#and he had to buy new wingtips | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 3 years

Text

I wanted to get this ‘Valentine’s Day’ piece out, even though it’s massively, supremely late. 😭It’s part of a longer piece (because I couldn’t stop writing it😶) and I’m still not sure whether or not it’s not terrible.😖

prompt list

-------

This couldn't be right.

Damian almost did a double take, his cool smirk withering when he glanced up, transfixed by the sleek storefront at the cross streets where he stood. Why on earth would Raven be in a place like this?

The building towered above the tottering sea of gray, black and blue below. And the mannequins in the display lorded over their dominion, propped loftily on their perches, arms and legs of impractical proportions, stilted at absurd angles.

And why would she summon him here?

His trousers began to buzz audibly and the shifting crowd of passersby jostled him closer to the glass. Damian delivered the faceless caricatures of the female form a final foreboding glare, before he reached down to free the device vibrating in his pocket. New Message. Raven. Apparently, it was urgent. He tapped the speech bubble icon with a fingertip and his jaw went slack.

I Need You.

The three words seemed etched into the surface of the screen. And they were more than enough to get him to take a deep breath and grasp the curved door handle, his jaw set, and wingtips marching determinedly onward.

The atmosphere inside the store was even more unexpected than the outside. When translated, the pounding music and low lighting read as more nightclub than boutique. It was completely impractical in Damian's view—how could anyone locate a price tag, let alone see the item they were intending to purchase? Although, after a few minutes of skulking around in the dark, he could see how the implementation of such a design was advantageous. With stealthiness like his, he wasn't in danger of being accosted by overly helpful employees hungry for commissions, before he located the heading of a dramatic script that read Dressing Rooms, and turned underneath it.

Down the row each stall had a flood light stationed above it, but only one appeared to be presently occupied: the corner room at the farthest end of the hall. And as he got closer he noticed it also appeared to be the largest. Damian glanced behind him and rapped on the door with a knuckle. And just as he began to wonder if he'd needed some sort of special knock or password prepared, the lock glowed black and unlatched itself.

"I'm here." The door creaked open and the floor groaned under his solid weight. Damian turned swiftly to shut it, growing steadily concerned.

"So what is it? What's the—big emergency..." He started, but his tongue began to feel heavy and leaden inside his rapidly drying mouth. And his eardrums began to beat violently until they matched the thumping of his maddened heart.

Red.

Blood red.

Burning. Blinding. Blazing.

In the carpet, the walls, the curtains, the chandelier.

It was everywhere—even in the deafening pounding hammering away at his head.

Thundering images suspended before him, going in and out of focus. They were searing his eyes, blearing his vision. In sinful shapes marred over pale flesh, it was red repeating over and over. Criss-crossing crimson. Damian had to dig his fingernails into his palms to ground himself with the tangibility of a familiar sensation.

And suddenly he realized that all the times before were incomparable, this was what it meant to be blindsided by a breath-taking blow. This was what it meant to receive a rush of blood to the head…

…or a rush of blood to the—

"I'm glad you came so quickly."

And the silhouette of Raven turned where she sat on a velvet ottoman, leaning forward in a way that was guaranteed to diffuse away the rest of his brain's processing ability. It was all he could do not to goggle at her like some cartoon character. Tawdry and tactless. Damian inwardly cursed the merciless Goddess above as he took in the cleavage created by cups, a series of straps and bows and elastic and he didn't know what. Only that he shouldn't have been so disarmed by it—by Raven's breasts pushed up to high-heaven. Like they weren't perky enough or distracting enough in their usual sheath of simple black cotton.

His wide emerald eyes strayed downward in spite of themselves and onto shapely, stocking clad legs folded one over the other, with a lace-up heel tapping out the bass of the synth pop bleeding into the background. Raven slid to her feet seamlessly, swaying slightly to the song. She took a single step, allowing the shadows to part for her as she did so.

There was a muted click, clack, click of her heels on the carpet as she drew near. He'd never seen her in stilettos, and he stared at them through slits.

Gods, they had to be four inches at least. Their impressive height only seemed to serve to make her look even more powerful. Just about as powerful as the force rooting him to the spot.

The deep panging in Damian's chest carried on, a racehorse charging from the starting gate, galloping faster and faster, as she grew closer and closer.

Suddenly he'd become aware of the fact that it was far too warm in here for the dead of winter. Or was it simply that Raven radiated such an intense heat?

Most definitely the latter.

The garnet colored lace gracing Raven's skin was a perfect match to her chakra stone. The semi-sheer fabric of her bra offered up a playful glimpse of the darker skin of her nipples beneath. When his gaze wound down her tapering waist, it appeared that the lack of opaqueness carried over to the front of her panties. He could just make out a little shadow—a promise laying underneath a tempting, well-kept diamond shape in plum wine. And last, but certainly not least were the thigh highs trimmed by garnet lacings and affixed to a red and black garter.

Damian's throat had somehow gone even drier. He tried to swallow with great difficulty, then tugged at his turtleneck for a reprieve.

However, there would be no such alleviation for his trousers.

"There's no emergency, Damian..." Raven assured him with a tilt of her head, lilac tendrils skating across a valley between pale peaks. "You'll have to forgive me, but I had to get you here. I had to know..." She paused, folding her arms as she prepared to pose a question to him. "Tell me... what do you think...of my outfit?"

Damian froze, fingers mid-tug and blinked several times as if he'd been struck dumb.

What?

That wasn't...

There was no way...

Was that a serious request?

She was being facetious—she had to be. It was the only explanation, unless Raven was somehow messing with his mind and Damian sincerely doubted that. But how could she ask him this with such bold-faced sincerity? Even if the wooden arch behind her housed a funhouse mirror and had been reflecting distorted proportions back at her. Or was there actually some warped reality in which they weren't looking at the same picture?

Although...

If he could muster up a voice to speak he would have asked, what outfit?

Lackadaisically, she trailed a hand down her body, tugging at the cups spilled over with supple skin. "The bra—do you like the pattern?" Raven traced the gorge between the swell of her breasts. "It's tulle and...French lace," she confirmed, squeezing the scant, semi-sheer embroidery molded to her chest. And Damian grimaced as though in physical pain.

"No?" she assessed, seemingly marking off boxes on a mental checklist. Raven smoothed her hands over her hips for a moment, appearing to be lost in thought. She paced slowly, revolving a full three-hundred and sixty degrees to pause with her back to him.

"And what about..." She swept a purple curtain over the nape of her neck to glance over her shoulder and he saw—of all things—a bow below the dimples on her back, nestled into the heart-shaped curve of her ass. "My panties...?"

Damian gritted his teeth, though not before letting a sound escape, like a hiss coupled with a wince.

"Are these okay?" The soft profile of her lips pressed.

Gods, it was almost as if she were seeking to offer all of this up to him. And who needed to clarify anything when she was all wrapped up and presented? Covered in the finest cardstock wrappings in gold-flecked marble, then laced up with champagne silk ribbon to await her unravelling.

Though his own would be more likely.

Right now, he'd forsake all his names, both Wayne and Al Ghul to get her to stop. Stop slinking closer, stop speaking in that sweet, scratchy undertone, and stop directing his focus to her various attributes, more than it already was.

It would only make his growing pain more pronounced.

A pale hand dangled down and spread across a smooth, silken thigh. "My stockings, then?" Raven hummed.

Though, Damian didn't speak. He wasn't entirely certain he was still breathing. Somehow, he'd managed to remain motionless and drag his unwilling eyes toward the floor. All his carefully constructed control was necessary to keep himself calm and centered in this moment. He could do this—he had to do this. Otherwise, what was the point of all those long years of training he'd endured?

Shiny purple strands bobbed; she'd started to shake her head slowly at the stony silence from the stoic cashmere wall standing before her, as if she expected as much.

"I bet you're still wondering why I called you here." Damian heard her voice go up in the middle, which it did whenever she was apprehensive or unsure. "I wanted you here to find out what you like—exactly what you like." When he arrived, Raven was blushing a delicious pink, so by now it had to be a violent red. "I wanted to get it right because...you're the first person, or only person I've ever been intimate with in any world, dimension, or universe..." She lingered.

And once again, Damian said nothing, and she resumed speaking.

"I do know that this is something that one does traditionally." Raven paused to worry her already cherry-red bottom lip. "That couples do... Buying underwear for your significant other is supposed to be something special, particularly for this holiday."

He was a mountain, immobile, unwavering...

"Oh, I see..." Her mouth set into a line. "Perhaps, it's the fit—or is it the color...?" Raven's large amethyst eyes swept over the room and landed on her reflection. "I thought dark red was classic. I knew I shouldn't have listened to Donna. I should have gotten something in black." She dragged a distraught hand through dark purple. "It's too much...or maybe it's not enough..."

"Don't," Damian growled low. His inflection was level and gave nothing away. If Raven was surprised by the outburst, she didn't let on, instead she continued.

"I bet the old string of socialites shuffling in and out of the manor were never caught dead in skivvies that weren't Kiki de Montparnasse or at least Agent Provocateur. But this..." Raven lifted her chin toward the mirror. "It's not your taste though, is it?"

That was far more than enough.

Far more than he could stand to hear and far more than he could stand to bear.

When his eyes flew back to hers at last, they weren't steely anymore, they burned—whittling her retinas down like they were wicks on candlesticks. As if he were all but telling her he dared her to do that again, to say that again.

"It's okay. I'm glad I found out before I bought—"

"I said...don't." Damian placed his hands on her wrists and whisked her right up to his chest. And he closed his eyes. He skimmed his lips along the length of hers like it was something sacred, his mouth trembling as Raven muffled out a note denoting her surprise.

He murmured to her, "you're brilliant, deadly beautiful—an empath...and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I'm your blindspot." Damian sighed resolutely. "But Raven, can't you take pity on me? I'm still a man." One that had been barely keeping it together since he arrived, but... "And you're you, so..."

There was no way in any world, dimension, or universe that he could ever resist.

Purple eyes grew wider as he told her and lifted a finger to her chin. Then it was Damian turning the tables and tipping her mouth towards his own. And though he hungered for her, he took slow and sweet and gentle grazes. It was tortuous, but he should only have a little at a time. This was an excess of an impossibly decadent dessert, an indulgence he was undeserving of. It was like the power in his sub zero freezer had short-circuited and he had no choice but to guzzle down that buried pint of vanilla caramel gelato.

Though who could blame him for being greedy when he had all of this spread out before him? And when her ass in those panties even resembled two round, creamy spoonfuls.

To hell with it then.

Damian lunged, face forward, longing for more of her. In an instant, he was inhaling her pulse, intaking the scent of leather-bound books with aged pages and the nectar from plums she'd probably narrowly avoided dripping on them. He dipped his tongue along the hollow of her collarbone as if he sought to test this.

"Mmm, that's nice."

"Nice?" Damian scoffed, his eyes on hers. "That's not what I was going for. Surely you didn't wear this because you wanted me to be nice." At the present, he wanted nothing more than to rip the tiny pieces of lace into twos, but Raven had selected them specifically for him. So he would continue to be patient and continue to savor this.

Let the pieces of fabric hold up for as long as he could hold out.

"Wait a moment," Raven gasped, quickly clutching his arm. "So your present...?"

"Present? Tch..." Damian's lip curled under his front teeth and he let out a piercing click. "If you're seriously considering getting me a present..." His palms glided down her chest and he gathered a scoop of softness in either hand. "Then these are perfect," he whispered in her ear.

And then Damian's mouth pushed back into hers and he was kissing her in ways that would make it impossible to return this lingerie after trying it on. He nipped urgently to gain entrance to her castle, then trapped her lip between his teeth like it was a drawbridge, at last releasing her tongue to collide with his own. All the while, his thumbs were sliding over her nipples, which puckered and pointed at his touch. He pushed up the cups of her bra for better access, head inclined towards his goal, soon to be met by a full mouth.

Each brush of his lips on Raven's chest made her fingers clench further and further into his shirt like it was a life preserver, and she was in danger of losing herself to the depths.

And after all, wasn't this the answer that she'd wanted from this—that she needed from him?

A chance to lose herself.

To stand in a dressing room in his arms, moaning his name like a breathy spell, her body bending until her back was arched under the avid swipes of tongue. He tugged her nipples between his teeth and they reddened, their response a glowing rave.

Yes.

Raven's eyelids squeezed, her pink face contorting in pleasure while Damian enjoyed the full weight of her breasts in his hands. He continued polishing the plush, pink rings. Left then right—until they were glistening.

"Gods, Damian..." Raven groaned. "Just—"

Just as sudden, there was a wet noise, a slip of suction. Damian had released a rosy nipple, taking note of Raven's expression. Hungry and dazed, and all his doing. Whether unconsciously or not, she pressed her legs together, clenching them as she watched Damian slip off the left sleeve of his coat and let it crumple to the ground in a heap.

The glaze of her gaze, her diaphragm's continuous rise and fall, her fingers digging into his arm, she needed this.

So why deny her?

"Yes, these are beautiful..." He whispered as he admired his handiwork under the chandelier light. The way the red nips and bites were like Damian Wayne watermarks upon the pale flesh. "But perhaps..." Damian's hands glided freely down the small of her back, just over the hill of her ass and stroked the burgundy bow, like an X marking the spot. "This."

When Damian glanced down at Raven, she was barely biting back another mewl, and moving restlessly in his arms. "I wonder what would happen if I were to pull this bow... Raven what do you think?"

"Damian... We shouldn't..." Raven murmured, sounding somewhat apprehensive and holding the fabric at his back tightly.

"Yes, we should Raven," he rasped darkly. "Right now, I can't seem to think of a reason why not..."

"Well, there's the fact that we're in public—"

"Public," Damian repeated flatly. "What of it? The outside world ceased to exist the second I entered the door of my own little version of Narnia."

Raven's jaw had unhinged in unmasked shock and Damian supposed this was an instance to take her remaining breath away by kissing her. Yes, he'd walked through a door and suddenly he was laying eyes on his half-naked demoness dangerous in dark red. So clearly nothing else in creation mattered.

When he pulled away her lips opened and closed, while her eyes remained shut, like a thirsty traveler prematurely cut off from a longer drink. And even though it seemed her body knew the truth, a darker part of him wanted her to beg for it.

"But, that's not what I asked," he said with a hard smile that wasn't. Damian drummed a divot on her lower back. "I fear I've gotten ahead of myself again. Tell me about the bow, Raven. What happens if I pull it?" His hand jutted out, he made a motion with his fingers, in mimicry of it.

"Why ask when you know the answer?" Raven asked him, her brow rising shakily.

"I could have asked you the same earlier. But..."

"But?"

Raven bit her lip but made no motion to stop his hands from climbing onto the curve of her ass. He taunted her twice, by tugging lightly on the tulle, until at last... The bow in the back came loose, and her panties slid down her legs with ease. She secured one pale thigh tightly over the other to hide herself.

No bottoms and bra half-undone, she was nothing short of delicious.

Though that scrap of fabric had barely covered much of anything, so why bother to tease? Or hadn't that been the sole purpose of this outfit?

A devious smirk sidled onto Damian's face as he realized something: these were the exact kind of underwear that one put on simply to take off.

"I pulled the bow, Raven," he murmured almost mockingly. "Don't I at least get to see the rest of my present?"

She stared up at him through her soot colored lashes and slowly opened her thighs.

184 notes · View notes

pallasperilous · 4 years

Text

Boneless Wings

{AO3 version}

So, blah blah blah, it’s their standard-issue disaster: pack of dumbass witches (always with the dumbass witches. Where do they find the time for this shit? Somebody get these women signed up for a Peloton subscription or a macramé class or a vibrator of the month club, seriously, whatever it takes—), ancient curse, Castiel being the actual angel of stepping in it, nobody cares.

The point is, two hundred and forty-one hours of binge-worthy drama later, Dean and Cas are living in a semi-detached just a short thirty-minute commute to somewhere equally lame, Castiel has two literal-ass wings, and yes, Susan, they kiss now.

The neighbors are weirdly cool with it.

For those of you perving along at home, Dean could absolutely provide a list of the hundred or so ways that having a boyfriend* with giant fucking actual wings is super hot and/or awesome.

This is not that list.

(*you can just shut right the fuck up , Sam, because it’s either this or Dean will start saying lover. And nobody needs that. Nobody wants that.)

1. Bird mites. Holy shit.

2. Sharing a bathroom. The shower curtain rod, and consequently the security deposit, are early casualties. The medicine cabinet follows swiftly behind. Shower hijinks are not even an option.

3. Dean comes home one day from a gig and there is a giant plastic green turtle in the backyard. A closer inspection reveals that the turtle is actually a mule for about half a truck bed of industrial dust ‘n grit. It is, in fact, a kiddie sandbox. Dean points out that they do not, in fact, have a small child (FINGERS CROSSED), so...?

Cas then earnestly shows him an entire playlist of exotic birdy dust bath videos on Youtube.

Dean then earnestly shows him the garden hose.

4. The down just gets, like...everywhere. EVERYWHERE. How many times have Sam and Dean practically sold their kidneys for a single angel feather for some dumb spell to solve some pointless Occult McProblem? And now Dean is picking them out of his damn teeth every morning. (No, gross, not because of... Jesus, no, that is not a thing.)

On the upside of this one, Dean finally has an excuse to buy a Dyson, which he’s secretly always thought looked awesome. It is.

5. When Dean is scraping out the umpteenth canister of fluff he jokingly suggests they use some of it to supplement the tragically flaccid down comforter currently shaming their bed, and Castiel pitches an existential fucking sulk. Dean wants to experience happiness again, so he does not point out that it get ass-bitingly cold here this time of year, and decent bedding is not exactly inexpensive, and the Dyson kind of maxed them out on household purchases.

But whatever.

6. Castiel is indulging in what Dean thinks of as a sky pout when he flies right into a head-on with li’l Timmy NextDoor’s new Christmas surveillance drone. It dings the shit out of one of Cas’s left primary feathers (the scientific term is “those big motherfuckers”), which apparently hurts like a bitch. Cas is grounded for a few weeks after that and is cutely pathetic about it and at first Dean is absolutely down to kiss it better. By the end, Dean is almost ready to strangle Cas with his own necktie, but he has learned a lot of surprisingly interesting stuff about ancient Mesopotamia, like that it was super horny.

7. After the snow melts, Dean starts finding shit on the front step with the morning paper. It’s not even a good newspaper; Cas signed them up for the local fish-wrapper (or maybe it was Sam, before he fled for the hills— he occasionally breaks out in a “support local journalism” rash). The crossword puzzle is insulting, but the paper does at least syndicate Carolyn Hax, whom Dean secretly suspects of being an absolute wildcat in the sack, so he grudgingly expends the calories to bring it in every morning.

Anyway, at first the stuff he discovers crapping up the welcome mat is just shiny bits of trash — couple granola wrappers, some MGD pull-tabs, a few field-stripped twisty-ties. Probably just windblown, and he tosses it in the garbage can.

Then a couple weeks in, things start getting...grisly? It escalates real slowly, from a variety platter of mouse bits to squirrel à la power line and then half of a dry-aged raccoon and an opossum that has recently graduated from playing dead to professional dead-being. The neighborhood crows obviously love that their front step is now a roadkill café; Dean has to bat increasing numbers of them away with the kitchen broom in order to relocate their horrible snack to the edge of the nearest storm drain.

Then one morning there are like twenty crows and they’re in just the cutest little football huddle-up around what turns out to be a human fucking finger with a retro-fun mood ring still on the knuckle (it’s feeling: Sad) and Dean fully loses his shit.

Cas hears him freaking out and comes whomping out of the garage ready to, whatever, flap somebody to death maybe, but as soon as he establishes that Dean doesn’t need anything more than a fresh pair of boxers, he de-poofs a bit and assesses the whole human finger/crows situation in his usual infuriatingly unrushed way. The crows had mostly bounced up to the cable line over the house, safely out of brooming range, but one by one they start to drop down and hippity-hop back towards the world’s tiniest crime scene.

