Don’t worry,” Tex said, cracking her knuckles, “I won’t let anyone hit you.”

There was a kind of surety to the statement that only Tex could give off; it wasn’t just a promise, it was a statement of fact. With her track record in the field and training backing that up, Connie felt a little of the tension in her shoulders release.

“Alright, I’m holding you to that.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The warehouse wasn’t kitted out with alarms, but the mess in the open rooms they passed and the sound of distant voices betrayed the panic that had quickly spread once the invisible, wrecking ball of a woman had torn her way through. The halls had been vacated, besides a couple of people grabbing the injured, but alive, members of their group and dragging them away.

There was no point in fighting them if they weren’t an active threat, so they let them go. Going by the buzz of turbines above them, the second assault had provoked an evacuation.

“Think I scared most of ‘em off?” Tex said, nodding towards the ceiling.

“Most of them. I doubt they’ll want to leave behind all their tech and they certainly weren’t moving out before you turned up,” a silent infiltration with no casualties never did have the same shock factor as a true assault, “some of them will have to be near wherever they’re storing it, packing it up.”

“Okay, so where we heading? Where would you keep all your top secret, fancy tech?”

A laptop secured against the underside of her bed. A signal scrambling system built into her personal Data Pad. Her medical information used as a layer of defence over the top of a whole drive’s worth of stolen intel. Innocuous places people would never think to look, hidden in plain sight if anyone even bothered to search in the first place.

“One of the standard warehouse rooms, but the furthest one away from where they were keeping me tied up.”

Tex nodded. “Got it. Stick behind me.”

Connie was right. A few halls away they heard voices; orders to hurry up and attitude in return, interrupted by the scraping sound of crates being dragged and the sputter of an old engine. A quick peek inside and they could see them packing crates up into a very outdated van. There was a growing pile of opened and unopened crates beside it, whilst a couple of the group wrangled others into the back.

Stacked on top of one such crate was Connie’s armour.

“You think you can sneak around to your armour whilst I clean up the rest of them?” Tex said. A moment later she was nothing more than a shimmer, distorting the blank wall behind her.

“I should be able to, yeah,” Connie said, double checking the pistol. “See you at the other end.”

The shimmer shifted slightly—an arm being lifted, perhaps—and then it was gone, disappearing into the rows of shelves between them and the vehicle bay at the back.

Connie waited until she heard the first person take a punch and then she was on the move, too.

Moving quickly but quietly, finger rested close to the trigger and on high alert, she slipped down the aisle closest to the entrance. Thuds and bangs and grunts travelled through the shelving—crunching from unarmoured fists against metal and heavily armoured fists against bone, scampering feet and a crate smashing against the floor.

Connie shuddered. Thank god she’d never had reason to be on the wrong end of her strength.

She was at the end of the aisle when one unforeseen side effect of Tex’s distraction made itself known: a couple of the group had ducked behind the crates. Her path was no longer clear, but their view of her certainly was; movement in their periphery drew their attention the moment she got close enough to register they were there.

Emboldened by her lack of armour, they stood to try their luck. That was their first mistake.

They didn’t have guns, so when they ran at her Connie didn’t feel anywhere near as vulnerable as being in open hallways where someone with a weapon that could tear through her suit with ease was a threat. She didn’t even level her own pistol. Soon, they were in range, fists clumsily raised and—

Connie ducked, swept beneath them and half-knocked their legs from under them. By the time they’d steadied themselves she’d already grabbed one of their arms, twisted it up behind their back and slammed her foot into their spine, knocking them down again. As the second of them turned to face her, she bolted towards the end of the aisle. Gave herself room to move and react.

When he came at her again, she ducked, threw a punch into his gut and dodged around him. With a knife this would have been over in seconds. Instead, he came for her again, the first guy grabbed her ankle—

And then he was thrown into the shelves and their arm snapped between the ground and Tex’s foot.

That was their second mistake.

Connie exhaled. Okay.

Tex kicked the first guy in the head and knocked him out. “Told you I wouldn’t let them hit you.”

“You sure did. The others—?”

“Dealt with, get your armour on. I’ll tear open some boxes.”

As soon as the final piece of her armour clipped into place and her HUD lit up, the last of the hairs on her neck settled. Even her knives were still there and she gladly attached them back to their respective hard-points, resting her fingers against the hilt reflexively. There were no more threats, but being in the field was always easier with multiple inches of armour plating between your vital organs and everything around you.