If Dean were five percent less freaked he’d be tempted to go inside and find out how much of a dent he can make in a six-pack before Castiel finally dings and spits out his results, but he isn’t, so he just stands there in silence clutching the broom like it’s a shotgun.

Eventually Cas says “hm,” and then he looks at the crows and makes some noises that sound like a spoon caught in a garbage disposal, and the crows make some scrawps and chuks back, and then one of them delicately noodges the tip of dead finger with its beak and then hippity hops back a foot or two, bows, and then they all fly away over the shitty little beige duplex across the street like they’re running ten minutes late to an important bird appointment.

Castiel stands up (Dean reflexively backs up into the doorway, as this involves Cas bomfing out his wings a bit for ballast and Dean has caught a blow to the nuts on more than one occasion), dusts off his goddamn slacks, pulls a plastic evidence baggie out of thin goddamn air or maybe his socks, and casually bags the finger like they’re doing a standard FBI wheeze. “So what,” Dean says, as Cas diligently zips the baggie, “the fuck?”

“Oh,” Cas says, blinking in surprise that Dean is still there and interested, “they think I’m their god.”

Dean kind of stares back at him, the six feet of dude and like sixteen feet of bird, and thinks sure, okay, but his face must still be stuck on “Tippi Hedren attic scene” because Cas puts a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder and adds “Don’t worry. I’ve told them I don’t require further offerings, and I reassured them that you’re my consort and were simply jealous of other potential mates.”

It takes Dean two weeks to come up with a response to that, but by then it’s become evident that no bird is ever going to shit on the Impala again, so he decides to just chalk it up in the win column and move on.

You know. The family business.

8. No matter how tightly he folds them, Cas can’t fit his wings through the definitely-not-up-to-code doorway of the wood-paneled family rec room in the basement, so Dean claims it as his man cave and dubs it the “No Fly Zone.”

Castiel doesn’t find this funny, but Dean really only uses it to fold laundry.

9. Transpo is an obvious issue. Cas can almost stuff himself into the Impala if he sort of reverse-cowgirls the back seat, but then the wingtips smoosh up against the windshield and Dean’s visibility is approximately zip. And, sure, Cas could fly himself anywhere they really needed to go, he’s basically a Chevy Of The Air, but sometimes it’s raining, and the seraph Castiel — Shield of God, Heavenly Soldier of the Lord, multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, will smell like a wet fucking chicken for days afterward. Febreze does not help.

Dean spends a few nauseating weeks contemplating the purchase of — and here he learns that the human gag reflex can be conditioned, but never truly eradicated — a convertible. Once Cas brings up the possibility of a minivan or perhaps a station wagon (he’s taken to studying family motor vehicles with all the intensity of a birder with a life list) and Dean makes him sleep on the couch.

Dean gets his own living room rotation after he shows Cas a Craigslist posting for a very reasonably priced horse trailer. Castiel points out that it’s used and Dean notes that neither of them is exactly mint in original packaging either. Castiel points out that he’s not a horse, and after a few necessary but admittedly unoriginal jokes, Dean pulls up a website with an exhaustive photographic tutorial on how to convert a horse trailer “for the safe and sanitary transport of ostriches, emus, and/or cassowaries.” Cas points out that he’s not an ostrich, emu, and/or cassowary, and Dean counters that he clearly isn’t, because an emu would probably show a little more gratitude, and that’s how Dean learns that the couch has a broken spring under the left cushion. The transpo issue remains unresolved.

10. Dean keeps a pair of shop-grade safety goggles by his side of the bed. It’s not the sexiest look, but it turns out feathers are stabby as hell when encountered at a particular angle. Cas can do the healy thing, of course, but they learn the hard way that cornea perforation is not really a mood enhancer. On the bright side, Castiel accidentally corrects Dean’s incipient presbyopia, which means Dean doesn’t have to hold the newspaper at arm’s length anymore when he’s idly speculating what Carolyn Hax looks like below the neck. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

11. You’d think that, when you’re coming down from a time-limited but incurable curse that makes you feel like every cell of your body has its own cute little individual headcold — because you missed a hex bag due to the fact that you were preparing your legal response to Sam turning up to the hunt wearing a goddamn hair scrunchy, as if he were fresh off the set of a very special episode of Clarissa Explains It All — anyway, you’d think that being wrapped in the warm embrace of an angel’s wings would be nice.

But you would be wrong, because apparently your boyfriend has been out communing with the bees again, and those feathers pick up ragweed pollen like it’s their goddamn job, and guess what else angels can’t cure? Dean will take Motherfucking Seasonal Allergies for 600, Alex.

12a. One of the neighbors has that homesteading hippie brain disease that drives an otherwise normal-seeming person to brew their own beer and raise a bunch of chickens despite living within five hundred yards of a fully functioning Hy-Vee. There’s a week where one of the wee little velociraptors seems to be processing some kind of trauma because it starts yelling at dawn and keeps going until well past the hour that swearing is allowed on network TV.

When Dean finally hammers on the front door the next afternoon the neighbor apologizes with some extremely nasty home-brew (HIPPIES) and some absolutely devastating weed (HIPPIES!) and explains that “Ginger is going through a rough molt” and then he kind of nods his head towards Dean’s side of the fence where Cas is futzing around in the squash plants and stage whispers (this is a direct quote) “You know how they get.”

Dean is about to rip the dude a new one for comparing his immortal space-kaiju lover to a fucking Australorp yard pullet when Castiel pops his head up over the white pickets and breezily contributes “Bad molt, yes, those are terrible, Dean can tell you all about how insufferable I am those weeks,” and sometimes Dean just doesn’t know why he even tries.

12b. The less said about angel molt, the better.

Seriously, the freakin’ eyes-on-his-hands naked mole rat dude from, whatsit, Pan’s Labyrinth of Subtitles, would run screaming from this shit.

13. There’s a 4th of July BBQ Potluck Block Party and Dean’s inability to stand idly by while good meat is abused ( shut up Sam ) means he winds up manning the grill and dismissing the pretenders to set some strictly inedible things on fire. Cas hangs out next to him and uses his flappers to kinda whupf the smoke away from Dean’s eyes now and then, which rules. It’s actually a pretty chill event until Sharon and Don From Number 4267, The Green House With The White Trim, turn up with a giant Pyrex full of naked, still-marinating teriyaki wings.

Sharon And Don look down at their wings and then up at Castiel and then down at the wings and then up at Castiel and they are clearly teetering on the edge of a Midwestern politeness failure-based nervous breakdown. But then Cas, smooth as a margarine commercial, gently takes the dish from Sharon’s frozen hands, examines the contents for a silent moment, and says “it’s alright. They weren’t personal friends.”

He gets an extra burger for that one.

14. Cas keeps absent-mindedly trying to groom Dean — who, in case it still needs to be said at this point, possesses zero-point-zero feathers of his own — so he goes after Dean’s hair, instead. Dean has to stop him after his second hour of trying to straighten out a cowlick. “I don’t understand how you can steer properly with this deformity,” Cas says, as if it’s a genuine miracle that Dean isn’t constantly careening over ottomans like Dick Van Dyke. He’s even more horrified by Dean’s (frankly minimal) use of hair gel. “Jesus, Cas, it’s not like I’m drinking it,” he says, but then one time they have an epic make-out session shortly after Dean performs his masculine beauty rituals and there’s some smearage of various types of Product (tm) on the flappy areas.

And, sonuvabitch, for the next six hours Cas is spirographing around the house like he has a heavenly inner ear infection, and he only stops veering into the doorframes after Dean wipes down every. Single. Feather. With mineral oil and about eighteen clean shop cloths. Dean switches to something called hair wax, which costs thirty zillion times more per ounce and makes him smell vaguely like church, but is a lot less gloppy. The things we do for love.

15. Seating inside the house is a bit of a conundrum, too. Cas can kind of flop his wings out to the sides if he sits in the middle of the couch, but then Dean’s stuck on the recliner, which is basically in the next county. Bar stools are disastrously tippy, Dean’s lower back and hips have not endured mumble-mumble years of hunting just to be subjected to a damn beanbag chair, and, after a brief flurry of optimistic excitement, Dean determines that they’d have to take the front door off to get a massage chair in. He finds a swing online that if, he can get the hardware properly installed in the crossbeam, is rated for up to 500 pounds, so he texts Cas the URL so he can check out the specs. After half an hour he writes back —

CASTIEL: Dean

CASTIEL: I believe this swing is intended for sexual congress.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: I can infer from the ellipsis that you have spent several minutes attempting to draft a response.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: Dean

DEAN: it’s multipurpose

16 . On the plus side, though, big-ass wings make for a pretty good drying rack. He can get every sock in the house laid out on those suckers in a single round and, one episode of Dr. Sexy later, they’re perfectly dry and toasty warm, without any of the pair-busting casualties Dean has learned to expect from the apparently socknivorous dryer in the basement.

Dean assumes it’s just the product of good air circulation and body heat until he realizes that he hasn’t had to toss a pair for being too worn out in...maybe six months? So he asks Cas “Are your wings... healing the socks” and after an entire Abbott and Costello routine centering around heal versus heel, Dean determines that the answer is: yes, his boyfriend’s wings are channeling the almighty power of Heaven to magically repair the socks Dean buys at Target in twelve-pack bags. On sale.

This is actually kind of sexy, if Dean is being perfectly honest, so, you know what? It doesn’t belong on this list.

16. So nobody really freaks out or bursts into tears or calls the news or the FBI or anything when Cas goes out in public with him, which Dean is secretly a little disappointed about, because come on. (Maybe giant wings just reads as a gay thing? Was there an episode of Will and Grace about this that Dean missed back when he was ass deep in wendigos or something?)

But no. Dudes tend to just glance at them across the Home Depot parking lot, throw them the Mutual Dude Acknowledgement Nod, and say some shit like “Comic-con,” or “nice anime” in a knowing tone. Then they go back to rolling their carts full of gaskets or hammers or whatever back to their mom’s station wagon.

Little girls tend to go googly-eyed — Castiel seems to fall into the same category as a Disney princess, despite the stubble and the drabcore wardrobe, and Dean can’t count the number of times some mom has approached Dean at the grocery store (like he’s Castiel’s manager?? Which, okay...yeah, actually) and asked if they do birthday parties. The money would actually be pretty tempting if Dean weren’t five thousand percent sure that Cas would get them both arrested by launching into an anatomy lesson about duck sex or how God is a loser who favors relaxed fit jeans and Wild Turkey.

The worst is white ladies of a Certain Age, and it always seems to happen in the pudding aisle, for some reason. They either go cross-eyed with horniness and become indiscriminately handsy (Dean can’t blame them for the impulse, but also back off, Karen), or ask Cas for prayers for their cat’s chronic asshole problems (which Castiel WILL take seriously).

Worst of all is when some hippie spinster clocks them. This woman inevitably reaches right for the feathers and asks in a willowy voice if they’d ever consider turning some of them into dreamcatchers to sell at her studio, which is literally always named The Faerie’s Glen. Then Cas gets confused about why, exactly, a sixty year-old WASP in a peasant skirt would need to call on the infant-protection powers of an Ojibwe spider goddess, while Dean just wants to bite the lady’s fingers off.

Either way, it’s always a bad scene, and many fully loaded grocery carts have been lost to the fallout.

17. For some metaphysical reason Dean is too dumb to suss out but also too smart to question, lugging a pair of Cessna-sized flappers around this mortal dimension actually seems to tucker Cas out. He doesn’t need to zonk out every night, but he semi-regularly throws in the towel and actually crawls in with Dean for the duration.

This would be swell in theory, but the guy absolutely cannot settle the fuck down in less than three (3) human hours, which is the exact amount of sleep Dean requires to maintain his famously sunny demeanor. It’s not just ye olde tossing and turning — Dean can handle that, sharing a bed with Sam is like sleeping next to a kangaroo with restless leg syndrome — no, it’s a nonstop parade of little flippy-flappies and shiffle-shuffles and spontaneous outbursts of preening.

So Dean makes him a Baby Sleep Sack.

This is something Dean knows about due solely to one super dumb hunt involving a banishing sigil that had to be drawn in — he still feels like this had to be a misprint — human breastmilk, and that was obviously not happening. But the monster of the week wasn’t going to banish itself, so they wound up at the nearest Walmart, at 4am, picking up what turned about to be an unnecessarily generous supply of baby formula, along with a fresh box of shotgun shells because God bless America*. It doesn’t work, although “lots of stabbing” turns out to be a solid fallback plan, but the point is that while Sam was debating between Digestion Support or Neurological Development, Dean acquired an unprecedented familiarity with some of the products currently available to the sleep-deprived parent. So Dean finds some DIY Baby Sleep Sack knockoff patterns online and determines he can replicate and scale up the concept with some beach towels and duct tape, and the next morning he presents the lumpy but totally functional prototype to Castiel.

Initially Cas thinks it’s a sex thing (reasonable, it probably is), but once they clear up that misunderstanding, he’s obviously a little peeved by the concept of being swaddled as if he were a gassy baby instead of a deathless sky monster in a sexy dude-shaped can. But Dean must be giving off some serious man on the edge vibes because Cas grudgingly agrees to let Dean tape him up the next time he’s feeling dozy.

It’s real awkward and takes forever to get Cas bundled up right, and then he’s just kind of lying there on top of the sheets, like an enormous, grumpy baked potato.

“I could easily break out of these restraints,” he says in a pissy tone after Dean has crawled in and turned off the light, and Dean rolls over to tell him “no shit”, but then he has to stop himself because the guy is already asleep.

Eventually they upgrade to a version made out of some of those trendy weighted blanket things, a few yards of parachute silk, and a whole lot of velcro. The dude looks so damn peaceful that Dean is honestly a little jealous.

*he doesn’t, actually.

18. There’s a sunny afternoon that isn’t the usual Kansas is trying to murder you level of humid so Dean rolls the Impala out into the street for a wash. Cas helps him out a bit initially, although tragically not in a way that involves removing any unnecessary articles of clothing, but Deans sends him to grab a new tub of wax from the shed and he never comes back. After half an hour Dean needs a beer break and goes looking for him, expecting to find Cas lost in thought over whether Turtle Wax is made of actual turtles, or is made to put on actual turtles. Instead he finds Cas crouched on the shimmering pavement at the back of the driveway, sun beating down on him like it has a personal vendetta, and he’s got both wings stretched out real low above the ground. Dean kind of flips out because it’s the type of pose that just screams “stabbed in gut by angel blade” or “migraine from Hell, literally.”

Then Cas looks up, which pulls his wings up a smidge too, which in turn reveals that fully half a dozen neighborhood cats are lounging in the shady patch beneath his wings, spread out on the concrete like blobs of furry peanut butter. No, it’s actually eight cats. There are eight cats.

“Ling-Ling was feeling a little overheated,” Cas says, as if this explains everything.

And, you know what, at this point, it does.

19. Dean has faith that eventually Sam or Cas or the third demon from the left in the second row will turn up a solution for the whole business. Castiel will get to tuck those bad boys back into the secret wing-closet dimension and he won’t have to worry about getting stuck in stairwells anymore, or being reported to the FAA (again). Then they can finally pack up the house, plaster over the more egregious spots of drywall damage, and go back to killing things outside of the tri-county area. The whole thing has been a pretty embarrassing interlude for a couple of dudes who’ve kicked Satan’s ass multiple times — Sam is probably telling other hunters that they’ve been deep undercover to take out a nest of suburban vampires, or a pack of ghouls with mortgages, instead of vacuuming angel down out of the AC unit and considering a Costco membership.

And sure, there have been some...serious pluses to the situation (see: the other list), but, in his weaker moments, Dean has to admit that he’s kind of going to miss some of the goofy, irritating shit, too — like finding a six-inch feather in the veggie crisper (how? why?), or watching Cas fwap his wings out just in time to accidentally clothesline a jogger, or even the strangely compelling, sorta cheesy smell that starts to float around the house if Cas goes a little too long between hosedowns.

He has actually grown fond of this shit. Which is 100% the least sexy thing on earth, it’s some genuinely, seriously pathetic goo goo crap, and that’s why nobody will ever hear a fucking word about it. People will ask “so what’s it like, with the wings” and Dean will waggle his eyebrows suggestively and review the highlight reel over an inadvisable amount of rail whiskey. His secret’s safe with, well. Him.

20. Seriously though, the bird mites.

Gross.

#deancas #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #wingfic #or maybe...#wingsquick #spn fanfic #spn fanart #spn crack #sorry everybody #now with pictures!#pallasperilous art #pallasperilous fic #pallasperilous crack

826 notes · View notes

dracoqueen22 · 3 years

Note

for the open mic prompt, roddy x starscream in the 'play by numbers' series with ss being overprotective? tqvm! ^^

Care Package

“What’s this?” Rodimus asked as Starscream presented him with a box.

The Seeker scowled. “A present.”

“Yeah, I got that. But what is it?” Rodimus asked. Maybe he eyed the box with more suspicion than was warranted, but he wasn’t used to gifts. Mechs didn’t give Rodimus things.

Okay. Drift buying him the Lost Light was technically a gift that was given to Rodimus, but it didn’t count. The Lost Light was more of a gift for everyone.

Starscream’s scowl deepened, and he shoved the box harder at Rodimus. “The point of a gift is that you open it to find out what’s inside.”

Rodimus took the box. He plucked at the ribbon tied around the lid to keep it in place while Starscream watched him, arms folded over his cockpit. There was agitation in his field, in the rhythmic flicking of his wingtips, but he said nothing.

Rodimus lifted the lid and peered into the box. “What am I looking at?” he asked, because he had no idea what these things were.

Four small, square objects were nestled carefully in anti-static wrap. They shone as if new, and looked like they could be attached to something, or slotted into something, only Rodimus wasn’t sure what. He’d never seen them before.

“Upgrades for your internal weaponry,” Starscream said, his tone giving away nothing. “If you think you can bring yourself to trust me, I’ll install them for you.”

Rodimus cycled his optics and looked up at his partner. “Are we going back to war?”

Starscream’s engine revved, and he glared at Rodimus. “Not to my knowledge, but given how much trouble you get into as soon as you leave Cybertron, I think a little extra firepower is prudent. Especially since I’m not there to watch your back.”

Oh.

Warmth gathered around Rodimus’ spark.

“You’re trying to protect me,” he realized aloud, clutching the box closer to him. This was more than a gift, this was tangible proof of Starscream’s feelings for him.

This was love.

Primus, he had to figure out how to return the favor. Words weren’t good for either of them, so Rodimus had to think of an appropriate gesture.

“Someone has to,” Starscream said, dismissive, wings flicking, but it was too late. Rodimus knew what Starscream was trying to say.

He set the box aside and stood, approaching the mercurial Seeker who now watched him with wary optics.

“Install them for me later?” Rodimus asked. He didn’t bother to hide the pleasure in his field, the affection pouring out in soft, rhythmic pulses. “I want to thank you right now.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” Starscream asked, the wariness melted away, to be replaced by a keen interest, his gaze raking up and down Rodimus’ frame with appreciation.

Rodimus grinned and snagged Starscream’s hips, dragging him close enough to nuzzle. “I can think of a few ways, but I’m more interested in hearing what you want most.”

“I have a few ideas.” Starscream’s voice turned liquid, his arms draping over Rodimus’ shoulders as he returned the nuzzle. “Welcome home, Rodimus.”

Home.

Yeah.

Rodimus loved the sound of that.

***

#Starscream #Rodimus #Rodimus/Starscream #Play by Numbers universe #Play by Numbers series #Transformers fanfic #transformers #transformers idw 2015 #open mic night answers #flash fiction fills #raw unedited fic #draco writes #draco writes fanfic #Anonymous

23 notes · View notes

piccolini-cuscino · 4 years

Text

Long drives: part one.

Every year since you were kids, you and Neil would go on a road trip together. Until, after university, Neil disappeared from your life, seemingly for good.

Notes: Thanks @sh3tani for the inspo and getting me into the Sad Zone™️! I’ve split this into two parts – more very soon!

Huddled up under a Star Wars blanket in the back of that shiny new Ford Escort, you and Neil pored over a battered copy of Lord of the Rings together. You could have done exactly that for all eternity, your contented ten-year-old self thought. Just you and your best friend. You’d always remember the smattering of freckles on his sunburnt nose, and how desperately his fingers battled against the wisps of dirty blonde hair that hampered his view every time he moved his head.

Neil’s mother looked like a movie star with her permed blonde hair bundled up into a ruby red scarf, her feet up on the dashboard and that sleepy-eyed wonder for everything that the little car trundled past. His father drove. A flickering, smouldering Regal dangling between his lips. Every now and again his dark eyes would linger in the rear-view mirror, checking up on the two of you. Just in case either of you got any ideas.

Neil knew better. His dad was a brute.

Your yearly road trip with Neil’s family came and went with silent longing looks and fleeting touches. Not much. Not enough for either of you to realise. But Neil did promise you something: when he could finally drive, neither of you would have to listen to another Springsteen cassette again.

Ever the perfectionist, Neil passed his driving test on his 17th birthday. The first thing he did was steal his father’s battered Escort, 200,000 miles on the clock, and headed straight for your house. He was scruffier then, leaning against the door with his arms folded. He had finally mastered the art of growing sparse sprigs of facial hair, and discovered hair gel to tame his mane. He wasn’t much of a looker in those days, but with every single step you took towards him, year after year, you became painfully aware of the ache in your chest.

He took you to Cornwall that year. You had your first kiss on the way back home when he told you all about his university plans and you told him how much you’d miss him. Late as it was, neither of you had much courage when it came to dealing with feelings. He swore he’d never forget that trip. And he vowed to get a car of his own one day. One that didn’t cough and splutter down the motorway.

Every year, you��d go on that road trip in his father’s Escort. Neil by your side, behind the wheel. But it was like that kiss never happened. He went to university. He was smart, funny, charming. A real hit with the ladies. And, you being his best friend, were always the first to know about Chelsea or Harriet or Lucy or Chloe. One for every year, plus his masters. But you always listened with a well in your stomach and a vice around your heart.

He’d even started listening to Springsteen. He understood it now, apparently.

And then came the year he didn’t show.

It was no big surprise; he hadn’t called or written to you in a while. You figured he had moved on. Maybe he got married, moved away, or maybe he had just forgotten about you. And all those beautiful weeks you spent bundled up in that car together, braving the Great British summertime – together.

You tried reaching out to him once or twice. A letter here, a phone call there. No reply and a dead line.

It hurt, but you’d cope.

It was like he knew.

Just when you had managed to bleach the memory of him from your brain, he showed up outside your building. Miles away from where you grew up. Your home now. One torrential afternoon in the car park. He was like a ghost, with the way that he startled you, calling out your name from the window of a periwinkle Berlinette. You wanted to ignore him; quickening your pace towards the door with a thousand-mile stare. But out the corner of your eye, you saw him. Running over to you in his whisper grey suit and his wingtip shoes. In that moment you knew he had changed.

But as he got closer and you spied his sly smile and unruly hair. This was the same Neil that you spent every summer of your youth with.

Standing face to face for the first time in over a decade, you should’ve felt like strangers. That’s what you told yourself as the urge to wrap your arms around him became almost unbearable.

But his furrowed brow told you that he was thinking exactly the same thing.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” Neil chose his words carefully.

Your heart fluttered like a caged bird. “You wear suits now?”

He stood up a little straighter, suddenly despising the mere thought of why he did. What dragged him away from you in the first place. “Work.”

You nodded, looking down at your shoes; buying time. And then back up. Another terse question. “What do you do?”

Neil’s eyes flitted over the scene in front of him searching for curtain-twitchers and eavesdroppers. His expression lightened when they finally came to rest on you, in all your drenched and pathetic glory. His barely-there upper lip curling up at the corners. “Tea?”

“Tea.”

#neil tenet x reader #neil tenet #tenet #robert pattinson

76 notes · View notes

secondhand-trash · 5 years

Text

Paper Cranes

A/N: I know I said this about literally everything I write but this is self-indulgence af because please I just want someone to rant to when I have writer’s blocks (which is all the time) you get me? (Also, I’m not saying you have to do it but I’m def attaching a paper crane tutorial so everyone can get the whole iMmErSivE reading experience)

Pairing: Takami Keigo x reader

Description: Your unconventional way of handling writer’s block caught the eyes of a certain bird boi.

Word count: 3838

Warning: mentions of injuries/hospital

Playlist:

What’s My Age Again?//Blink-182 (This is a Hawks song you can’t convince me otherwise)

I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor//Artic Monkeys

The Next Time We Wed//The Fratellis

You knew that there were more productive things you could be doing right now, sitting at the outdoor area of a cafe with a half-empty mug next to a laptop but your brain felt more like a pile of mush and every word you typed out in the last 20 minutes made you cringe, which was exactly why you stopped doing that all together.

Refusing to even look at the untouched word document on the laptop in front of you, you pulled out a pile of coloured square paper and started folding it in a routine you knew at the back of your head. You sighed as you stared at the small crane in your palm. Your odd habit of folding paper cranes whenever you got stuck on something came when you were so infuriated with not doing anything that you started toying around with the napkin provided by the cafe. After getting bored of bunching up the paper towel repeatedly, you started looking up easy origami tutorials to forge the sense that you actually did something and wasn’t wasting your time by making something presentable. You settled with the elementary school level crane and it became the only origami you were semi-decent at making. You kept all the cranes you made from your writing sessions at the cafe in a paper bag you carried around all the time. The bag was half full and you weren’t sure how to feel about it, knowing full well that it implied that you spent a lot of the time you planned to use on writing making little to no progress.

It had become a routine for you almost. Going to the cafe with your laptop and notes, ordering coffee with as much extra shots of espresso the shop offers, open your document, your brain stops working midway, shifting your focus to folding cranes as an outlet for your frustration and self-loathing. So productive, so good for your mental health-

“I thought you are supposed to be writing?”

Oh, all that and being interrupted by this oversized blonde pigeon.

You did not stop even when you heard the sound of the man in front of you pulling the chair and sitting down next to you uninvited. Pressing down on the paper to form the beak, you threw the origami into the paper bag with the rest of its friends before finally lifting your head to meet the amused gaze of the winged hero.

“And I thought that heroes are supposed to be real preoccupied with saving people and all that,” you said as you lifted your brow, “I’m really starting to question if you are getting any work done, how come you’re always around?”

Hawks laughed, attracting the attention of by passers as some of them gawked at the number 2 hero who was so casually sitting there with someone who looked like they wanted nothing more than to wipe his grin off his face. “What can I say? You’re my favourite writer and I’m just trying to urge you to put new stuff out there.” he said, not without adding a wink at the end and you groaned in annoyance. You weren’t gonna lie and say that you didn’t feel the slightest bit flattered when the charming hero approached you for the first time, saying that he read your work. But as he showed up more and more frequently and invited himself to watch and gave snarky remarks as you struggled, it was like Hawks was trying to get you to be annoyed at him deliberately.

“What’s with you and paper cranes anyways? Ever think about switching things up and fold something else?” he asked, reaching for one of your creations and fiddled with it curiously despite the glare you were sending him.

“Cranes require the least effort,” you said as you leaned forward to snatch it out of his hand and groaned when he pulled back with a knowing smirk, “not sure if you can tell but I’m already on the verge of a breakdown. I’m not gonna put even more stress into doing something that is supposed to take my mind off of my lack of productivity.”

You let out a defeated sigh and fell back onto your seat which only made his smirk grew wider. He examined the origami for a little longer and shifted his stare back at you, “Can I have one?”

“What? No!” you snorted and launched forward to take it back as he let his guard down. You gave the hero a disbelieved look as he gave you a childish pout that was so unfitted for someone of his status. Before you met him, you always thought of the pro-hero as a suave and respectable person. Well, you still sorta did, but to think that this man was someone people rely on was something that became hard for you to imagine, especially seeing how child-like he was in front of you.

“But whyyyyy,” Hawks whined and motioned to the paper bag on the floor next to you, “you had made so many! What difference will it make if I take one?”

“They’re all my children and I love every single one of them,” you said as you dramatically placed a palm on your chest where your heart would be at, “you are dead wrong if you think I’ll ever let someone take away one of my babies.”

Hawks snickered, “God, are all writers so weird?”

“I don’t know, are all heroes annoying?”

He threw his hands in the air in defeat, “Fine, I won’t force you to separate from your children.”

“Good.” you nodded as you threw yet another crane into the bag.

“As much as I like talking about your crane obsession, I need to get going. Still a long way to go until heroes can properly slack off.” he said as he got up and stretched. HIs wings spanning widely as he extended his arms, threatening to push your things off the table and hit you in the face.

You quickly dodged the assault of his wings and bent down to shield your precious laptop, “Mind your ducking wings, you blind goose.”

He let out a full body laugh at your insult and started walking away, only to turn on his heels as he heard you call out for him. “Hawks?”

“Yes?”

“Put it back.”

He groaned as he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out a tiny paper crane. He muttered something about you being telepathic while he let the origami slid from his palm into the paper bag where it belong and you couldn’t contain your grin despite your best effort.

You stared at the pile of paper cranes in front of you soullessly. If you were being self-deprecating and giving in to unhealthy coping mechanisms when you said you were on the verge of a breakdown before, you were seriously burnt out now. Usually, folding origami would give you the slightest bit of ease but it wasn’t working now. You could feel your head throbbing in pain as the blankness of the screen mocked you and you lowered your head with your eyes shut, trying to calm the stiffness in your brain just a little. You didn’t even pick up on the familiar sound of chair shuffling until a voice brought you back to reality.

“Wow, you must be really stressed out huh?”

With your forehead on the table, you groaned, “Not now, Hawks. Go bother some other civilian.”

”But you’re the most fun to be around!” he chuckled and you snapped your head up to stare at man. His laughter quickly died down under the gaze of your bloodshot eyes.

“What do you want, you featherbrained son of a birdspawn,” you grunted, “no. It’s not working. I can’t even find joy in insulting you anymore, this is bad.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said, concern contrasting with his lighthearted words, “are you ok?”

“Not at all. It’s like I don’t even know how to form proper sentences. There’s so many ideas floating through my brain but it just goes ‘error 404′ when I actually try to write it out,” you ran your hand through your hair as you went on with your rant, “I’m spiraling and I don’t know what to do. I’m in desperate need for a distraction.”

Hawks looked at you as you took a deep breath, being quieter than you ever remembered him to be. You put your tired gaze on him and that’s when the red feathers poking from behind his back caught your eyes. You weren’t exaggerating when you said you needed a distraction and right now you wondered how you had never took much interest in the winged hero’s trademark before.

“Can I touch your wings?”

“What?” his eyes widened at your sudden request, almost believing that he had misheard what you just said.

“Can I touch them?”

His shocked expression slowly faded and the corner of his lips slowly tugged upwards, “Never thought of you as the eager type.”

“Hawks, I swear to god-”

“At least try to buy me dinner first-”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, you hormonal rooster.” you bite back but immediately realized that you probably shouldn’t act so aggressive when you were asking for a favour and unknowingly whined, “it’s just, it looks so soft and I never really thought of it and I’m so hyperaware of everything right now that I just want to know what it feels like.”

Hawks fell silent for a moment. In all honesty, he had always been very iffy about anyone making contact to his wings. It was an important tool to his survival, not to mention extremely sensitive. But you looked so tired and beaten up that he just didn’t have the heart to reject you.

Hawks carefully extended his left wing to you and the way you perked up just a little made his heart swell. You leaned forward and lightly stoked a finger along the most outward feather of his wingtip. Chills shot down his spine as you felt the red feather gently and he had to physically restraint himself from shivering under you touch. Hawks was shocked when he almost let out a disappointed sigh as you pulled back, he didn’t even realize how much he enjoyed the gentle affection you were giving him.

You had seen him in action in news broadcast many times before and it amazed you how the razor sharp feathers he often used in fights felt like silk under the pad of your finger. You felt content for a split second before the thought of your untouched work slowly shadowed you short happiness once again.

“Did that help?” he tentatively asked and his heart sank as you let out a sigh.

“No,” you groaned, feeling bad that he let you invade his personal space just to help you but it didn’t work, “I’m starting to feel like I’m washing my entire career down the drain at this rate.”

It pained him to see his usually witty and sharp-tongued friend in this state. Hawks looked around to see if there’s anything he could do for you when the golden glow of the late afternoon sun gave him an idea.

“Wait, what are you doing?” you asked as the man grabbed you by your forearm and started pulling you up from your slumping position.

“I’m taking you somewhere.”

You were confused but his serious demeanor showed you that he was genuinely trying to help, “At least let me pack my things first.”

“Leave it here.” he said as he pulled you with him, completely clueless as to where you were going.

“You must be kidding me...” you said, now standing on the rooftop of a random building Hawks dragged you to.

“Do you trust me?”

“No offense but no.”

“And here I thought we’re getting somewhere,” he sighed before looking at you and the determined look in his eyes shut down all your attempts at protesting, “I promise this’ll help, just trust me for once.”

You felt your breath hitched in your throat at the way he looked so intensely at you, almost pleading in a way and it made your heart soft. Letting out a defeated sigh, you stepped closer to him and wrapped your arm around his neck. He locked his arm tightly around your waist and you could feel the heat radiating off his body at the close proximity.

“If you let go of me at any given moment, I swear I’ll turn you into a chicken casserole and eat it for dinner.”

“That’s my snarky little literary giant.” he grinned before taking off and you held on tightly to him. Almost burying your face in the crook of his neck, partly in fear of slipping down, but mostly to hide the faint blush on your face.

Hawks kept his promise and held you securely around your waist throughout the whole flight. Your heart was beating fast from the adrenaline of being so high up the sky but also because his face was merely millimeters away from yours. Feeling a bit more comfortable with the height after a while, you relaxed your neck and felt chilling wind on your face. You peered down to see that big city reduced to miniatures below you. It was a sight to witness.

“Not as bad as you thought, right?” his smooth voice rang from just above your eye and you felt your cheeks heat up, letting out nothing but a soft hum in response.

“We’re here.” Hawks gently put you down and you leaped onto the soft grass. You looked around to see that you were on a hilltop away from the central city. Turning around, you were immediately speechless.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, almost a bit nervous at your lack of response and he wasn’t even sure why he was so jittery.

The sun was sinking down, giving off an almost golden glow. You could see the skyline of the city from where you were at, the clear windows of the compacted buildings glistening from under the sunshine. The sound of cars speeding on the highway mixed with the occasional breeze from the soft wind eased the knot in your head, the fresh smell of grass made you sigh in content. You watched from afar as the entire city basked under the sunlight, emitting a soft radiance. It was majestic.

You gasped, “This is...”

“I always come here when I feel like I can’t keep going,” he said, “this sight never fails to lift me back up.”

You chocked out a gasp in awe, “It’s beautiful.”

You were looking at the sky, but he was looking at you. “It is.” Hawks whispered.

And even for just a short while, the sight and the comforting presence of him made you feel so much better.

You felt great. It had been a long while since you were last so inspired as you type away on your keyboard, not stopping except for the few times you paused to take sips of your coffee.

You looked at the words on the screen and hummed in satisfaction, pulling your shoulders back to relax the tensed muscles. You couldn’t wait to tell Hawks that it worked and you were making amazing progress.

Speaking of Hawks, where was that dumb bird anyways? He usually shows up around this hour but he was nowhere to be seen.

You looked around to see if you could find any sight of the familiar red feathers anywhere but stopped as you heard the chattering from the group of women sitting from a few tables away.

“Oh my god, have you seen the news? Absolutely horrifying!”

“I know right? It must be a really tough fight, Hawks was always so quick to capture a villain!”

You got immediately alerted at the mention of your friend. Your mind started racing, she said ‘horrifying’.

“Haven’t you heard? His agency put out a statement this morning saying that he had to take a break from work just to recover, that poor thing!”

You felt heat retreating from your face and your senses going numb. Slightly panicking, you rummaged through your bag for your phone and immediately went onto the news site once you got hold of it. Your eyes widened and you clasped your hand on your mouth at the gory photo attached to the article. You could not began to describe the twisting in your stomach when you saw the usually cheery hero being so beaten up, his glorious wings you tenderly stroked not so long ago now left with nothing but the long, thin bone of its main structure.

It hurt.

It hurt to see him like that and you hated how there’s nothing you could do for him when he went out of his way to help you when you were in need. That’s when you noticed the paper bag you brought with you out of habit. Quickly shoving everything on the table into your bag and threw it across your shoulder, you clutched the handle of the paper bag tightly in your hand, wondering if it would work if you just wished harder.

Hawks groaned as he twisted on his sofa. He had been forced to stay home after that particularly gruesome fight to allow both the injuries on his body and his abused wings to recover. To say that he was bored out of his mind would be an understatement. Flicking from channel to channel mindlessly, he sighed at how there’s nothing that could entertain him.

He wondered what you would say if you had saw him lying there like a dead fish, probably something along the lines of him acting like a slab of ‘dry, flavourless chicken breast’. He chuckled at the thought of your usual snarky attitude and felt even lonelier when he was once again reminded that he was confined in the concrete walls of his apartment, with no one but himself.

He almost flung himself at the door when he heard the bell rang, wincing in pain as he had forgotten about the main reason why he was on what he felt like house arrest.

Hawks opened the door to see his sidekick. “Morning Mr Hawks, feeling better?”

“Physically yes but I’m going to combust if I had to stay in any longer.”

The sidekick gave his boss a nervous chuckle, he had been working for the hero for long enough to know how on edge he could be when he was put out of action for too long. “Just for a little longer, the agency needs to make sure that you’ve recovered completely before letting you get back to work,” his sidekick quickly added upon seeing how Hawks’ face dropped, “actually, I’m here to bring you this.”

Hawks watched as his sidekick pulled out a paper bag that almost looked too familiar. “Someone gave this to me at the agency and asked me to bring it to you, must be some sort of fan gift.”

Bidding his sidekick goodbye, he quickly locked the door and opened the bag that felt quite heavy when he was holding it in his hands. Prying the bag open, his heart soared as he looked inside to find it filled up to the brim with paper cranes.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you actually typing instead of folding cranes.”

“Hawks!” you immediately looked up when you heard his voice and the bright smile on your face that was in place of the usual sneer made his heart flutter, “You’re alive!”

You rested your chin on your palm as you watched him sat down. You would never tell him but it almost felt wrong to have the table all to your own for the past week.

“Gladly, I nearly died out of boredom,” you snickered and god, did he miss that sound, “thanks for the cranes. I had them put on a string and hanged in my office just so you know, really added some life to that place.”

You smiled, happy to know that your thoughts were properly delivered. He teasingly asked, “Thought you were hell-bent on never separating from your children?”

You shook your hand, grinning from ear to ear. “Nah, I figured you need it more than I do.”

Hawks raised his brow, “How’s that so?”

You chuckled nervously, pondering if you should tell him what it meant. Not knowing that he was well aware of the meaning behind the one thousand paper cranes you gave him, he just wanted to hear you say it out loud so badly.

“It means to wish for peace and health,” you wondered why you were suddenly so reserved when you spent most time with this man making fun of each other, “I just thought you would need extra of both of those.”

Hawks smirked. You were hiding the rest of the meaning deliberately and he was determined to get you to admit it.

“It only works when you do it for someone you really care for,” he said and he felt the pounding in his chest, “you care for me.”

He could see the blush forming on you face and it filled him with an unexplainable feeling of joy. “I never said I don’t.” you said with a smirk of your own, trying to brush away your sudden shyness.

“We both know it doesn’t work like that.” he tried to fake the confidence in his voice but deep inside, he was anxious to see your reaction to what he wanted to say.

“You like me.” that last part came out in a whisper but you could hear it clearly. Despite it having nothing but thin pin feathers, he could feel them stood up on his back in pure excitement as you didn’t object. His face almost hurt from smiling as he caught sight of the sheepish smile on your reddened face as you lowered your head to avoid his gaze.