“What did the thing they use on you look like?” Tex called, the sound slightly muffled by the walls of the van.

Connie hopped up into the back with her. Most of the crates had been pulled open by force, their contents now easily seen and examined. Most of them seemed to be weaponry, much of it completely familiar, but one or two contained more… interesting things.

“I didn’t really see, but if I had to take a guess…” Her HUD was scanning and highlighting things that gave off unique energy signatures. Slowly panning past the guns and ammo, she settled on a box of square units that were highlighted as being electromagnetic. “Those things.” Tex reached out, but Connie grabbed her arm. “I wouldn’t. I don’t know how they activated them and I wouldn’t know how to deactivate it either. Find a smaller box and I’ll take off my gloves, minimise the risk of it touching armour.”

Tex tilted her head, but she stepped away.

Connie exhaled. How one would have reacted to Tex’s body, she didn’t know. And she didn’t want to take the risk. Tex had to know eventually, but… not like that.

Taking off her gloves, she picked up a couple of the units. When Tex returned with a suitable box she set them down carefully, padding between them with packing from the original crate to keep them from touching.

“There. Alright, call for extraction.”

“Already on it.”

Turning back, Connie could have sworn she saw Tex… staring, at her? Staring may have been too strong a word, but looking at her, for sure. Maybe that wasn’t notable, but…

In the back of the Pelican, Connie spoke up. “Hey, Texas?”

Tex’s head snapped up, shattering the eerie stillness that had lingered since she sat down. She didn’t share transports often. “Uhh… yeah?”

“I know you’re busy, with briefings and training and all, but… when you have a free hour or two, do you think we could meet up and talk?” It was reckless. Riskier than anything she’d done before now. But she was more aware than ever of that invisible timer, counting down until she’d have to make a choice.

So she was making one.

Tex stalled. That split-second delay she’d noticed before lingered longer this time—ingrained protocol warring with social rules warring with personal desires warring with whatever else was on her mind.

But, eventually, it passed.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll… set some time aside. I think I have an hour between training and briefing in a couple days? About 1300,” Tex said, shifting a little in her seat. Nerves?

“I can make time. Do you know where the observatory deck is?” Quiet, mostly private. Especially during the day.

“Yeah, I know where it is. Guess uhh… guess I’ll see you then.”

Connie offered a smile. “See you then.”

Tex may have tried to smile back, but it was hard to tell behind that helmet she’d never seen her remove. Regardless, the silence felt a little more companionable after that.

A human connection, first and foremost, that was what Connie wanted to offer. Break the isolation that Tex had been experiencing since she came into existence. Maybe, just maybe, if she was able to get past that… maybe she could tell her. Maybe she could do something without having to leave.

It wasn’t a sure thing.

Still, Tex deserved to have a friendly face to turn to. Her unusual circumstances had dictated her isolation and no one had made the effort to change that, not even Connie herself. Tex was owed that much, surely.

Upon their return, everything went as Connie had expected. Without even so much as a ten minute diversion to check her physical condition, Connie was dragged into a dressing-down disguised as a debriefing. She stood there and took it, zoning out and saying ‘yessir’ and ‘it won’t happen again sir’ in all the right places to placate his anger at her incompetence. It didn’t matter, anyway; that board hadn’t changed since the AI started going out, she wasn’t being demoted to Beta Squad now. Even if she was, it would hardly change anything.

It ended, she left, she passed out in bed with only a wave at South.

Tex was nowhere to be seen for the next two days, but that was expected too. It was a miracle she’d even found one hour of free time to promise. So Connie went about her business as normal, continued her work, kept up appearances.

But when that hour came, Tex wasn’t there.

The observatory deck was dark and empty, so silent that the hum of the engines was no longer just background noise. Connie waited there for three hours, just in case—it didn’t make a difference, Tex didn’t come.

Maybe she should have expected that, as well.

After that mission, everything at the Project seemed to move faster than ever and Tex was somehow more absent than she’d ever been before. No one saw her for days, then a few weeks. Never caught so much as a glimpse. AI production showed no signs of stopping and Connie found herself backed further and further into a corner. Every new piece of intel she stole upped her chances of getting caught and the pressure from Jarrett to leave was piling by the day. Tex had been one of her only other avenues of action and that had clearly closed.