“Does that mean I’m the father to your paper children now?”

“Don’t push it...”

He gasped, “We’re gonna make such beautiful crane babies-”

“Don’t push it,” you glared at him and quickly put on a smirk as you regained your usual composure, “besides, salmonella-ridden raw chickens can’t give birth to cranes.”

“That’s low,” Hawks put a hand to his chest, pretending to be hurt, “even for you.”

You could not control your laughter as he continued to say that you wounded his ego.

Oh, how you adored this bird boi.

Bonus

“Wait, where are you supposed to put this flap?”

“Just tug it underneath the other part.”

“What? But how do you make it into that shape?”

“You... Nevermind, having one artistic person is enough in a relationship.”

“No, you’re not leaving until you teach me how to make this stupid thing.”

“Don’t go insulting our children when it is clearly your lack of talent. Here, take this, it’s you in origami form. I made it while you were struggling.”

“..."

“...”

“It’s just a regular crane with two legs.”

“Exactly.”

(And here’s the tutorial that nobody asked for but I wanted to put in anyways so y’all can join in and make beautiful crane babies of your own)

#hawks x reader #hawks imagine #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #bnha imagine #mha imagine

640 notes · View notes

nomadmilk · 4 years

Text

Why the God Isn’t Bored on Midgard - Loki x F!Reader Drabble - 9

Summary: With Ragnarok decimating Asgard, Thor and Loki and their people return to Earth searching for refuge. Everyone else has seemed to settle, except for Loki - the God of Mischief and Chaos - who isn’t willing to live the domesticated Midgard life, and getting utterly bored out of his mind… Until he discovered you.

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: Rated M/18+. Loki in a sex shop. Thirsty friend. Strong mentions of Dom/Sub, and bondage implications.

Author’s Note: He could have just conjured up some toys if he wanted to, right?

Here are the other parts to the series: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 8.5 Part 9

Walking around the shop was good enough to stop the tremble in your legs; standing was becoming difficult since you and Loki started being more than just roommates and living together.

If you weren’t sorting out stock in the back, your leg muscles would start feeling like jelly. If you weren’t reorganizing the bra and lingerie sets on the displays, you could feel your knees start giving in. And the worst, if you weren’t doing anything at all, the dull pain of your joints would start setting off all those things at the same time.

It made you slightly flustered, as it was a constant reminder of Loki, and his stamina.

Your colleagues were suspicious. You had just finished your starting weeks, and you were working harder than they’ve ever seen you before. The manager of the day had given you a few more tasks out of your request, and you even insisted in any extra training you could do today. They doubted it was to get a promotion, since you just began working there, so they assumed it was for a needed raise.

But, little did they know what you’d been doing. It was good that they didn’t know; you knew how fast workplace gossip spreads.

On the other hand, that didn’t stop them from bombarding you with questions.

You were asked to man the till with the staff member you had grown closer with, and she had been prying you for the past fifteen minutes in between re-labelling the desk products and serving customers.

“What’s up with you?”

You were in the middle of placing some money in the till, thanking the customer with a receipt. “What do you mean what’s up with me?”

She relaxed, leaning forward on her elbows and glancing up at you by your side. “I mean, is there something wrong? You seem to be flying through the shelves today.”

“Me?” You pick up the labeller, changing its words, and placing new stickers on some mini vibrators. “I-I’m just working as normal. And, no, there’s nothing wrong… I’m just getting along with my day, y’know?”

Your legs were beginning to twitch.

Having sex with Loki felt like you had been waiting for it since he arrived in the apartment for the first time. It felt good. The whole night felt so good. You felt ridiculous when you woke up this morning, finding out that your entire lower region was shaking. Despite it all, you still had a life to live, and you couldn’t be distracted with Loki and sex, especially at work.

“You sure?” She asks.

“Yup.” You continue stamping on labels.

She looks at you, up and down. “Uh-huh.”

About to remark her nosy attitude and tone, you’re interrupted by another customer.

“Excuse me.”

Both of your eyes snap up to see Loki.

“Loki!” You gasp, dropping the labeller. Your colleague swears under her breath. “Uh – I mean – Hi, sir, how can I help you?”

His irises seem greener and more iridescent than ever as he squints at you, questioning the address. He’s dressed in his usual smart casual wear; a buttoned shirt with the collar loosened, black fitted trousers and, telling by the slight click on the ground as he shifts, his signature raven wingtips.

As always, he out dressed everyone in the room.

From the corner of your eye, you could see your colleague recover from the jump, picking up the labeller that had clattered to the ground, and shoving it away in a shelf underneath the till. She rapidly straightened up, entranced by him. When you took a quick glimpse around the store, there were a few ladies that were peering, or more so ogling, his way.

Loki knew how handsome he was already. But the awed gazes gave his smirk an egotistical accent.

You roll your eyes.

Although you were surprised by Loki’s appearance, you were confused as to why he was here at your workplace. You and him rarely see each other, intentionally or accidentally, outside of the apartment, anyway. So, what was he doing here?

As if he had read your mind, he places his basket in front of you. “May I have a bag with these?”

“Of course.” You reply. Reaching for one of the pink bags, your colleague snags one from under the desk and preps it for you. She grins widely at you, eyes flitting back and forth from both you and the tall god.

Clearing your throat, you focus on the till screen as your hand attains the first item out of the basket; lube.

“That’s a good brand.” Your colleague chimes, gulping. “…Are you Asgardian, by any chance?”

“Yes, I am.” He responds. The scanner beeps. “I’ve been told that might help ease things in a little better.”

The lube bagged, you could practically hear your colleague’s thoughts scream as she looks at you. You clench your jaw, death glares telling her to control herself.

Regardless of the annoyance, you blush slightly, knowing fully well how blessed Loki’s lower regions were, and what they were capable of.

But you wanted to remain professional, so you resumed scanning his items like the customer he was.

You pick up the next product; a restraint kit.

Heart stopping, your death glares turn to Loki. He bares his teeth, watching the glow of your embarrassment as you hesitate to read the contents.

“Wow.” Your colleague chimes in again, gawking a little at the same box. “Are you – uh – into bondage?”

Legs beginning to tremble, you try to keep them still by locking your knees. You scan the box, and it’s bagged.

Loki nods, poised. “It’s just something my darling and I are interested in exploring. She’s unsure, but I’m hoping these will win me her favour.”

Your friend was still enthusiastic. “We have novice packs, actually, if the two of you have just started? The one you got is the advanced pack – spank paddles, bed binds, and all.”

“Oh?” He glances at you. “Yes, I did see the other packs, but she did express interest in being tied up, so I thought I’d buy the pack that might, uh… Maximise the experience.”

If there was an opportunity to kick Loki, you would have taken it, but the stupid desk was in the way. He knew what he was doing; the smirk, the composure, you’d seen it before, and it was getting easier to spot it every time. Despite it all, the most infuriating thing every time, was how he could do it all with such a courteous demeanour.

Even though your sense of work ethic overrode your reactions for the time being, you were still feeling your palms and neck sweat a little. Your views on his behaviours had changed, and instead of finding them extremely aggravating, it was starting to turn you on.

“Okay.” Your friend nods, impressed. “… Would you be interested in our ‘Dom and Sub’ line?- Oh!”

A dark rosewood lingerie set was held in your hands by the hanger. Searching for the tag, you find its size before the barcode; perfect to fit you. Upon closer inspection, the set was held together by strings of red, and patches of beautifully patterned mesh.

Your eyes widen; there were cuts, providing an opening for your intimate parts.

“Do you have this in any other colour?” Loki asks, pointing at the set as you scan it.

“I think there might be more at the back.” Taking the opportunity to escape, you answer, setting the lingerie aside. “Let me just-“

“Oh, no, I’ll do it.” Your colleague winks, rubbing your shoulders and pulling you back before zipping off. “I’ll even get the matching suspenders and stockings, if you’d like?”

Loki tilts his head, approving the offer. “That would be wonderful.”

You sigh, dragging your eyes to Loki.

You lean over the counter to shout-whisper at him. “What are you doing here?”

“You wanted to know more about me, Y/N. I’m just providing you with more information.”

“Like, what?” You grab the scarlet bra and panties and shake it at him. “This doesn’t tell me anything about you. It just tells me that-… That you like this stuff.”

Loki frowns in confusion. “Yes, exactly. I thought you’d look gorgeous being ravished in it.”

Conflicting emotions of arousal and rage beckons to act on one or the other. Loki had a knack of being able to say the right thing, even if it was the wrong place and time, and still get away with it.

You let go of the garment, flopping it onto the surface.

You take a deep breath. “Loki, I-I never asked what your kinks were.”

“But I like knowing yours.” His lighthearted exterior fades, but there’s a twinkle in his gaze. “You need to stop blushing, my love. You’re giving me too many thoughts.”

Words echoing, you freeze. Your heart seemed to tremble underneath his gaze, and his velvet voice had taken yours away.

Using the back of your palms, you feel the heat of your cheeks.

Your colleague returns, hearing her footsteps behind you and being beside you again. She arranges the new colors of the garment in front of him. “Here you are.”

Like a switch, his false kind smile is back, and his laugh is refreshing. “Wow, thank you for this.”

“Okay, so the wine-reddish one you have is the ‘Little Lust Red’, but we also have this navy blue one here – it’s called ‘Baby, be my Daddy Blue’ – Or this one-“ – she surveys the tag of the third – “- it’s ‘Good girl for my Highness Green’, this one’s kind of special – it has some pearl detail, as you can see.”

Did she have to say the color names out loud?

You try to evade the conversation, concentration back on the till screen, as if it was of any importance. Your foot taps repeatedly on the tiled floor, ignoring Loki’s agonising scrutiny of the lingerie before him. You made the mistake of glancing at the pretty sets, then checking Loki, thumb pressed on his bottom lip in thought.

Loki looks at you, dressing and undressing you in them in his mind, one by one. The red would be stunning on you, although the blue had a shade of innocence on you that made it more gratifying to ruin, but the green… The string of pearls served as a replacement of cloth for your most intimate and sensitive area. And the thought of the beads brushing your clit, with it’s cold and smooth surface, was making Loki think of your warm body indulging in all the senses and stimulation he could give you.

“I’d be delighted in taking all of them, if I’m not being too greedy.” He says.

Your colleague, beaming from ear to ear, scans them for you, folding and stashing them away in the bag with the rest. “Amazing, I’ll just pop that in there for you…”

Your colleague glances at you, signalling for the total cost and receipt. On autopilot, you make the transaction with Loki, letting your colleague do most of the customer service chatting for you.

You stare at the bag in his grasp. The lingerie sets were gorgeous, and it wouldn’t take a lot of convincing on Loki’s part to make you wear them; lace was a fabric that you grew to enjoy the texture of, and their design made you curious to see how they’d frame you and your physique.

You wondered how Loki would react once he saw you in them.

“Pretty cool names, huh, Y/N?” Your colleague nudges you. “I was curious as to what he was, and I had to think it up on the spot-“

“Wait- wha-“ You blink, turning to her. “What do you mean you made them-“

She was glowing. “I wasn’t sure, but I had to know!” She peers outside the shop door, even though the God of Mischief was no longer within sight.

You follow her, trying to make sure she stays inside. “Had to know, what?”

She raises a brow at you. “He’s definitely hot, and definitely a Dom – total, total Dom! – God, I’m jealous.”

“Jealous? Why?”

“Whoever he’s screwing tonight – She is going to be spoilt rotten.”

#loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #drabble #loki (marvel)#loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x you #Roommates #Shopping #🐄🗂TheNomaArchives

42 notes · View notes

direnightshade · 4 years

Text

The Crusade / Chpt. 3

For you, it’s a crusade. For me, it’s a job. Isn’t that what Flip had told Ron nearly a year ago? And now, here he is, his entire world turned on it’s head, smack dab in the middle of a crusade of his own.

A post-BlackKklansman fic in which Flip’s next major assignment is to infiltrate and uncover the inner workings of mob crime that’s moved into the Colorado Springs Area. He’d been ready for the drugs and the danger. What he hadn’t been ready for was you. This can also be found on AO3.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Mention of drug use Template credit: cashwmere

----------------------------------------------------

A long, drawn out whistle reverberates throughout the room, the sound grabbing the attention of the others as they stop what they’re doing to turn a curious glance in the direction of the door as it swings open.

“Alright, alright.” Flip’s motioning with his hands for the sound to be lowered—or preferably, dropped altogether.

“Christ almighty, look at him, boys. Looks like Colorado Springs does clean up nice.” Rob smirks, cigarette in hand, the smoke rising upward towards the drop-down ceiling while he takes a step forward towards where Flip’s standing near the door to the conference room.

Michael swivels in his chair, eyes assessing the new getup. “Shiiiiit. Looks like you went ‘n’ stepped right outta ‘The Godfather’.”

Flip can’t help but snort at that, eyes rolling as he surges forward, stepping around Rob to take a seat at the table. Gone are the heavy steps of the cowboy boots on his feet. They’ve since been replaced by a slick pair of polished black wingtip shoes. His typical flannel and jeans have been swapped with the best suit that he owns, black to match, of course, even going so far as to pair it with a black undershirt. Unbuttoning the suit jacket when he reaches an empty seat, Flip lowers himself down to take a seat, eyes focused on Rob as he begins to lay out the plan.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, you’ve got an ‘in’,” says Flip, his eyes casting a glance over to the driver seat where Rob sits, hands gripping the wheel of the Mercedes. Rob nods, and Flip does the same only slower. “With Clyde.” Again, Rob is nodding, and so is Flip, who purses his lips, eyes looking back out towards the road ahead of them. “And just how long have you been working on this particular undercover case?”

The steady hum of the spinning tires that carries them over the pavement fills the space between them until Rob responds. “Nearly a year now.”

Flip nods yet again, a soft hum of acknowledgement sounding as his eyes look back out at the road ahead of them. Denver is an hour behind them now, and Colorado Springs only another thirty minutes out, but that isn’t where they’re headed today. No, today their destination is the unassuming Italian restaurant in Pueblo known as Gaetano’s. Flip’s gaze shifts to the time displayed on his wristwatch. 3:30 PM. They’ve still got another hour, give or take, until they reach Pueblo.

“There’s one thing I didn’t mention to you during the debriefing,” Rob says, capturing Flip’s attention.

With a raised brow, he turns his head to look back over to Rob while his arm lowers back down into his lap. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

Rob sniffs, nose twitching in the process, and he looks over to Flip for just a moment before returning his attention back out at the road. “Word is, Clyde’s kid is going to handle the Colorado Springs business.”

Flip remains silent following the statement, like he’s waiting for there to be more to the remark, but when Rob says no more, he follows it up with “And?”

“And,” starts Rob, “she’s a real piece of work. Got a mouth on her, that one. ‘Course you can’t say shit back to her. Not with Clyde bein’ her dad and all.”

“She?” Flip’s gaze is once again drawn over to Rob, waiting expectantly for confirmation, even though he’d heard him perfectly the first time.

Rob nods emphatically. “She.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

To most of the people in Pueblo, Gaetano’s is an unassuming family restaurant, the brick building and sign posted atop the entrance both unassuming in their own rights. Even the inside, Flip thinks to himself when he follows Rob past the threshold of the door, is every bit as unassuming. Deep, maroon booths line the back wall complete with a large mural of the family, while tables line the remainder of the open space. Flip notices that there are a few men seated at the bar, and at only a quick glance, he knows good and well that these men are associated with the family; knows that they’re packin’ beneath those jackets o’ theirs.

“This way,” says Rob, leading Flip past the tables as they make their way further into the restaurant. The swinging door that separates the kitchen from the dining area swings open, and the men pass through, Rob giving the woman cooking the food a tip of an imaginary hat. She’s a pleasant enough woman, Flip decides upon first glance, rounded cheeks and large smile accompanying short, curled hair and equally short stature; then again, he knows that in places such as these, not everyone is as they seem.

“Pat, darling,” she calls out to him, utilizing his alias as she waves at him with wooden spoon still in hand.

Rob smiles at her, all teeth, when he lowers his hand. “Ma, good to see you.”

“Who’s your handsome friend,” she asks, eyeing up Flip with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Rob turns to look at Flip, and then back to the woman — the matriarch, he realizes . “This here’s — ”

“Vincent, ma’am,” Flip says, giving the woman a gentle tip of his head and a charming smile. “But, my friends all call me Vince.”

“Oh,” she says, a giddy tone accompanying her response. “That one there’s a looker, Pat. Best keep an eye on him or else I might snatch him up all for myself.” She laughs heartily at that, the sound raspy, a smoker’s cough following the action. Flip chuckles and Rob nods, assuring her that he’ll do just that, the two saying their goodbyes to the woman before they carry on with their walk through the kitchen towards yet another door.

The room they enter is small, smaller than any of the previous ones they’d been in; brick walls are bare, save for the few sconces that are lit up to illuminate the room, and at the center of the room is a table where five men are standing. But this, Flip recognizes, is no ordinary table.

“Craps,” says one of the men at the table, his attention now directed at Flip and Rob as the door shuts closed behind them. “Come. Join us.” The man motions for the two of them to join him at the table, and doing as they’re instructed, the pair stride across the small room and stand at the vacant spaces at the table.

It’d only taken one look, but Flip recognizes the man as Clyde, the patriarch. “Pat,” says the man, eyes darting between him and Flip, “introduce me to your friend here.”

“This here’s Vince.” Rob thrusts a thumb in Flip’s direction and Clyde nods, eyes appraising him simultaneously.

“Vince,” Clyde says, mulling over the name. “You don’t mind if I call you Vinnie, do you?”

Flip rolls his shoulders into a shrug, head shaking only briefly. “No. Vinnie’s fine.” Not that he thinks he has a choice in the matter, not really.

“Good. Good.” Again, Clyde’s nodding, his attention shifting back to the game in front of him. “You know how to play Craps, Vinnie?”

“I know enough. Can’t say as I brought enough for a buy-in, though,” he jokes half-heartedly. Clyde, however, takes it in stride, laughing at the remark.

“‘Course not.” Clyde places some of his chips on the pass line before handing off other chips to the dealer to place them in the appropriate spaces when Clyde calls his bets. “Not for ten grand a buy-in,” he remarks.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Flip’s spent the majority of his time stoic as ever, his gaze fixated on the table as roll after roll of the dice make their way across the felt. The longer the games go on, the more he finds himself bristling with the realization that the man at the opposite end of the table is rigging the game for his own favor. It’s a quick slight of hand, and had Flip not been paying as close attention as he had been, he would have missed it much like the others have thus far.

The sudden tensing of his body, shoulders squaring subconsciously tips off Clyde that there’s an issue. The patriarch swings his eyes over to where Flip is standing, jaw working before he speaks up. “Somethin’ the matter, Vince?”

Flip’s gaze flickers to the man who’s doing a damn good job of keeping his poker face strong, their gazes holding for a long moment before he sweeps his attention to Clyde. “The dice are loaded,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That true, Benny,” asks Clyde without so much as throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Flip can see now the way the façade breaks, and Benny’s expression morphs from indifference to anger. Anger that is directed at Flip. “You really going to let some newby in here, talkin’ all this shit about how I’m some loaded dice throwin’ cheat when you’ve known him all of five minutes?”

“I don’t know,” says a new voice that emanates from near the door. “He looks pretty trustworthy to me.”

Everyone’s head swings back, Flip’s included, to catch a look at the individual who’s entered the room; to get a look at you .

Clyde huffs a breath much like a dry laugh when he turns to see you, and Flip’s eyes rake along the outfit that you’re wearing. Unlike most other women in the business, you’ve chosen to wear a suit, the inky black material broken up by the white pin-striping that lines both the pants and the jacket. He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when it came to you, but this is not it.

“Well,” you say, breaking Flip’s reverie. “Are you trustworthy?”

He watches as you take step after step towards him, the others fading away into the background as you approach. Flip nods once in affirmation, and you smile at him when your steps finally come to a halt mere feet from him.

“Good. In that case, why don’t you take that cheating rat out back and show him why we don’t let his kind get away with that behavior.” It isn’t a request, it’s a demand, one that Flip hears loud and clear. But his gaze still slides over to Clyde for good measure, but when he finds nothing in response except an expectant stare, he knows that he has no choice but to abide or risk blowing his cover already.

Benny objects, of course, and loudly so when Flip snatches him up by the collar. “No! No, no, no! You’ve got me all wrong! I didn’t do shit!” But his cries fall on deaf ears, and not a single person steps forward to help him. No matter how hard he twists and turns, Benny’s unable to get himself free of Flip’s vice-like grip as he’s dragged out of the room and out into the alleyway.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a flurry of fists, blood, and even loose teeth by the time that Flip is done with Benny, and he leaves the man slumped over in the alleyway. He flexes his fingers, bloodied knuckles aching with the blows delivered to the cheat as his other hand reaches for the back door, pulling it open to step back into the room with the others. “It’s done,” he says, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his stinging hand.

Flip’s eyes find yours almost immediately, and you nod in acknowledgement, a smirk curling your lips up as you speak. “Well, well. Looks like you were right, Pat,” she says to Rob, her eyes still on Flip whilst she speaks. “He’ll make a mighty fine addition to the Colorado Springs operation.”

There’s a sense of unease that settles deep within Flip’s gut upon hearing your words, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s in way over his head with this one.

“Come,” you tell him with a nod of your head toward the door. “Let’s you and I discuss what I have in mind for you going forward.”

----------------------------------------------------

Tagging my fellow Flip loving friends!

@gurl-ly, @klauscarolove, @morby, @candycanes19, @thatgirl1782, @ellelaconiwrites, @duty-isnt-always-honour, @lemonypink, @mind-p0llution

If you’d like to be added to the tag list, give me a shout!

#Flip Zimmerman #Flip #Phillip Zimmerman #Flip Zimmerman x Reader #Flip x Reader #Phillip Zimmerman x Reader #The Crusade #Mob AU #Mafia AU #direnightshade

27 notes · View notes

clansayeed · 4 years

Text

The Price ― a Bound by Destiny drabble

⥼ Summary ⥽

Nadya's visions of the past are starting to take their toll, but Adrian is always there to help her recover. A century ago Gaius makes sure Adrian stays loyal to him through manipulative means.

note: This piece takes place in the year between Bound by Destiny I & II, and sheds a little more light on how Nadya coped with her visions before she knew the truth; as well as offering a glimpse into the Trinity’s movements during the 1910s.

The flashback that takes up the second half of this piece references a real historical event, but all implications, names, and the like are purely fictitious in nature and should not be taken as fact.

word count: 2,518 rating: teen+ content warnings: references to past emotional manipulation/abuse, death, grief, mention of physical violence (brief), historical references find out more: HERE

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

[READ IT ON AO3]

“Nadya?”

Her eyes are watering; sting with the burn of being held open. When she blinks it off the barest beginnings of tears cling to her lashes.

A dark blue handkerchief is held out in offering before she can even reach for her desk drawer.

“Here, just use this,” comes Adrian’s voice above her — that bare hint of concern he always seems to carry. The hallmark trait of the kindest of hearts.

“I don’t want to get mascara on it.”

“Nadya.”

“Okay, okay — fine.”

She half expects that to be that. Instead feels Adrian’s eyes on her while she takes delicate care and attention not to mess up her wingtip because it had taken a full hour that afternoon and sometimes a girl just has to be proud of a steady hand.

Only when she’s sure her hard work is spared does she look at her boss properly. Gives him a sheepish, ashamed smile because there’s no way he’s getting the dark smears out of silk. “I’ll buy you a new one?”

Because she’d go crazy if she doesn’t offer, and Adrian will humor her with a chuckle and a nod because he’s kind like that. But they both know he has half a dozen back at his loft and it doesn’t really matter. Even with all of his years of wealth he’s remained an admirable type of level-headed and frugal.

But he surprises her in pushing their usual witty banter aside, doesn’t just take the pocket square back but instead covers her hand with his. Only in his steady hold does she realize she’s shaking.

Where did that come from?

“Are you okay?” That tone should only be reserved for dire situations — like being chased through a secret museum by a crazed politician or when she caught on the news that the Grumpy Cat had passed away. Not for this.

She nods, lets him take the crumpled fabric and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. A careful tactic many young girls learn early to hide their expressions for just long enough to steel them into cooperating.

“Of course I am —”

But of course he doesn’t let her finish. “You were crying.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“So what would you call that?”

“Seeing how long I can go without blinking.”

Okay she totally gets it if that does the exact opposite of putting him off the investigation because it’s a crappy excuse. One even she doesn’t believe. And it’s just crappy enough to convey the message I don’t want to talk about it.

He’s both silent and loud all at once. Says everything he needs to say in the slight furrow in his brow; the way the left side of his mouth is just a little pulled back.

You know you can tell me anything. You know I’m here for you. Adrian doesn’t say it because he doesn’t have to — because he knows she gets it. Risking your life sneaking into a vampire dungeon and taking on a pair of very weird recluse vamps does pretty well in establishing that you’d do anything for someone.

I know. Instead she smiles, pushes her chair back a little so she isn’t getting neck cramps looking at him. “How was the meeting?”

Its slow going to get him actually talking. He knows its a distraction tactic, doesn’t want to take away from the fact he walked in on her pretty much fully zonked out with tears in her eyes. Lucky for her the meeting went, quote, “better and more productive than thought possible,” and once they get out of the office tonight he can head down to the Shadow Den with only good news to give Jax. Lucky because it means she can keep up said tactic with question after question until he definitely can’t waste any more time, needs to make a few calls to this company and that contributor, and if she’s sure she’s okay and doesn’t need to take the rest of the night off then he’s going to go get that done.

Though he stops mid-stride into his office and that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. So close to getting away with it.

“Did you happen to mention to Lily about my idea for the memorial?”

The only reason she doesn’t exhale in audible relief is because it would put her right back at square one. “Yeah — and she agrees. She’s just waiting until after Halloween to bring it up to Mari in case Mari doesn’t agree.”

“Why would Halloween have anything to do with it?” Adrian asks, puzzled.

“Because it’s Halloween.”

“And?”

“‘And’ you’ve met Lily, right? Lily Spencer, my roommate? The girl who loves horror things more than life itself? Who definitely has something weird and probably kinky planned with hers and Mari’s couple costumes that I specifically begged her not to give me the details of?”

Yeah, her face at the time looked a little like Adrian’s does now. Neither of them prudish by any means but there are some things better left to the people involved and not their entire friend group.

“Of course. You’ll let me know though when she —”

“Relax,” she gives him an easy smile with a hidden meaning — he can relax about her too, “you’re overthinking it. Jax made you promise to make life better for the Clanless and you’re sticking to it because you believe in the cause. Even if they talk and decide they don’t want a plaque of names on the plaza fountain, that doesn’t devalue what you’re doing to help.”

Sometimes he just has to be reminded that what he’s doing is enough. More than, in Nadya’s opinion, but Adrian’s just… just a good person. And good people never think they’re doing enough.

And if what scraps Kamilah has given her over the months are any indication, Adrian isn’t entirely to blame for his self-sacrificing nature.

But their Maker is already taken care of. All she can do now is be there, be supportive, and help them heal the wounds Gaius gave them.

Now he’s the one looking a bit ashamed. “Thank you.” He means it more than mere language can provide. She knows that.

Leaves her alone with her work and her thoughts as he makes sure his office door is closed behind him like he always does when he’s going to be making calls. It’s probably the most normal profession-related thing they do together; give each other space when there’s real work that needs doing.

And her thoughts have been itching in wait for the chance to overwhelm her when they can. They try to needlessly, relentlessly. Teasing like a schoolyard bully — offering the things she can’t quite recall in a treasure chest at her feet before sending it slamming shut and to the depths of her mind before she can even catch a glimpse.

Thats the hardest part about these stupid visions of hers. They consume her mind and even sometimes her body — as evidenced by the zombie-Nadya that met Adrian following his return. They make her feel things she’s never felt and experience sensations, actions she’s never acted upon and for good reason.

No one should have to know what it feels like to slaughter hundreds, thousands of people — to keep the blood on their hands and not only that but savor it like a trophy — not when the very thought of hurting anyone at all sends their stomach into knots.

But thanks to them she has a body count and is still too meek to tell the midnight door guard that her name isn’t ‘Nadine.’

On a whole she forgot the details after the vision passed. At first.

But they want to be seen. They want to be remembered.

So Nadya does what she always does. Listens intently until she can hear Adrian dutifully on the phone in his office, makes sure the coast is clear before she digs into the hidden pocket in her purse — pulls out her dark secret and grabs for a pen.

She jots down all she can remember — which isn’t much this time, thank Christ — on the back of the entry she’d scribbled that morning before Kamilah could wake up and discover her shame. Pens in the date at the top corner and tucks the journal away without letting herself linger on just how full that terrible little book is getting.

At this rate she’ll need to start a new one before Christmas.

New York City, 1911

He doesn’t miss the look Kamilah gives him out of the corner of her eye. Nose crinkled and lashes heavy — repulsed with the thing between his lips and yet, almost as if against her will, made to recall other better things he had done with that same mouth.

His darling Queen abhors cigarettes, has told him as much in complaints of kisses that quickly turn into moans of desire, of satisfaction. Something about the smoke and memories of a history called ancient now — it was so long ago. Scrolls turned to ash and scattered to the winds; knowledge and lives lost together. But history cared about one of those things more than the other. Kamilah, too.

And so he stares back; tempts her to say something about it. If she really has such a problem with smoke then she’s in the wrong place.

Instead she turns her focus on the blackness still billowing up towards the night sky all these hours later.

“Is this…?”

“Yes.”

She snaps a sharp look his way. “And does Adrian know?”

Behind them a fire engine carriage goes ballistic with noise; the horses trapped in their harnesses despite their rearing, their whinnies high-pitched and filled with a familiar terror. Yet if one were to glance at the commotion they wouldn’t find the source of their startled fear. There are no snakes on the paved roads beneath their hooves. No whips lashing at them from the hands of overworked masters.

Gaius and Kamilah don’t have to look to know where their predator is.

He sucks on the filter of his cigarette heavy. “He does now.”

“Poor taste, my love.”

“A necessary evil.”

“Committed by an evil equally so?”

Gaius doesn’t have to breathe for her to know she’s spoken out of turn. She sees it in the shift of his stance. The way he decides he’s done with her attention for the moment and trains his eyes forward instead.

Families, friends, passersby are still mourning loudly at the fire and the lives it took.

His beloved Soldier now among them — jaw slack at the loss of human life. All these years and Gaius has yet to really beat that sentiment for the human condition out from under his skin. The wail his fellow vampires can hear even from their distance that grows with each second it takes to realize just which building caught on fire earlier that day, which floors were consumed in the blaze, and who was among them.

Adrian crumples to his knees in grief. Its a sight his Maker takes no pleasure in despite any — even his Queen — who might accuse otherwise. She knows better though — chooses not to start an argument already lost and rushes forward to console her brother in blood at his loss.

“It’s okay Adrian,” her lies carry on the wind with the rest of the remains of the factory blaze, “I’m so sorry for your loss, but we will endure. We always have.”

It pains Gaius to hear the crack in his Soldier’s voice when he musters the ability to speak; “She — Kamilah—I— she can’t be —”

But she was. She had been a distraction; an influence Gaius hadn’t approved of yet a reason for Adrian to commit heresy for still. The proof was right before his eyes — all that weakness bubbling just under the surface of Adrian’s skin now burst forth.

One day Adrian would understand he had done this for the best. For the greater good of their Kingdom.

Gaius tosses the remains of the cigarette aside — goes to grind it to a powder under his foot but another beats him to it. The boot is brown yet black with soot.

“You really ought to change, lest you be discovered and accused.”

“Accused of what?” lilts the vampire behind him, “a bad spark and scrap bin started the fire, or haven’t you been listening in on the police’s conclusions?”

Gaius looks passed the tall young man to where indeed a group of officials are gathered. They must think they’re speaking in hushed tones. Fools.

“A novel idea. Now they won’t be searching mindlessly for a suspect.”

“I wouldn’t care much if they did. We depart tonight for England.”

But he wouldn’t be making idle conversation if there was nothing important to say. Makes Gaius drag his eyes upwards to see himself reflected in spectacles diligently cleaned of evidence from their time sparking the very flames the Vampire King of New York needed to ensure Adrian’s loyalty stayed where it belonged. With him.

“Speak, if you have words.”

The vampire inhales deep. “I did as you asked. Now tell me what I need to hear.”

Because he can, because its fun, he feigns ignorance. “And what would that be, dear Cynbel?” And he quickly learns the Trinity’s temper is true to rumor.

“Tell me Valdas has your permission to leave this fucking cesspool!”

“Why would I wish for my oldest Child to leave my side — especially when my plans are nearly ready to be enacted?”

“Because I did as you asked for that sole purpose!”

It’s a struggle Gaius has never known; the desire to act but the bone-deep acceptance of a singular truth. That he can’t. He can’t attack Gaius; the progenitor of his beloved so-called deity. Not only in strength but in sheer force of will. There was a time, once… long ago when he knew he would never achieve the level of power, of love, that consumed him at the sight of the One who set him free…

But that was history that made ancient look newly born.

“I am a man of my word, even if Valdemaras is not,” he waves flippantly — bored now with those fools and their notions of eternal love, “he has my permission to leave.”

Cynbel visibly deflates. “Thank you, Godmaker.”

“Though I will expect more than a favor should you three wish to join my Kingdom when it comes time. I remember those who stay loyal.”

The younger vampire surprises him when he casts a look back to his charred masterpiece; to where Kamilah has taken knee beside Adrian in an attempt to shoulder some of his burden.

“I’ve seen the price that loyalty to you demands. A high price indeed.”

He’s smart — flees before his insolence earns him Gaius’ wrath. It doesn’t matter to him either way.

To have his Queen, his Soldier standing at his side and basking in the glory of his Kingdom? There is nothing he would not do.

Everything he does is for Her, still.

#bloodbound #bloodbound fanfiction #choices fanfiction #adrian raines #kamilah sayeed #gaius augustine #bloodbound mc #mc: nadya al jamil #oc: cynbel #oblv: bound by destiny #oblv: drabble #; my fics

3 notes · View notes

atc74 · 5 years

Text

Raise ‘Em Right

Square Filled: Lawyer AU for @spnaubingo and Impregnation for @spnkinkbingo

Warnings: Jensen in a suit, breeding kink,

Summary: Jensen Ackles practices family law. He has a shitty day and his wife makes it all better by agreeing to start a family with him so they can be the parents so many people aren’t.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Word Count: 1365

Written for: @spnaubingo @spnkinkbingo and @emoryhemsworth

Beta’d by: @just-another-busyfangirl, thanks bestie for being the best!

A/N: A request from @emoryhemsworth and the gif she sent below...” lawyer!Jensen or Jared + the impregnation prompt? I saw this GIF again this morning and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head... “

Like Jensen’s scent? Buy it here from @scentsfromthebunker!

“Fuck!” Jensen yelled as he came through the door that evening.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” Y/N greeted him at the door as he dropped his briefcase and toed off his wingtips.

“All these fucking douchebags that think they have the fucking right to see their kids. They should have all of their rights revoked!” Jensen ranted as he walked through the sprawling first floor of their home. He went straight to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle bourbon.

“Tough day at the office?” she asked, shaking her head as he poured them each a drink. Jensen had worked hard to put himself through law school and when he wasn’t studying or working, he volunteered. It was what made him want to go into family law in the first place, to protect the children and give them a voice.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Jensen scoffed as he downed his two fingers of bourbon.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Y/N wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her head against his strong back, feeling the muscles there flexing with every breath.

“No, not really. But thank you. Do you know what I do want to talk about?” He turned to face her, wrapping his own long arms around her.

“What’s that?” She smiled up at him.

“Starting a family,” he answered seriously. “I know we haven’t been married for long, but we’ve been together forever…”

“Jay, nothing would make me happier,” she whispered. “No more condoms.”

Jensen released his hold on her and aggressively removed his tie. “Let’s get to it then!”

“Oh, like right now? You’re serious?” she asked at the look on his face.

“As a restraining order,” he replied, pulling on her hand and starting toward the staircase.

By the time they reached their room, his shirt was unbuttoned, hanging loosely from his broad shoulders. His belt was undone and his pants were opened.

“Someone’s eager.” She laughed, slipping her yoga pants down over her hips.

“Darling, I am always eager for you, but now you say you’re happy to start trying for a baby. Fuck yes! I can’t wait to get inside that perfect pussy and plant my seed,” Jensen replied enthusiastically, dropping his pants to the floor and kicking them to the side.

“Ohhhh so romantic!” She feigned fainting, her hand over her heart.

“You want romance? Tomorrow. Right now I am going to fuck a baby into you. Tomorrow I will show you romance,” he vowed, his voice husky with lust.

He was quick to move and in an instant she was on the bed on her back, Jensen hovering over her, rutting his thick cock against her still covered core. “This just won’t do,” he grunted, lifting himself from her and ripping the remaining clothing from her body.

“Jay!” Y/N screamed, pleasure running through her at this new side of her husband. He was always a gentle lover and she wanted for nothing, but this was something she never knew she wanted.

“Oh you like it rough, huh?” he growled, shoving two fingers in her tight channel. “You do like it, you’re already so wet for me. I can’t wait to be inside you. See you come apart on my cock.” He pulled his fingers from her and replaced them with his dick, thrusting quickly, until he was pressed tight against her womb. “Feel so fucking good, so wet and tight for me. I’m going to fuck you so good.”

“Fuck me Jay. Fill me up,” she moaned beneath him as he began to move, his hips hitting her with bruising force.

“Gonna fill you up good,” he groaned before pulling out. “Get on your knees.”

Y/N quickly flipped and positioned her ass in the air. She could feel her wetness dripping down her thighs. Jensen grabbed her hips roughly, impaling her on him. His thrusts picked up speed, the sound of skin on skin echoing off their bedroom walls along with her wails of pleasure and their heavy breaths.

“Fuck, baby, I ain’t gonna last. Play with that pretty little clit. I want to hear you scream my name when I pump you full of my cum,” Jensen ordered and she obeyed. He always loved to talk during sex, always telling her how beautiful she was, but this, this was new and different and she loved it. She loved the way he talked to her.

Y/N rubbed at her clit, furiously trying to keep up with Jensen’s pistoning hips. It was just enough to get her finish as his rhythm faltered, his body going rigid over her. “Jensen! Oh fuck! Ahhhhh!”

After they had come down from their highs, Jensen hurried off the bed while Y/N rolled to her back, watching him gather the pillows. “What are you doing?”

“Well, logic dictates that if my cum stays inside, it increases our chances, right? So, I figure if you keep your hips elevated, that should do the trick. Or you could stand on your head.” Jensen laughed as he arranged the pillows under Y/N’s hips.

“Yeah, I’m not standing on my head. Gen and I already did yoga today.” She laughed with him before she remembered something. “Shit. I totally forgot they were coming over tonight.”

“Fuck. What time?” Jensen asked as he looked at the clock, it was already half past six. He picked up and unlocked her phone, typing away at the screen.

“Seven-ish,” Y/N informed him. “What are you doing now?”

“That is plenty of time. This says about ten to fifteen minutes should be enough,” Jensen explained, putting the phone away. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. Don’t move.”

“Plenty of time for what?” Y/N asked his naked backside as he sauntered to the bathroom.

“To get my swimmers moving in the right direction!” he responded.

Y/N laid in their bed contemplating calendars and timing, all the while smiling to herself.

~*~

“What? Already?” Jensen looked up from the little stick in his large hand. “I didn’t think it would take right away.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Y/N was nervous as she took in her husband. Over the last ten years of friendship and marriage, she had learned to read him pretty well. His face said surprise, not shock, so she hoped it was a good thing.