Connie was racing that invisible countdown and she couldn’t keep up.

Eventually, she knew something would have to give. Opportunities to drop her intel discretely had faded. Her next chance involved ignoring direct orders, abandoning a mission and risking exposure. Or, perhaps worse, having to leave before she was really ready to make that decision.

So the night before, she found herself back on the observatory deck, amidst the eerie silence of space that made her lungs feel compressed and her mind run in circles about the what ifs of the void in front of her. Unpredictable and infinite. Absolutely terrifying.

And then a voice broke the silence. “Room for another?”

“I’m certainly not going to stop you.”

Texas emerged from the darkness, her pale face and light hair a stark contrast to it and her black clothes. It was the first time Connie had seen her face outside of the files that recorded every detail of her existence, from the exact shade of her hair to the beauty marks that, if pressed right, would open her power cell compartment.

She knew more about Tex than Tex may ever know about herself and it felt as wrong as it was.

The AI who knew nothing of what she was sat beside her, leaned back upon her palms and stretched her legs out in front of her. Stared out at the abyss in front of them, all of the distant stars that only Maine seemed to know the names of, and said nothing more.

Connie glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, watched her. The slightly too even rise and fall of her shoulders, the unnatural stillness of her position—all the little things. Maybe if she’d been around them more, she would have adapted her patterns to match, began to act more human. Then again, what did it matter? She thought she was human, she acted human in all of the most obvious ways.

Shattering that illusion required more trust than Tex had been given time to place in her. She couldn’t do it now.

Quiet ruled the room for almost ten minutes before Tex spoke again.

“Sorry I stood you up. Shit got kinda busy after we got back, I didn’t have the time.”

“It’s fine. You’re a busy woman.”

Another pause. Connie picked at the scar across her palm and took a deep breath in.

“You ever have to make an impossible choice, Tex? One that could either fix or ruin everything all at once?”

Tex hesitated, but this time it felt more… real, not like a software delay. “Not really. Things have always been… pretty straightforward, for me, I guess. I do my job, do it well… don’t have to make the hard decisions, just gotta follow orders when I get ‘em.”

“Hopefully it stays that way,” Connie sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Another beat. “You on the mission tomorrow?”

“Technically, that’s classified, but… nah, not tomorrow. Got me hanging back on the ship, ready to go if things get dire, but,” she shrugged, “pretty sure you guys can handle this one.”

Connie rested her head against her knee, turned to face her. “Even me? The one who’s been captured twice?”

“Hey, from what I heard, the first time you got out on your own. Second time, you only got caught because they had some weird tech. I think you’ll be fine,” Tex said. Nudging Connie with her elbow, she offered the first and last smile Connie would ever see her give.

“…thanks.”

“Next time I get a break, I’ll try and let you know. See if we can find time to really have that talk you wanted to have. Seems like something heavy, if that dramatic question was anything to go by. Like, seriously; that was a hell of a welcome.”

Connie muffled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Sorry. I suppose I have a lot on my mind right now. Hence the staring out into space thing.”

“Literally,” there was a note of amusement in her voice, in her eyes. Connie smiled and nodded.

“Literally.”

“I’d ask what choice you gotta make, but that might be a bit personal for a first meet-up.”

“Ask me next time you see me,” Connie said, “I’ll have made the choice by then, it won’t matter so much.”

“Can I hold you to that?”

“Yeah. You can.”

“Well alright then, I gotta get going so…” Tex hopped up to her feet, stretched her arms above her head. Even out of armour, she was built like a brick wall. “Guess I’ll have to ask you next time. See you around, CT. And good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tex. I’ll see you around. Hopefully we have more time next time.”

Tex gave her a mock salute and vanished back into the darkness of the connecting hall, gone as quickly as she’d come. Connie was alone again and as midnight hit, her countdown was no longer invisible. The mission clock projected itself on the glass in front of her.

Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-six seconds, fifty-five seconds, fifty-four…

One way or another, she was going to have to make her choice.

Pushing herself from the ground, she marched through the halls until she reached the locker room. Empty, this late at night, with camera blind-spots that were easily exploited. Finding one, she set her helmet up on a bench and sat against the lockers behind it.

Taking a deep breath, she set it to record.

“Agent Texas. Allison. If you’re reading this, then that means I escaped. Or, well, at the very least, I’m probably not around anymore…”

It took a few takes. The words flowed by with ease, but her voice was unsteady and her tone was off and her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t even hear herself. Recording this was admitting something, something she didn’t want to face. Not yet, not until that countdown was over and things would change irreversibly.

Maybe she hadn’t been able to tell anyone whilst she was here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try even when she was gone. Texas was still her best bet, the one at the centre of all of this.

Things could have gone differently, in another world. Where she’d spoken up sooner, where she’d made the effort to reach out and give her that human connection before it was too late for it to make a damn difference. Where maybe they’d have had the chance to know each other, before Connie had to shatter Tex’s concept of her own existence.

Where the sentiment behind, “…your friend, Connie,” could truly have been realised.

But this wasn’t that world.

Choices had already been made.

Within a couple of months, branded a traitor and a liar and risk to UNSC security for the second time in her life, Connie was dead.

Bled out, alone in an escape pod. As alone in death as she’d been in her final months in the Project and in all of her efforts to make a difference.

And, eventually, Texas would open her locker. Find a set of dog-tags that didn’t belong to her. See that name.

Watch the video.

“I want to leave behind all the data I've been collecting about Project Freelancer. I never could shake the feeling that something was wrong with the program. The secrets, the lies, the manipulation; smoke, all of it, obscuring a big damn fire.”

Everything clicked into place. Everything Connie had said, the strange way she’d looked at her, the way she had tried to reach out… the reason she’d left, the reason she’d provoked her, the reason the Director gave no order to preserve life.

“I did some digging, and now I know what the Director's been hiding. What he did.”

The reason something had felt off for months now.

“He broke the law, Allison. The one law they don't just slap you on the wrist for. I'm taking the originals with me as an insurance policy. I leave this copy for you not because you are the best soldier in the squad…”

Constant training and meetings. Carolina’s increasingly bitter attitude towards her. The AI. How she never had even a spare moment to interact with the team. The fact that Connie had to have been the only person she’d ever shown her face to.

“…but because I know that I can trust you the most.”

Before she killed her.

“After reading these files you will understand why.”

There was a long list of things that Texas would regret in the years to come. At the top was what happened in that bunker. What she’d done.

In another world, things would have gone differently. Connie’s attempt to reach out wouldn’t have failed. They’d have had the chance to talk, to know each other beyond the surface level banter and offerings of friendship that had at least proven the concept—that they would be a good team, that they could be good friends or even something more.

Maybe, even if she’d still been forced to leave, Tex would have realised something was up and found the message sooner. Soon enough to matter.

In another world, things wouldn’t have been perfect, but they would have been better. The things that could have been lingered in the back of Tex’s mind.

But this wasn’t that world. In this world, they’d both been just a little too late.

Tex rested her hand over the image and made a promise.

If nothing else, she’d finish what she started.

“Good luck. Your friend, Connie.”

#texct #rvb femslash february #agent connecticut #agent texas #rvb #red vs blue #rvb fic #my fanfiction #autistic fics by me

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docholligay · 6 years

Text

Silverleaf 9: Shadow Puppets

HEYO and welcome to your next edition of Silverleaf, GRACIOUSLY sponsored on my patreon by Benjamin! Please thank him for this series, it’s people like him that keep my bills paid and content coming! My patreon is HERE and my ko-fi is HERE, if you want to thank me or chip in! Also, i LOVE comments, so I would LOVE if you left one. The entire series is here.

Her heels clicked against the marble of the entryway as her coat was taken from her, Michiru barely waiting long enough for the butler to remove it properly. She glared at the flowers on the side table, the way they were bright and cheap and inelegant and lovely, too lovely for a place like this. Too lovely for the cold, carved crystal of the vase in which they sat.

“Get rid of those.” She said to her butler dismissively, and he nodded, not bothering to ask why the bouquet she’d been so pleased with when Haruka had brought it was suddenly to be destroyed.

He had been with the family long enough.

Michiru clicked again, the tone changing as the floors changed from marble to the tile of the kitchen, the cook looking at her strangely but again, without question, as she clicked into the wine cellar and grabbed a bottle and a glass, gripping them firmly as she went toward her room.