“It’s a good thing. A damn good thing. I just thought it would take longer,” he whispered, looking at her with tears in his eyes.

“We timed it right. I was ovulating that night you came home,” she shrugged, her own eyes now getting moist. “Jay, we’re having a baby.”

“Damn straight we are!” Jensen pumped his fist in victory before dropping to his knees. “Boo, I promise you I will be the best dad I can be and nothing like those pieces of sh-”

“Jensen! Language!” Y/N laughed through her tears.

“Oops, sorry. I promise to be nothing like those bad people I see everyday. You already have the best Mama on the planet and we’re pretty lucky to have her. I love you, Boo,” Jensen whispered and pressed a kiss to her stomach.

“It is going to be weeks, maybe months, before I even start to show, Jay,” she reminded him.

“God, the thought of you all round with my baby gets me hard. If you weren’t already pregnant, I’d knock you up again,” he kissed her stomach before standing, “and again…” Jensen murmured, his lips pressed to hers. “Gonna keep you barefoot and pregnant.”

“Oh really?” Y/N pulled back, looking him in the eye. “Is that all I am now? A baby making machine?”

“God no. You’re the best wife and partner I could have asked for and I can’t wait to have a house full of little yous running around, knowing we’re raising them right to be good people,” he clarified.

“Oh, well, dammit, when you put it that way, it makes me all emotional and shit,” she said as she started to cry.

“Y/N! Language!” Jensen scoffed, laughing as he pulled her into his arms. “We’ll raise ‘em right together.”

Did you like it? The nicest thing you can do for a writer is reblog their work and tell them, and others, how much you like it!

The Whole Enchilada: @iwantthedean @dolphincliffs @mrswhozeewhatsis @meganwinchester1999 @cherrycokegirls1 @closetspngirl @roxyspearing @flamencodiva @blacktithe7 @sis-tafics @just-another-busyfangirl @evansrogerskitten @amanda-teaches @hannahindie @wotinspntarnation @winchesterprincessbride @winecatsandpizza @kickingitwithkirk @wi-deangirl77 @hobby27 @mogaruke @gh0stgurl @paintrider13-blog @hunterscabin @alleiradayne

The Dean’s List: @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @dean-winchesters-bacon @maddiepants @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @supernatural-jackles @docharleythegeekqueen @adoptdontshoppets @mtngirlforever

#spnaubingo #spnkinkbingo #jensen ackles #jensen ackles au #lawyer!jensen #Jensen x Reader AU #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #supernatural au

331 notes · View notes

bunkershotgolf · 4 years

Photo

SQAIRZ—Golf Shoes with a Difference

By ED TRAVIS

One Liner

The unique design and construction of SQAIRZ golf shoes were a hit at the 2020 PGA Merchandise Show.

WYNTK SQUAIRZ

Golf shoes come in lots of different styles from the classic wingtips and saddle shoes to those that look more at home on the court than the links but regardless of the style they must first and foremost fit properly and secondly make a positive contribution to the golf swing.

This isn’t anything new of course and every manufacturer talks about the comfort and performance of their shoes. Unfortunately, in the real-world color, accents, lacing and style seem to get in the way of one essential point. Do the shoes you are wearing actually help your game?

Robert Winskowicz thought they should and taking inspiration from a currently popular style of men’s dress shoes he created SQAIRZ.

At first look SQAIRZ’s difference is readily apparent, the front of the shoe is straight, perpendicular to the shoes or “square” and when viewed at address help to align the wearer’s feet parallel to the intended line of the shot. Now this is a nice feature certainly but the other major difference of Winskowicz’s design is far more important.

Put simply the forefoot and the front part of the sole are wider which allows the toes to spread out naturally, something like walking barefoot. Along with the wider sole SQAIRZ give more stability and better balance whether your swing is a lurch followed by a lunge or a one that would do Ernie Els proud.

For added swing traction the plastic cleats are placed under the foot’s pressure points and there are molded lugs between the cleats.

We had the opportunity to ask Winskowicz a few questions SQAIRZ and his answers via email were interesting.

ET:

Your offices are in Windham, New Hampshire but where are SQAIRZ manufactured?

RW:

Our shoes are presently made in Foshan, China

ET:

Is your direct to consumer strategy the only distribution channel and do you have plans for getting into green grass and big box outlets?

RW:

We have no immediate plans to go green grass or big box retail. We hope to create a more personal relationship with the golfer and seize this opportunity to connect directly and create an information highway to build out our brand.

ET:

What’s the next step for SQAIRZ? Other shoe models or branching out into more accessories such as bags and gloves?

RW:

We will continue to develop new models of SQAIRZ with various color schemes however keeping the geometry of the toe the same And finally, you are spot on. We are looking at apparel, bags, gloves, and other accessories all keeping with the SQAIRZ brand image. We presently have square toe socks, square carry bag, square umbrella, and a cap with a square visor.

It was immediately apparent wearing SQUAIRZ, first to the range and then on the course, they are comfortable while providing plenty of lateral support without even a hint of traction loss during the swing. The fact is we liked everything about them: design, construction, comfort, feel and traction plus there’s some nice little touches such as “Sta-put” laces with raised areas along the length so they remain tied and when cleats become worn down replacements are no charge.

The company offers a 30-day money-back return policy and we recommend before buying your next pair of golf shoes try SQAIRZ.

Key Features SQAIRZ

Synthetic leather waterproof 2-year warranty

Shape helps with shot alignment

Wider forefoot and sole for stability and balance

Wider sole puts cleats under pressure points

Heel stabilizer construction

Sole has six cleats plus molded lugs

Insole has added compression in pressure point areas

Padded tongue and ankle

EVA foam midsole

Women choose from two colors & men four

$199.97 per pair at SQAIRZ.com

#new #golf #edtravis #sqairz #mothers day #fathers day

2 notes · View notes

tightropenuzlocke · 5 years

Text

Tightrope: a Y Storylocke

Chapter One: Life Is Just A Play With No Rehearsal

They could hardly wait until they got back to the privacy of Serena’s room to snoop. Their own kits lay discarded on the bed to be opened later, because the identity of the final member of their program was far more interesting. The lab assistant who delivered their gear hadn’t known anything, but the packages they had to distribute were of course addressed to their recipients, and that was something to go on.

Xoana was surprised to find an address just down the lane from hers in Bourg Croquis, no doubt belonging to the new neighbors her mother had mentioned, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t volunteered to go with Serena to the pick-up two towns away. Teasingly, the name on the package kindled a faint flicker of recognition in the back of Xoana’s mind, and she rolled the Q around in her head to try and stoke it to life. It wasn’t a common name, at least not in this region, yet she’d heard it before. An old classmate? An acquaintance?

“A Rhyhorn rider!” Serena declared, beaming at her phone and her own cleverness. She read off her screen. “Grace Emer Quinn, born in Éire but a naturalized citizen of Kalos, holds the current world record for both time and obstacles cleared in a Rhyhorn race. Mme Quinn and her partner Rhyhorn, Morrigan, set the record at the twentieth bi-annual world championships. We watched that as kids, remember?”

It was always easy to find her on the track, emblazoned in bright red and charging recklessly ahead of the pack. Maybe that was why everyone was so taken with her. Xoana and Serena were far from the only ones who had cheered for her against their home region. In fact, she seemed to recall the whole viewing party, aside from her stubbornly loyal stepfather, had worn something red the day of the championship race. Serena had helped tie crimson ribbons in Xoana’s hair and pilfered a scarlet scarf from her mother’s closet for herself. Xoana’s mother had let them drag a blanket onto the floor so that the adults could occupy the surrounding couches and chairs. Xoana had watched the screen on her stomach, pillow squeezed tight in her arms and legs waving behind her.

Or perhaps it had been that force of personality which took the racing world by storm. She had always given interviews in the language of the region hosting despite all the extra effort because she hadn’t wanted anyone to speak for her. Xoana remembered the surety behind her words despite the reaching, the expressiveness despite her limitations, the hearty laugh over her own stumbling that was her trademark. And who could forget that shock of glowing red curls? Xoana had never seen hair like hers on TV before. Then there was that dense smattering of freckles and big, brilliant smile. Maybe Xoana had kept a picture. It was so long ago that she couldn’t quite recall.

But Xoana did remember how her heart had drummed every time she watched her. Kalos had never been so invested in Rhyhorn racing before or since. For a moment it had been almost as big as battling.

“So you think it’s her daughter?”

“Says here she has a daughter our age. And it would explain that Rhyhorn you mentioned.”

That was a good explanation. Rhyhorn weren’t really pets after all.

“Maybe it is her.”

…

“Look alive, Rough Rider!” Cináed tweeted at the top of his damn voice. Aisling groaned and pulled the sheets over her head before he could blast her with the full force of dawn.

There was a soft thump as he dropped from the string of the shade to the windowsill, then a series of softer ones as he hopped his way from her knees to her shoulder. The tapestry above her bed flapped in the sudden gust as he tried to wrest the covers from her iron grip.

“Come on, Aisling!” he whined.

She pretended to be dead.

He fluttered over to her pillow and tunneled into her hair. “Nice nest you have here.” He shuffled his feathers—settling in. “Think I’ll take it.”

“Be my guest.”

“Sure is warm in here,” he chirped pleasantly, snuggling closer to her scalp. It was gonna take a lot more than his scorching chest to get her up. “Do you smell something burning?”

Aisling leapt out of bed right onto her feet. “I’m up!”

A smug twittering drifted from her hair and she stumbled, grumbling, into her bathroom. Cináed poked his bright red head out over her brow and she grudgingly offered him the middle finger, which the Fletchling used to pull himself free.

She turned on the tap and splashed water over her face. Cináed beat a hasty retreat to the towel rack.

“You told me to get you up this morning!” he complained.

She scowled at his reflection. “It’s 6AM!”

He waved his wings in his best approximation of air quotes. “Don’t let me sleep in, Cináed! I need the extra time to get ready!”

“Fuck, that’s today!”

Aisling tripped out of her pajamas and Cináed slipped out the door to avoid the steam. The Fletching stayed close, though, and whistled an old gaelic ballad through the crack as she washed and rinsed and toweled off. As always, he came back in for the hairdryer and she shot him up to the ceiling a few times.

He perched on her bedpost while she threw half her wardrobe across the mattress, trying to get her outfit right. Yes, the jacket is absolutely a power move. Eh, I think we can do better than that skirt. Absolutely wear the boots!

Once she had the clothes, makeup was simple: gold eyeliner, some glitter on her cheekbones, and lip color to match her belt. She bound her hair back with the strongest tie that money could buy, smoothed the front and teased the back.

“How do I look?”

“Ready to cut ’em up!” Cináed chirped, flashing his white wingtips for emphasis.

Aisling grinned but something anchored her feet to the floor. She felt the weight of keen, black eyes watching her.

“Maybe I should come along,” Cináed offered. “I can scope out this starter pokemon for you.”

“Naw.” She waved him off, going for her clutch.

“Then at least take a few feathers!”

He swooped over to her vanity and snatched some of his shed feathers out of the tiny vase she kept them in. She held still as he landed on her head and poked them through her hair tie one by one, five in all. She watched his tail bob in the mirror and he caught sight of her face when he turned.

“They’re good luck!” he chirped before jumping ship.

“I make my own luck,” she reminded him, but her first smile of the day crept across her face as she checked his handiwork. Satisfied, she sprung out the door. “See you later Cináed!”

A scone from mam and a sleepy chuff from Raleigh, still resting in his sand bed, sent her off.

…

The morning was ever so slightly chill and Xoana hugged her warm cup of tea to her chest while she waited for the sun to warm the café patio where the group had gathered. Serena and Tracie nursed their coffees while Tierney finished off her pastry. They had pushed two of the little round tables together and left one seat open for the final member, who had yet to arrive. Xoana’s mother had confirmed via text that the new neighbors were indeed Grace Quinn and her daughter. Everything was squared away and Xoana let things fall quiet.

Tracie’s Pikachu grew bored and tapped her on the arm. Tracie pulled an old, handheld console out of her backpack and set up the kickstand case so Spark could play next to her on the table.

Tierney’s Hawlucha shuffled her wings before spreading them back out to sun some more. Tierney rolled the case of pokeballs idly back and forth on the table in a rhythmic drone.

The sound of bootheels on the cobblestones pulled Xoana out of her stupor. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but the young woman that approached them still caught her off guard. For one, Xoana had probably expected someone pale and firey like Grace. Instead she was dark with kinky hair bound tightly back and adorned with Fletching feathers. A little closer, she was almost more freckle than person and the clicking heels belonged to a pair of embroidered riding boots, which fit the picture of famous-Rhyhorn-jockey’s-daughter a little better. The leather jacket she had on emphasized her already broad shoulders and the well-fitted, indigo jeans drew attention to other assets Xoana probably shouldn’t be taking note of.

“Best behavior,” said Serena, which felt very pointed even though it wasn’t.

“Bonjour!” she called out to them.

“Bonjour!” they all answered, standing to greet her.

“You must be Aisling,” Serena continued, offering her hand. “I’m Serena Pascal. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Aisling purred, taking her hand.

The greeting lingered a little before she turned to Xoana, smiling even more broadly if possible. Her mouth was a bit large for her face, but in a nice way, and Xoana made a mental note to ask where she got that shade of purple lip color.

“Xoana Bellamy,” she said before Serena could do it for her. “Great to meet you.”

“Likewise.” It was nice to have someone sound like they meant it.

“We’re actually neighbors. I live in Bourg Croquis too.”

“Really? Maybe you could show me around sometime?”

“Of course!”

Aisling didn’t shift her gaze but thankfully Tierney stepped in to rescue Xoana’s heartbeat from its precipitous climb.

“Tierney Fitzroy.”

Aisling matched her hearty shake with ease. “You got folks in Éire too?”

“Yeah, my father’s family. Éire and Galar.”

Aisling dropped from her light, south Kalos accent into a heavy Éirinn brogue. “The traitors!”

That made Tierney laugh and Aisling moved on to the final member of their group.

“Tracie Chastain,” she said stiffly. Predictably she couldn’t meet Aisling’s eyes, but she did manage a greeting and brief handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Tracie.” If Aisling was off-put or offended by Tracie’s curtness, she didn’t show it. “What’s your Pikachu playing?”

“Dirby and the Crystal Shards.”

“Classic.”

Tierney’s Hawlucha shuffled over and Aisling greeted her as well.

“That’s Valériane,” Tierney explained. “She’s my starter.” Aisling offered her hand, which the Hawlucha patted awkwardly with her claws before waddling over to Tierney’s side. “And Spark is Tracie’s starter.” Tierney tapped the cylindrical case on the table in front of her. “You three get to pick one from Professor Sycamore.”

“But before we do,” said Serena, polite but officious as usual, “there are a few things we should go over. Do you have your trainer license?”

“Just got it yesterday!” Aisling whipped it out of her pocket to show before setting into the chair set aside for her between Xoana and Serena.

“Good. Tracie?”

Tracie already had her backpack in her lap and was pulling things out of it. She slid Aisling’s pokedex, holocaster, and provisional pokemon science licence across the table. Aisling took them wordlessly, practically radiating excitement as Tracie caught her up to speed. She registered, transferred her data and added them all to her contacts.

“Excellent,” said Serena. “Now that that’s sorted, we had a bit of a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” Aisling asked, perking back up.

Xoana spoke first this time. She could feel Serena about to be blunt instead of easing into it as Xoana had suggested. “Well, we thought—since we’re all in the same program—it might be fun to travel all together, as a group.”

“Oh,” said Aisling carefully, “did you all have a chance to meet up earlier?”

“We knew each other before we got into the program,” Serena jumped in.

Xoana could smack her.

“We all went to school together right here in Quarellis!” Tierney added cheerfully.

“Oh.” For the first time Aisling’s face closed and her posture stiffened.

This was exactly what Xoana had wanted to avoid. She swooped back in, leaning a bit over the table to get Aisling’s attention and smiling as bright and friendly as she could while also wanting to strangle her friends just a little.

“So we all get along and thought ‘the more the merrier’ you know?”

“We won’t all be working on the same projects of course,” said Serena, “but we all need to travel around to earn badges and so forth. It might be safer and more expedient to do so in a group.”

“No pressure to accept, obviously,” Xoana added, “but we would really love to have you.”

There was a pause while they all waited for an answer. Xoana could feel her face straining.

“That… sounds great!” Aisling declared, smiling again. “You seem like a good bunch. I’m so happy to have friends up north.”

Xoana stifled a sigh of relief. “That’s great! I’m so excited! This is going to be so much fun!”

“We were really hoping you’d be down for it,” said Tierney.

“Fun fact about me,” said Aisling with another big grin, “I’m down for most things.”

“Good to know!”

“Maybe we should do some icebreakers!” Xoana said. She was back in her element now. “How about we name our goals for the program and a hobby?” She paused, but she couldn’t exactly take that back. “I want to be a pokemon professional of some kind, but I’m not sure about my field. I volunteered at the Center in town and now I’m gonna use this year to look at training and research. Oh, and I like to make accessories and stuff in my spare time.”

“Did you make that bracelet you’re wearing?”

“Yeah!” She fiddled with it. “And the hair ties.”

Aisling surveyed them. “You’re good. They’re cute as anything.”

“Thanks!” She had to elbow Tierney so Aisling would stop looking at her.

Tierney talked about her dance moves project, which Aisling thought was a cool way to combine her passions. Tracie had to be prompted again, but Aisling saw to it this time. She even got Tracie rattling on about fossils until she abruptly clammed up, which meant she had gone back to counting her words. Aisling gave no signal of discomfort and that was as good a sign as any that this might turn out well.

“My goal is to be a professional trainer like my mother,” said Serena. “I hope to do well enough to be considered for Prof. Sycamore’s mega evolution project.” It was amazing how she just did that. Xoana would never be over it.

“And I like running,” she tacked on awkwardly. At least Xoana had something she lacked.

“I hear that helps clear your mind. A bit like riding that way.” It was impressive how she managed to make a connection with all of them right away, whether it was simple appreciation or common ground. “Anyway, my mom’s a big Rhyhorn rider and I’m going to get even more famous for battling. So I’m aiming to slide over into the mega evo project too. As for hobbies, I’ve done all sorts of things and I’m always in the market for a new pastime.”

Serena was measuring Aisling with her eyes, which was not a good sign.

“Since we’re all friends now,” Xoana began pointedly, “why don’t we come up with some nicknames for each other?”

“I like it!” Aisling nodded in approval.

“How about Ash?” Tierney suggested.

“Not bad, but I think I’d prefer to be addressed as My Queen.”

“My Queen?” Serena demanded, incredulous.

“Exactly,” Aisling confirmed, as if Serena had trouble understanding rather than believing. “Or perhaps Your Majesty, if you prefer.” Then she smirked.

Xoana couldn’t remember the last time someone doubled down after Serena challenged them like that. And neither could Serena if the way she pulled back and blinked was anything to go by. Serena’s tongue moved in her mouth, trying to work out a response, and Xoana scrambled to think of something to head her off.

“If you’re Queen, can I be Baronne?” They all looked at Tracie, surprised that she was following the conversation.

“But of course!” said Aisling magnanimously. “All of you are welcome to be nobles in my court.”

“Nice!” said Tierney, once again before Serena had time to process. “I’m feeling Vicomtesse for me. Has a nice ring to it.”

“An excellent choice,” Aisling declared.

“Hmm, I’m thinking Marquise,” Xoana threw in to keep the momentum.

“Perfect.”

“Are we really doing this?” Serena demanded, set back in her chair with her arms crossed.

Xoana smiled. She couldn’t help it. Even with Serena glaring at the both of them, she couldn’t keep it in.

“Aw, come on!” chimed Tierney good-naturedly. “It’ll be fun!”

“Yeah, Ser,” Xoana piled on.

Serena looked to Tracie, but she was researching something on her pokedex and predictably failed to notice the call for backup. Alone, tacit refusal was Serena’s only polite recourse. “I can’t think of one.” Can’t think of a rank higher than queen, more like.

Aisling tapped her lip a few times, looking Serena in the eyes, then pointed at her with a flick of her wrist.

“You seem like a Comtesse to me.” She didn’t wait for a response. “Alright, nicknames assigned! Let’s see these starter pokemon!”

Tierney leaned over and placed the case in the middle of the table before opening it, revealing three pokeballs.

“Before I let them out, who’s picking first?”

Xoana watched Serena squirm for a moment. She so obviously wanted first pick but she couldn’t be the one to suggest it. But they had both agreed to let Aisling pick first before she arrived, so Xoana elected to ignore this new development.

“Well if you’re Queen, maybe you should pick first, Aisling.”

“Makes sense,” Tracie agreed, failing to look up from her pokedex.

A muscle in Serena’s forehead twitched.

“Alright then. Let’s do it!”

Three small pokemon emerged in a flash of red light. The first was a Fennekin, who looked around at the assembled and scratched one of her enormous ears. The second was a Chespin who peeked at them before staring down at the table and nervously clasping her forepaws. The last was a Froakie, who glanced placidly around and smiled before using his tongue to clear one of his eyes. They were all so fucking cute. Xoana couldn’t decide which she wanted more.

Serena had decided though. Her eyes were fixed on the fire-type as if the other two didn’t exist. Aisling’s gaze was drawn to the Fennekin as well. Xoana began to brace herself, but then Aisling glanced to either side, catching Xoana’s eyes for a moment before delivering her choice.

“I think I’ll take… the Chespin! Chesnaught are the shit.”

The Chespin looked up, ears at attention, then glanced away and looked back again. Aisling held her gaze, grinning. The Chespin touched a paw to her chest in question.

“Yes, you!” Aisling answered with a snort of amusement. “Get over here.” The Chespin took a few paces forward and sat down in front of her, little nose twitching. “You got nice guns there, short stack.” She flexed one of her own, patting it for emphasis. As if to mirror the motion, the Chespin scratched at her thick arm and smiled tentatively. “You look like a Bree to me. How’s that sound?”

She looked down at a paw, taking a moment to carefully manipulate her digits, then gave Aisling the thumbs up. Beyond her, Serena was slightly irate that the Chespin apparently got more say in her nickname than she had been given.

“Welcome to Team Aisling! Can I get a fist bump?”

Bree closed her paw and tapped it against Aisling’s offered fist. Aisling drew hers away, splaying her fingers and making a sound effect out the side of her mouth. Bree wiggled her claws back experimentally.

“Yeah! You got it.” The Chespin smiled again at the encouragement. It was then that Xoana noticed Serena staring across the table at her.

“Go ahead, Ser—Comtesse. I can’t decide anyway.”

“I’ll take the Fennekin then.” Serena beckoned and the pokemon approached her. “I’ll call you Félicité, alright?”

The Fennekin nodded primly and sat down in front of her, curling her bushy tail over her paws. Serena stroked her fur, almost vibrating with happiness.

Xoana forgave her minor sins.

Aisling smiled too and there was a hint of satisfaction in it. So she had guessed which pokemon Serena wanted and let her have it. That was interesting.

The Froakie shuffled around to face Xoana. He blinked one eye and then the other at her. She melted onto her hands.

“Hi Froakie!” He blew a bubble from both nostrils and sucked them back in. “You are so cute! I love your bubbles! Can I touch them?” She reached out, but waited for him to nod before putting her hand on the ruff of pale, semi-translucent globes around his neck. They were moist and gave a little but didn’t burst.

“That’s so cool!” The Froakie smiled his big froggy smile at her. “Can I call you Froabble?”

The Froakie answered with a ribbit that expanded his throat sack a little. A noise of utter glee escaped Xoana.

The others all grinned at her, even Tracie, albeit with half her mouth. Aisling was leaning on her elbow to get a better view. Xoana could feel her face heating up. Tierney—bless her—rescued her by handing out the pokeballs.

“So, if we’re all going together, what’s the game plan?” Aisling asked, spinning her pokeball on the table like a top.

“We thought it would be best to work out of Neuvartault until it’s time to check in with Prof. Sycamore in Illumis,” said Serena. “There are three adjacent routes to train on and that way we could all earn our first badge before the meeting.”

“Sounds good to me,” Aisling replied.

“We can walk there together tomorrow if you want,” Xoana offered.

“I would like that.” That mouth of hers was deadly and shouldn’t be allowed. “Where are we staying?”

“Xoana and Tierney are staying with Tracie and me since we live close by,” said Serena. “But there’s a nice bed and breakfast in town.”

“Excellent. Send me the name and I’ll put in my housing request.”

Serena was a bit taken aback but couldn’t gracefully decline so reasonable a request, so she picked up her holocaster and texted the info.

“Thanks! All in order now?”

“That’s everything on the checklist,” said Tracie.

“Bree and I should probably get going then. Of course I’d love to stay and get to know you better, but alas, I have other appointments.”

She stood and gathered her things, motioning to her new Chespin to follow. Bree hopped from the chair to the ground and waited right by her ankle, which seemed to please her. She looked back up at them.

“It’s been the utmost pleasure meeting you Baronne, Vicomtesse, Comtesse, Marquise.”

The way her lips curved upward as she lingered on that final word—like she enjoyed the feel of it in her mouth—made something in Xoana’s chest flutter.

As she turned, she revealed to them what resembled a biker gang’s emblem splashed across the back of her jacket. It was a pokemon Xoana didn’t recognize—white and soft yellow with a third eye taking up most of its torso and blue tags hanging from each of the three points on its head. A furling banner below the pokemon’s delicate streamers bore the message: Try My Luck.

“Au revoir!” Aisling called without turning back.

And with that she was gone, pokeball at her belt, Chespin at her side, and even more bravado in the clicking of her boot heels against the cobblestones. Xoana didn’t want to stop staring after her, but that seemed imprudent, so she yanked her eyes back to the café table. Her new Froakie smiled tentatively up at her and she smiled back.

Aisling had been a surprise start to finish, but not an unpleasant one. The meeting certainly hadn’t gone quite as planned either, but perhaps that was to be expected. Serena was slumped in her chair with her chin tucked and no one else took it upon themselves to restart the conversation, so Xoana filled the gap.

“Well, she seemed nice.”

“Nice?” Serena countered, head cocked to the side and one immaculate eyebrow raised. “You call waltzing in like she owned the place and completely taking control ‘nice’?”

Xoana brushed this aside. “She was probably just nervous.”

“Nervous?” Serena was incredulous now. “What part of that display said insecurity to you?”

The Fennekin glanced back at her trainer and then expectantly at Xoana.

“This is a region-wide program. She had no reason to expect that we would all already know each other. It’s intimidating.”

“But—”

“Cut her some slack,” Tierney finally contributed. “You’re the one who was lecturing us to be friendly.”

“So did Xoana!”

“She’s nicer about it,” Tracie muttered, engrossed in her pokedex. Spark played with her handheld, feigning disinterest, but her ears gave her away.

“She told us to call her ‘My Queen’.”

Valériane hopped up and down, beating her wings each time in an attempt to see over the table.

“The nickname thing was my idea!”

Serena rolled her eyes and Xoana’s narrowed. Serena leaned back in her chair and spread her arms.

“So now we’re all lackeys in her court.”

“You’re so dramatic!”

“I’m dramatic?” Serena demanded, hand splayed on her chest like she was performing for a crowded theater.

The total lack of irony was more than Xoana could take.

“Stop repeating everything I say!”

Serena opened her mouth to argue the point, but from the look on her face, realized she was about to shoot Xoana’s words back again and thought better of it.

Xoana considered leaving it there, but she couldn’t.

“I liked her.”

“Of course you did."

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Xoana demanded—as if she didn’t know exactly what it meant—as if they all didn’t know. Xoana’s cheeks flushed. Just once she wanted to hear her say it, but of course she wouldn’t. She never had. “You just don’t like her because you’re used to being the alpha friend.”

“Wha— That’s not true!”

Serena looked to Tracie and Tierney but neither met her eyes. Then she had the nerve to pout. Fuck her and her adorable face.

Serena’s Fennekin hopped off the table into her lap and she stroked her absently.

Valériane made an inelegant attempt to haul herself up onto Aisling’s now empty chair. Xoana leaned over to offer the Hawlucha a hand and chewed the inside of her cheek as Valériane pulled herself up and settled into the seat.

“Listen,” she said at length, “you’re being a Skiddo about this.”

Serena grunted—as if to illustrate Xoana’s point.

“It would make everything easier and a lot more fun if we could all be friends.”

“That is almost exactly what you said an hour ago, Ser.” Tierney reminded her. Tracie nodded in agreement.

That only made Serena’s brow set even further. Time to change tack.

“We’ve got a whole dynamic going and it’s weird to shake it up, but maybe it’ll be good.”

Serena grunted again.

“If you don’t want to see sense, could you at least give her another chance as a favor to me? If you’re feeling generous, that is.”

Serena tried not to smile at the dig, but couldn’t help it. “Fine.” She scratched Félicité between the ears and the tension flowed off her. “First impressions aren’t everything.”

…

“Raleigh, I’m home!”

“So I see,” he said dryly, but he was waiting for her at the gate.

“Meet, Bree, my starter!” The Chespin ducked behind Aislings legs. “Bree, this is Raleigh. He’s a racer.”

Bree gave Raleigh a tentative wave.

“A plant-type, huh? Don’t ask me to spar with her.”

“Cináed’ll keep her in line, ya big calf.”

Bree made herself small so Aisling shoved the Rhyhorn aside to show her he was all bulk and no bite.

Grace came out of the house with Cináed and Aisling snatched up her starter.

“Look mam! I got a Chespin! Brawny and tenacious! Her name’s Bree.”

“Nice ta meecha there, Bree!” said Cináed.

“Welcome to the family!” said Grace and shook the Chespin’s paw. “How’d the meeting go?”

“Great!” Aisling bounced up on her toes and then hastily put her starter down so that she could emote more safely. “They were all girls! And two of ‘em were black! I miss the ranch already, but it’s so nice to be closer to the city.”

“I know what ya mean. I’m so happy for ya, alanna!”

“And they were all so nice! Serena might be a bit stuck-up, but she’s cute and kinda fun to mess with. Tracie’s shy but she was trying really hard and ya can just tell she’s smart. Tierney—”

“Tierney now?” Grace interrupted with a grin.

“Oh-aye!” Aisling confirmed in kind. “She had a fun vibe to her. Really interesting project too. And then Xoana—gods is she ever winsome—was so sweet and friendly. Made sure I was comfortable and all that. And you should’ve seen her when she got her Froakie.” She was gushing now but couldn’t help it. “They’re a bit odd, yanno? But she just thought he was the most precious thing in the world, moist skin and all.”

“Even the gooey mons deserve a fan I suppose.”

“But that’s not even the best part! We’re all going to travel together!”

“What a relief!” Grace made a big show of wiping her brow.

“I woulda been fine on me own!” She pouted for a moment but her mother only laughed. “This’ll be more fun anyway. They really are a nice bunch.” Aisling was bouncing in place now. “I can’t wait to start!”

“I’m so happy and so proud of you,” said her mother, voice as warm as the bread she could smell baking.

“Aw mam, you’re always proud of me.”

“Too right! And I always will be no matter what happens.” She brushed Aisling’s cheek with her hand. “But I also know you’ll do well. Us Quinns are women of action—adventurers through and through! There ain’t nothing we can’t do if we set our minds to it!” Raleigh snorted with approval and Cináed nodded vigorously from his perch on Grace’s shoulder.

“Yeah, alright,” said Aisling with a roll of her eyes.

Bree looked heartened and excited by all the enthusiasm, even though she probably didn’t catch much of what was said. Pokemon had a knack for getting the gist of things even without the understanding.

“Though I would like to tack on an addendum, which is that there are certain things we perhaps shouldn’t do… Like our coworkers, for instance.”

“Mam!” Aisling flushed and Grace tried not to laugh. “I’m not an idiot!”

“Nor am I, but you only have to be a fool once.”

“I know,” Aisling sighed.

“O’course, sometimes it can be the best thing that ever happened to ya.” A grudging smile wormed its way onto Aisling face. “Are ya leaving soon or hanging around for a few more days?”

“Heading out in the morning. We’re all going to stay in Neuvartault until it’s time for our first evaluation.”

“Sensible,” Grace sighed. “You’ll call me though, won’t you?”

“O’course I will. If you get a holocaster, you can see my beautiful face in glorious 3D.” She waved her new device at her mother.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“But you’re coming with me, right Cináed?”

He bobbed. “I promised, didn’t I?”

“Yes!” She pumped her fist.

“But just until you beat the first gym,” he reminded her. “I’m a songbird, not a battler.”

“Yeah yeah, ya coward. We’ve got a deal.”

Team Aisling:

Team Xoana:

Team Serena:

Team Tierney:

Team Tracie:

#nuzlocke #storylocke #pokemon y #Kalos #starter pokemon #Tightrope #chapter

4 notes · View notes

hoodoo12 · 5 years

Text

The Old College Try

Barkeep has her sights on Tailor Rick. Spoiler alert: she’s got her work cut out for her. Extra thanks to @porkchop-ao3 for letting me play with her character! Due to some references made in my story, it is set after her great Charlie Foxtrot (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7). Mature.

⁂

It was a hopping busy night. You ran back and forth between patrons, supplying fresh drinks, clearing empty glasses, making small talk and filling server’s orders nonstop. Something major must have happened on the Citadel, because there were more Ricks patronizing the place than normal, and more of them than not were focused on getting plastered. But when that uppity Rick who’d burst into the Bar months ago, the one who’d wrecked your chances with Ice Cream Rick, you vowed to yourself to spend some time with him.

He was as well-put together as the time you’d seen him before: a smartly fitted teal suit, an equally fitted shirt with the faintest hint of a baroque pattern woven into it, an expertly knotted tie, and--here you leaned over the bar to look--the same leather wingtips polished to a high shine. You also didn’t miss how well his trousers fit. They had to be tailored, to support and emphasize the bulge at his crotch.

The color of his suit didn’t do much for you, but the way his blue eyes seemed to dismiss most of his surroundings did, and you grinned to yourself at the challenge he was going to be. It’d be an extra sweet victory to get him into your bed.

He moved smoothly through the crowd, twisting so he didn’t touch any of the other patrons. He steadfastly ignored them too, whether they cursed him when there was an accidental bump or called to him in recognition. It was obvious his goal was a seat along the table built into the side wall, where he’d be able to look over the crowd, but someone else slid into it before he could get there.

Knowing you were going to regret saying this, you called, “Rick!” just over the buzz of the bar.

The noise level dropped immediately as so many of them swiveled their heads to you. Pointedly you ignored them but kept your gaze directly on your target. He grimaced. Not exactly the response you were hoping for, but you smiled at him anyway and tapped the bar in front of a lone stool.

With a resigned sigh that you could almost hear, he made his way over.

Normal sounds of the bar--the crack of pool balls, bragging, laughter--started up again as he sat down.

“Hey,” you said in greeting, setting a napkin in front of him. “Nice to see you again, Rick.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, looking over the crowd instead of at you.

Even though he grumbled, he sounded sophisticated. You hadn’t forgotten he was one of the only Ricks you’d met with a British accent.

It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that “Rick” got his attention a moment ago, but you let it slide. “Okay. What do you prefer? Richard? Mr. Sanchez? Daddy?”

That got his attention even faster. He spun around with a startled expression that melted into a snarl of distaste when he saw you grinning at him.

“Did I get one of them right?”

He ground out, “I’m called Tailor,” in a definitive tone.

You shrugged. “Whatever you’d like. I would have expected Mr. Sanchez. Or maybe Sir Richard Sanchez, habadasher to the Queen--”

You cut yourself off with a chuckle.

“Your mirth is misplaced, since you obviously have no clue that word has different meanings in England versus the Colonies,” he interrupted coldly. “I do more than simply sell clothing. I design and create high fashion for men and women. Therefore, Tailor. Not that I expected you to be familiar with even that word . . .”

He finished by making a show of looking you over, taking in your standard work outfit: a tank top and jeans. He couldn’t see your feet, thank god; he’d probably have a heart attack if he saw you wearing clunky server’s shoes! With the least amount of self-consciousness you could manage, you slipped your thumb under your bra strap--it had slipped!--to situate it properly on your shoulder and under the strap of your tank again.

He waited expectantly for your reply.

You narrowed your eyes and decided you couldn’t wait to fuck him. You’d win when you both were yanking each other clothes off. You decided maybe you’d keep one of his jacket’s buttons as a souvenir.

Laughing out loud, you said, “Tailor, I like you. Let me buy you a drink! What’ll it be?”

Tailor didn’t return your laughter. He simply told you he wanted a whisky on the rocks. You made it a double in a more expensive brand, and let your fingers linger on his as he accepted it from you.

He didn’t jerk back or scowl again, so you figured that was a chink in his armor.

Leaving him be for the moment, you decided round one was yours.

⁂

There were plenty more Ricks to flirt with; just because you had your eyes on someone specific tonight didn’t mean you wanted to close the door on others who may be back later. Most seemed more interested in drinking steadily, but some flirted back. Any other night you’d have taken one (or two, or three) home, but your sights were set on Tailor.

You kept him plied with drink and tried to carry on a conversation with him when you had a free moment. His answers were curt at first, but looser after a few glasses. You got out of him that the correct name for the color of his suit was Caribbean Blue, not teal; that he had designed gowns for the Queen and several other Royals as well; that his assistant was a nice woman but much too smitten with someone he called Mr. Whippy; that he usually didn’t come to places like this but he’d been in the neighborhood and--

Tailor, who’d not once given you full attention even as he tipsily spilled some of his guts, broke off his own sentence. Glancing in the direction he was looking, you saw a few members of the Council of Ricks enter the Bar: Riq IV, Maximums Rickimus, and Zeta Alpha Rick. The door almost closed again when Rick Prime came through as well. They were easily recognizable, even in new outfits you’d never seen before.

Tailor threw back the remainder of his drink and asked for another without turning to you.

He wasn’t the only Rick who’d stopped and stared at the Council members as they came in. For the second time tonight, the Bar fell oddly quiet.

“Where’s the rest of the Council, assholes?” someone shouted. “Too afraid to show their faces after that farce?”

“Suck my dick!” Riq IV spit back indiscriminately to all the patrons. Then, reverting more to the politician he was, his gaze seemed to meet every single person’s--including yours--in the place, like he was talking to everyone personally. “Our ruling stands. If you don’t like it, fucking run for Council yourself. For everyone else who’s not a complete fucking idiot, a round of drinks on me.”

A cheer went up. Whatever went down on the Citadel, free alcohol could smooth things over. You called a couple of servers over to help pull taps for the crowd, while you poured another double for Tailor and set up a vodka martini for Riq IV, who accepted it from you with a nod before heading to the table the other Council members had taken over.

You carried the new drink to Tailor, who was staring hard at the Council.

“Some Ricks seem a little anti-Council tonight,” you said conversationally.

“They better not get sloppy in those suits,” he groused, not taking his eyes from them, and not in the least replying to your statement.

Your gaze drifted to them again. You had to admit their new outfits were less obnoxious than the previous ones; they still declared “official” and “high-standing” but with subtlety, without the over-the-top gild and frippery that you were accustomed seeing on them. Or in the case of Riq, on your bedroom floor.

“What are they thinking, wearing those here? They could have worn burlap sacks and everyone would still know who they are! That fabric is hand woven and bloody expensive! If they fucking spill beer on it, who’s going to be the one getting the call to have it cleaned properly? Goddamn me, that’s who!”

It dawned on you that Tailor was muttering angrily to himself.

“So those are your designs?” you asked.

He shot you a look that advertised he couldn’t believe how stupid you were. “Of course they are! I’ve been after them to allow me to redesign those horrors they’d been wearing--they finally let me, and now they’re parading them around in a shit hole like this?!”