“Miss Kaioh?” The cook asked for a moment.

“Yes?” Michiru stopped and looked at her, her hair winding around her face like a furious wave, eyes sharp, but mouth open slightly, like a rosebud, asking please. Please ask me what’s wrong.

“Have a good night, miss.”

No, of course she wouldn’t ask, because she was afraid, because Michiru was the queen, and to become the queen you must be fearsome, and you must prey.

She clicked down the hall from tile to marble to the wood of the family bedrooms, thinking over and over how Haruka hadn’t wanted her, how she had pressed herself upon Haruka and felt her recoil, and as she she shut her bedroom door behind her, the hot shame of it all gathered in her face, and she could feel the heat of her blush, so unfamiliar to her that it burned like hot embers under her skin.

She was not used to being refused, Michiru Kaioh. Women wanted her, she played their passions and affections as she did her own violin, and each piece, from the Paganinis to the folk songs, bent under her bow. To have a woman, a gym teacher no less, refuse her...it was a strange melange of shame and anger and confusion, and she did not appreciate the cocktail.

She pulled the cork from the wine, pouring it into the glass in front of her as she sat at her desk, looking out at the cool emotionless pale of the moon.

What did you want from Haruka? The wind seemed to ask as it bent the branches of the trees in the moonlight, writing the words in perfect script against the bright paper white.

“What a ridiculous question,” she took a sip of her wine, minorly embarrassed she had responded to the wind, but unwilling to retreat, “I believe I made it quite clear.”

But nothing Michiru ever did was clear, her emotions and motivations and desires all part of the crashing and churning sea that rested in her heart, and there were times that even she could not see the bottom, could not sense whether it was deep or shallow.

Did you desire to possess her? The unkind wind continued its manuscript. Did you wish to add her to the list of women who have loved you, the siren which calls them to the rocks?

Michiru picked up her glass, poured it to the top, and walked away from the window. Sirens were beautiful, in the modern day, weren’t they? It was a beautiful fiction, spinning monsters into mermaids, but Michiru knew the truth. It was only that sirens sounded beautiful, that the images they left in your mind’s eye were lovelier than any other, lovelier even than the will to live.

But sirens were ugly, when it mattered, and perhaps it was not so incorrect to call her a siren, lovely and pleading and full of desire from far away, but too ugly up close. Perhaps she had only wanted Haruka as she had wanted all those other women, something to place as a jewel in her hoard, something to own and destroy at her whims.

All of these things might have been true, and certainly they were true of the women she had known in the past, but a more horrifying thought nagged at her, one not carried by the wind she had heard in perfect script, the one that lived inside her head, the one she foolishly tried to escape by leaving the window.

No, this wind was simple, and quiet, and simply said:

Maybe you wanted her to love you. ‘

______

“Haruka you’re allowed to say no to sex, you know that, right?” Mina looked at her with a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I feel like I’m talking to one of my girls, here.”

Mina poured the noodles into a bowl, and put them in the microwave, leaning against the countertop as she looked over at the back of the couch.

“I know.” Haruka lay on the couch, Mouse resting on her shoulder as she petted him softly.

Mina shook her head as the microwave’s timer beeped frantically, and pulled the noodles out of the microwave. Haruka was so simple that she occasionally made it all the way back to being hard. She was straightforward and easy to read, but the way she went about things was utterly confusing, the ways she seemed to think of how to present herself, her awkward fumbling when it came to her own emotions.

“You don’t ever have to have sex you don’t want to have.” she plopped across from Haruka and slung her legs up across the oversize chair.

“But I did--” She pushed back her hair and sighed heavily, “it’s just, I wanted other stuff, I just…” she closed her eyes. “I’m bad at this. I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. But like…” Mina thought carefully for a moment, twirling a noodle, “Ruka, what do you want?”

“I don’t know.” she shook her head, “I...I wanted to go on a date with her.”

Mouse headbutted her cheek, purring loudly.

Haruka looked over at Mina. “The problem is me. It’s been so long and I,” she nuzzled against Mouse, “I’m out of practice, I don’t know what to do anymore, and it was easier when I was younger, and I’d just stuff it all and do whatever and be the cool butch girl who just...did things.”

Mina slurped a noodle into her mouth. “Bud, you were never the cool butch girl who did things,” Haruka sat silent, “I’m teasing you. I know what you mean.”

“I want a relationship,” She dramatically slapped her forehead, and Mouse scowled at her, “UGH! I can’t believe I said that, I sound so pathetic.”

“You don’t have to be me, Haruka,” Mina set down her bowl and sat up, leaning toward her, “I don’t know why you think you have to be, but for a lot of people, liking someone is pretty strictly necessary to fucking them. I’m grateful we don’t have to wait til we’re fucking married anymore, but there’s nothing wrong with taking time to warm up, if you’re that kind of person, and you pretty clearly are.”

“I don’t want to be.”

Mina shook her head and shrugged. “Well.”

Haruka looked up at the ceiling, the plain white an open canvas for her thoughts. It was true, she supposed, that what she really wanted was love, and to know Michiru was invested, and to go to summer festivals and eat strawberries on a stick and sit under the flowering trees together. She wanted to snuggle up under her afghans and watch TV together, eating takeout between them. It was dumb, and every queer website she read led her to believe she should be having group bondage sex while doing a tarot reading or otherwise she was replicating heteronormative values within her life, and no matter how many times Mina told her to stop reading shit that made her feel bad for being herself, it was what she was supposed to do, wasn’t it?

“Can I ask you a question, Ru?” Mina said, interrupting Haruka’s disastrous line of thinking, peering at her as if she could read her mind.

“Sure.” Haruka glanced back over at her, giving a weak shrug.

“When has what other people wanted you to be ever helped you?” Mina leaned back in her chair, “When you tried to like dresses for you mom? When you tried to do track again for your dad? When you tried to be tough in college? When? When has it been good for you?”

Haruka didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“If Michiru doesn’t like you for what you are, if she doesn’t want to date you the way you want it, then you’re gonna have to stop being so twitterpated and get over her.” Mina knelt down next to her and looked her in the eye “Haruka, you’re one of my favorite people on earth. But you get so caught up in the possibility of shit that you put everything into that one thing. And then it becomes a crushing blow every time it doesn’t work. Remember when you were trying to get an apartment near mine? Remember that debacle?”

Haruka looked away. “I get...into things...sometimes.”

“I know, and I know how emotional you are, and who you are is totally fine. But also, don’t hang everything on one date. You’re not stupid, you’re not wrong, you’re just you. This isn’t a crisis. You just want different things. Apparently. I guess. God forbid you two actually talk about expectations.”

Haruka scowled at her. “That’s not romantic!”

Mina stared at her. “You’re right. This is a way better option.”

Haruka held Mouse above her. “You’ll always love me, right Mousie?”

Mouse meowed in assent.

Mina stood up. “On the offchance you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with a cat, I think you should be more honest about what you want. Try going on some dates and learning how to talk to a girl. Forget Michiru, she’s this whole...thing. I’ve seen her chew girls up and spit them out, Haruka, she’s no good for you.”

Haruka toyed with Mouse’s collar. “Yeah?”

“Tell you what.” Mina smacked Haruka’s hip, and she scooted over so Mina could sit on the edge of the couch. “Let me set you up. Super low key, no pressure date, I promise. I know a girl who’s getting back into the game too, you two can just drink coffee and stare at each other like nerds.”

Haruka snorted. “That’s your answer? Go on awkward dates?”

“Training wheels!” She grinned, “Naw, it’ll be fine, I promise. And go someplace you feel comfortable, what the fuck do you know about tapas?”

“I thought it would be classy!” Haruka chuckled, “but I guess that proves your point.”

“Move over, Amazing Race is new on Hulu.” Mina nudged her, and she sat up, passing Mina a blanket.

“Thanks for coming over.” Haruka picked up the remote, passing it to Mina.

“Eh, my fridge was empty anyhow,” she smiled, “So what else was I gonna do, go to the grocery store?”

The wind carried a song, a word, a spoken poem, a call to love, a call to question, a call to know, in a foreign language no one knew, each only with their own piece of the Rosetta stone.

Across town, staring up at a mansion in the international district, where all the diplomats lived, Hotaru Tomoe held a letter in her hand, the wind whipping by her as she stared up at the lit house, in front of the mailbox reading “Serenity.”

#a holligay joint #silverleaf #I am really excited for Chibs to get the damn letter ahaha

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