You took a second, then said, “I like them. They’re not so ugly. And it looks like the fabric is more substantial. Those other ones were pretty thin.”

“Yes they fucking were--” Tailor replied automatically, then cut himself off to appraise you with a keen eye. “How do you know the weight of the fabric from their old monstrosities?”

“Oh, you know. Just a guess,” you answered mildly, waving your hand. You knew you had a reputation among Ricks, but you weren’t sure if this particular Rick would be more disgusted than eager about it.

“You know them?” he asked sharply.

You nodded. “I’ve met a couple.”

“You’ve met a couple, and were able to feel how thin their robes were,” he said, as a statement of fact.

You shrugged and smiled, but didn’t elaborate.

Calculations were going on in Tailor’s head. You could tell. You had no idea what they may be, but you were called away again before he could say anything more. You hoped whatever it was burned him up, and he’d be more excited when you returned.

⁂

Typically with a Rick that you had your sights on, you’d flirt, you’d play up your cleavage. You’d joke and flatter; Ricks tended to eat that up. Occasionally, you’d be more up-front, but with your reputation and Ricks’ standard willingness to get down and dirty that wasn’t common. This Rick, however--

Tailor was either obtuse or a eunuch. Those were the only two explanations you could come up with for him repeatedly brushing you off. You dismissed the idea he may be gay; you supposed it could be possible but you’d never met a Rick that didn’t swing at least a little bit both ways.

So you turned on the charm. You were flattering, you were witty, you continued to ply him with doubles and made sure to lean far enough over the wooden bar to display your boobs whenever possible. He remained steadfastly annoyed with you.

The rest of the patrons seemed to loosen up regarding the Council being there--free booze helped--but Tailor continued to stare them down with laser-like intensity. The Council themselves seemed to be having a grand time laughing and swaggering. Several times Riq IV caught your eye; he raised his eyebrows and smirked at Tailor too. He also elbowed the Council members near him and made it obvious he was talking about the Rick at the bar. Each time that happened you noticed Tailor scowled and took a bigger mouthful of alcohol.

You decided to try and use whatever hatred Tailor was feeling towards them to your advantage, and once more struck up a conversation with him when work slowed down a little.

“So those new Council outfits. Tell me about them.”

He replied with only an eyeroll, to demonstrate how little he thought of your attempt to engage him.

Undeterred, you continued, “Did you have to take individual measurements, or could you just work from one of them?”

That ridiculous ice-breaker of a question made him pause and gulp for some reason. You thought maybe he didn’t hear you, or you didn’t phrase it correctly.

“I don’t know much about sewing,” you continued. “I thought that for tailored clothing all these measurements had to be taken, to get all the seams or whatever right. With Ricks, though, most of them are pretty much the same body type, so maybe it’s different? You could even just take measurements of yourself and work from it, right?”

Tailor closed his eyes for longer than a blink and his lips moved a little. You swear he was counting to ten. When he finally turned back to you, you could tell he was trying to keep his cool.

“Working from a mannequin or my own personal measurements doesn’t take into account variations of individuals. Yes, we’re all Ricks, but we’re not all the same. I’m sure you’ve been able to note the differences between the multitudes?”

It was meant to be a stinging shut down, and truthfully, it did hurt a bit. But eyes on the prize! It wasn’t enough to make you wilt.

“I have,” you admitted, leaning in close. “So you’ve had your hands on at least the Ricks that make up the Council members. Wanna go back to my place and compare notes?”

In the middle of a dismissive sip of whisky, Tailor choked. You laughed while passing him a handful of napkins, plus a glass of water; you always liked to be able to catch Ricks off their guard. You rubbed his shoulder soothingly as he caught his breath.

The slight commotion he caused made a few other patrons, including the Council, look your way.

“You okay?”

Even though his eyes were watering, Tailor managed to pull himself together and radiate distain. He slapped your hand away, not caring he was in front of an audience.

“I-I-I’m fine,” he stuttered in a croak.

There was an aura around him now, something dark and angry and it dawned on you there was a line you weren’t aware of but crossed. You get the sense he wanted to storm away, make a scene, but with people still looking over he cleared his throat and slipped off the barstool with a grace you knew he had to fight for due to how much he drank. Once standing, he pulled at his jacket to straighten it, and tossed a handful of folded bills on the bar.

“Good day,” he told you, barely moving his lips, in a tone that inferred the opposite.

He grabbed his tumbler and stalked away.

“Huh,” you said out loud, mostly to yourself.

Apparently it was loud enough for some co-workers behind you to hear; they were twittering, and more than one of them lay a hand in mock sympathy on your shoulder. Bruce, the bouncer with a mouth as full of teeth and wide as a shark’s--you couldn’t pronounce his real name in whatever his native language was; you just nicknamed him Bruce after the mechanical shark in the movie Jaws--even came over to whisper how disappointed he was you didn’t take Tailor home. He had money riding on you that you’d succeed.

You knocked him in the shoulder. Even a light punch made your knuckles ache.

Oh well. They can’t all be winners, you consoled yourself. Licking your wounds, you continued to flirt with the increasingly drunk Ricks still seated at the Bar, but none of them were going to be good companions for the rest of the evening.

As the night wore down, the Bar started leaking patrons. Maximums Rickimus--whom you had a hard time talking to after how your evening ended with him the last time you took him and Riq home--left. Other Council members peeled off their original group to speak to other people. You caught sight of Tailor sidling up to and chatting with a Council member you only knew by name. Rick Prime. You watched him straighten the other Rick’s jacket across the shoulders and swipe his hands down the other man’s back to smooth the fabric. You didn’t miss him giving a subtle squeeze to Rick Prime’s ass, and it all became clear to you why you couldn’t close the deal with Tailor.

Growling obscenities to and at yourself, mindless that there was still a bit of time till last call, you set yourself up a gimlet and drank half of it in one go.

“Not just downing a s-shot?”

“This is classier,” you snapped at Riq, who’d made his way to the bar. “And it’s bigger than a shot, so I get two swallows out of it.”

You proved yourself right by finishing it off with one more drink.

“Much classier,” he remarked drily. “Get me-set me up another vodka martini, so you don’t have to drink alone.”

Grumbling, but quietly, you complied. You didn’t give Riq his glass until your next gimlet was prepared. When you finally passed his over, he lifted it in a silent cheers to you, and took a sip. You took another large mouthful of gin and lime, staring daggers at Tailor and Rick Prime, who seemed to be sharing a private joke at the moment. Tailor hadn’t taken his hand from Rick Prime’s lower back.

Riq’s eyes slid over to the object of your attention, and he grinned.

“Ah,” he said in what sounded like sudden understanding.

With that one syllable it suddenly struck you that Riq had watched you all evening trying your damnedest to get with Tailor! You dragged your gaze away from Tailor back to him, and you exclaimed,

“You knew all along! You knew I was wasting my time!”

Riq’s grin widened, and he agreed easily, “Yes.”

“Goddamn it!’ you pouted, but it was more towards yourself than him. He heard that.

In faux sympathy, he put his gloved hand over yours. “I’m sorry you struck out with Tailor. I would have been happy to tell you he only hooks up with other Ricks, and that he’s been itching to get Rick Prime in bed . . . but what fun would that have been?”

“Oh, you’re a prick.”

“I’ll drink to-to that. Let me buy you another, and I’ll fill you in on all the shit that hit the fan today on the Citadel.”

Whatever victory it was that put him in a chatty, generous mood, it was fine by you. Anything to take away the anger at yourself for not realizing you were barking way up the wrong tree with the British Rick known as Tailor.

fin.

#fan fic #Rick/reader #Tailor Rick #Council of Ricks #the bar at the end of the universe series

13 notes · View notes

svguavajelly · 5 years

Text

“You don’t get to decide!”

By the time the meeting adjourned with Juan Arco, the director of the Macas Airport, his niece, my friend Adam Gebb and Marcelo who is our Shuar guide, the weather had drastically changed since our arrival after a beautiful 4+ hour drive from Cuenca. Transiting Parque Nacional Sangay on a windy mountain road the park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site (like Cuenca Centro) and is home to Volcan Sangay, a 17,400ft active volcano with a snow capped perfect cone. The weather had been mostly clear with typical mountain clouds and it was the same on arrival in Macas.

Valley to Macas. There’s a road in there somewhere.

Our plan was to depart after the meeting but unfortunately the tiny Cessna, 4 seat plane doesn’t fly well in sideways rain. When flying into the Amazon over the Cutucu and Shaimi ranges and landing on a primitive grass runway cleared by machetes on the edge of the Mangozita River you need the weather to cooperate. Juan Arco explained that during this time of year the weather could remain foul for days and suggested we backtrack and travel many more hours by bus to our planned final destination and do the trip in reverse. Clearly our plan to fly in and land up river and find a canoe to take us downriver is logically the best. We were anxious to start our journey and had suggested we fly the next morning when it is typically clearer before the afternoon storms roll in.

"That sounds nice but you don’t get to decide!” Juan Arco rebutted with a snicker. We all agreed we could look at the weather in the morning and decide and set out to find lodging for the evening. I needed to buy rubber boots for the journey into the deep Amazon anyway and we enjoyed our last night with a comfortable bed and good meal.

Fortunately the mist in the morning lifted and we lugged our gear to the airstrip, got weighed, paid the fare, tax and wandered around the hanger until we were called to board. Aside from the desk attendant, pilot and baggage handler, we were the only other people around. This is my kind of airport.

The cockpit of the tiny plane was smaller than most taxis we use around Ecuador. They had the plane loaded specifically to balance the weight. Adam offered me the front seat as I had the better camera but the pilot said we were specifically seated for weight distribution. That explained Adams giant backpack leaning against me in the seat between Marcelo and I in the back. After ambling down the runway we managed enough speed to get off the tarmac and immediately banked east towards the Amazon.

Within minutes of the bustling Macas (pop. 30,000) we were skimming the dense canopy of virgin rainforest. Looking down I was imagining what secrets lie below the treetops. There are few places with undisturbed forest like this and especially so close to developed areas. The next half hour we saw a couple of clearings with primitive dwellings but no roads. All travel was by foot and possibly pack animal. Many parts of the dense forest, growing on the steep mountainous land, looked impassable.

Finally the river appeared and we got a glimpse of our airstrip in the distance before circling around the surrounding bluffs. As we descended the plane slowed we were soon looking into the trees as the canopy whooshed by beyond the wingtips. The bumpy landing was exciting though never particularly scary. It’s just another day for the pilot.

We quickly unloaded the plane while surrounded by a dozen uniformed schoolchildren. The heat and humidity was clearly a noticeable change from Cuenca and even Macas…about what you would expect for the Amazon jungle. We shuttled the gear to the river and took a quick dip while asking about canoe transport to Miazal, our first village.

youtube

Our longboat canoe measured 25 feet plus an outboard outfitted with a 6 ft long shaft and a tiny prop for skimming the surface of the river. It wasn’t too stable and fortunately I am accustomed to tippy boats. We asked how far down river was Miazal and the teenage driver flatly responded “3 curves” like that would give us the info we needed. He was keen at navigating the features, currents and obstacles of an ever changing Mangozita River. The rapids were small but still made us grip he gunwale a little tighter as we approached any whitewater.

When traveling in the areas of the Shuar territory, which we were transiting, there are no public lands, per se. It is a community of scattered families and their connecting parcels. It is fairly remote and I doubt many of the locals make trips outside the area. There is no cell service (though some locals did have phones) and no internet nor electricity. Yes…off the grid. So the locals don’t really have any outside information or news.

We hired Marcelo to be our guide, mostly a liaison to vouch for our presence on their land. More than once when we desired to pull up to a village, while landing the canoe somewhere below a bluff, we heard shouts and warnings from above…voices from the trees saying we were not welcome…don’t stop…move on. It was hard to hear if they were speaking Shuar or spanish but it was clearly not welcoming. Having the local boat operator and Marcelo with us didn’t matter…they didn’t want Adam and I there.

In Miazal and subsequently everyone we talked to were aware of a new rumor that some gringo men had come to a village upriver and cut off the heads of 3 Shuar girls. Obviously not true and when we heard this the first time we laughed and thought it was a joke and soon realized they were serious. The two different places we camped for a couple of days each didn’t really believe this (so they say) but they did inform us that this rumor was strong and well traveled among the territory. Regardless of what locals really knew or thought about this, it made our trip a little tense and put restrictions on our ability to explore or go anywhere without a local family member in tow.

From Miazal we hiked to the next village to get permission to visit the Aguas Termales. Not your regular natural springs this sacred location has a 50ft waterfall with a temp of about 104F cascading into a mountain jungle river with other towering, cool falls. The 2 hour hike was on a very primitive trail and without our local guide, Luis, and his machete we would have never found it. We crossed the river half a dozen times and finally I gave up trying to keep the inside of my rubber boots dry and copied Luis and Marcelo who would just let them fill. We scrambled up steep banks that are frequently flooded and washed out and avoided all the pokey, stinging plants and animals of the jungle. These mountains are home to the 3 big cats that reside in Ecuador, the Puma, Panther and Jaguar. Though we didn’t see any, nor did we expect to, we did see some big paw prints down by the river.

Cold Cascada

After some time soaking, swimming and admiring this special place we sensed some nervousness from Luis as he kept looking at the sky. The weather seemed pleasant but he knew that it could be raining miles away and the flood could hit us before the rain even appeared. It would be impossible to get back with any level of inundation. So we gathered our snacks and clothes and returned a different way along the river.

Back at the village I was passed a giant bowl fashioned from a natural gourd containing chicha, the tradicional drink made from the yucca root. Harvested, cleaned, boiled and mashed. While mashing the women chew handfuls of the mixture and spit it with their saliva back into the mixture. Ferment for a day or so and serve it up! The weak alcoholic flavor is mild with a light, fizzy tingle on the tongue. The bowl is passed around and around or more commonly passed to a woman outside the circle who wipes the rim and offers it to the next man. It is an ancient tradition and I sheepishly accepted the patriarchal ways of this ritual. I felt it was important to participate and later found out they don’t really trust visitors that don’t drink chicha. This was done everywhere we went for our week in the territory.

Chicha-tender

A couple of hours down river was our second stop at the community of Los Angeles. Esteban and his family have a big parcel with a variety of fruit trees and a soccer field surrounded by various casitas. In our exploration Esteban pointed out a plant from which they make Ayahuasca. I got an immediate tingle up my spine as I caressed the trippy, twisty vine of the soul…a regular reaction whenever referencing Ayahuasca from my experiences with the medicine in the past decade. He informed me they had a ceremony the previous night and I was both bummed I missed another opportunity as well as somewhat relieved.

Esteban showing me the Ayahuasca Vine

Daughters Cabañas

None of this had any effect on the regular Sunday gathering at this property. Many families arrived with food while music blared from a giant single speaker and various official soccer matches were played, all the while the skies poured down on the party. At dusk, Esteban took us on a canoe ride and long walk exploring his property. The trail was flooded and knee deep for a long section as we approached his daughters' compound, a tidy area with a couple of cabanas and easy access to the river.

Right behind this goal the riverbank steeply descends. If they are lucky the ball will get hung up in the brush, otherwise it rolls or flies into the swift river below.

Goooooooooaaaaaaallllllll!!!

youtube

Our last night was spent cooking for the entire village as they lined the walls of the casita watching as if we were a 1 act play in the round. Using a camp stove we cooked up a vegetable stir-fry with jalapeño tuna topping with fruit and salami appetizers, finishing with Ritz and Oreos and they could not have been happier. Later we spoke with Esteban about the weather and departing mañana and after some discussion he matter of fact stated the familiar saying “I know you need to catch a ride but you don’t get to decide”. Duly noted.

Waiting for Dinner

Palm Larva. Yep, I ate it, crunchy black head and all.

Fortunately in the morning the rains had subsided while I made strong coffee for Esteban and his wife and chatted with the kids as they took turns drawing pictures in my journal. Before long we were packed and ready for the couple of hour trip downriver to meet our ride from Cuenca. Though the rain had stopped the river was still cresting and it took all hands on deck to keep an eye for floating trees, snags and changing currents. Half way down river we spotted the lost canoe from the night before, hung up in some overhanging branches which were normally 12 ft above the surface but now provided the perfect “arms” to stop the runaway canoe and cradle her until we arrived.

Our mission to recover the boat was dangerous and charged with the type of excitement I remember from a decade of sailing on Guava Jelly when these types of situations arose. We can do this but be aware, move deliberately, don’t do anything stupid and make matters worse. Crossing the strong current we made a wobbly approach and as Marcelo grabbed the line of the stranded canoe from the bow of our boat the current swung us around and pushed the 2 hulls parallel. While attempting to hold the position and not trying to pinch fingers the 6ft long prop shaft (still running) was stuck between the hulls, craned 180 degrees forward and spinning between Adam and my head. We remained calm and managed to get everything sorted and towed the canoe across the river, tying her up safely for Estebans’ son to gather later.

Riverfront Property

We arrived at what we thought was Puerto Morona to a flooded and confusing ‘dock’. Squeezing in and climbing over other boats we managed to exit without falling in the drink. This town, though small, had the regular port feel. Interesting and grimy with all the action at the intersection of the dock and the only road passing through town. We clearly were outsiders but people were generally curious and friendly while we ordered our almuerzo (lunch) and a beer.

Flooded Dock.

Ready to return to my crazy family in Cuenca, our ride was nowhere to be found and pondering another night in the Amazon..where would we stay, we decided to get a mixto (pick-up truck taxi) and hope we see him on the way. A few minutes down the road when we reach Puerto Morona…wha?!?…he was there. We had been waiting in Puerto Morona(ish). Do you know there are a half a dozen San Rafaels within 30 minutes of the capital of Costa Rica? Also quite a few San Antonios, San Isidros, San Franciscos, San Others in the same area? In my confusion I remembered this and shrugged it off…we had a ride home!

Climbing into a 2016 extended cab, 4 wheel drive Toyota, I felt almost at home with the familiar comforts the Amazon failed to provide. 5 minutes later our driver explained the only reason he arrived at Puerto Morona on time (the correct Puerto, not the one where we were waiting) was his truck. He approached the washed out road…no road remained, just a little sliver of flat ground over the curb of the shoulder, beyond the avalanche mud. The locals said you can’t pass (aka “you don’t get to decide) and our driver reminded them he just came thru an hour before. We were waved passed and we repeated this process a couple of more times. Hours later I was embraced with the hugs from the wee ones I so missed.

One of many landslides covering the road home.

Aside from the Amazon exploration and adventure, this trip had another more noble purpose. Adam Gebb has been putting together plans to save the rain-forest, albeit only the corridor we visited that is the Shuar Territory.

Looking over 2000+ miles of Amazon jungle basin before it reaches the Atlantic Ocean.

Like so many other unspoiled lands and last frontiers of the world, this area has no protection from the exploiting petroleum, mineral and other industries that threaten to destroy it. From those industries there is currently an influx of money and deals negotiated to steal these lands from the indigenous locals and they have little representation to prevent this from moving down that irreversible path.

The black oval is roughly the Shuar Territory. You can see the value of a bio-corridor between the 2 National Parks. Cuenca is to the west in the Andes.

Adam’s multi-level plan is relatively simple though it faces many hurdles and even if things move forward the progress will be at a glacial pace. Change is difficult when dealing with the many facets…the landholders, government departments, conservation organizations and the research, reports and knowledge necessary to achieve protected status.

Traveling to the territory to meet with the locals and persuade them to even listen to ideas about conservation is a daunting task. That was the purpose of this trip and as you may have read, it was difficult to obtain trust.

Briefly the plan, with the approval and support of the Shuar community, would be to establish eco-friendly tourism to the area by means of a simple hut to hut hiking corridor. This would get the locals involved, bring them some income and hopefully with the reports of like minded travelers and tourists who visit the area, alert the larger conservation organizations (where the future money would come from) to the importance of ultimately establishing a protected bio-corrodor connecting the Parque Nacional Cordilla del Condor on the Ecuador/Peru border to the Parque Nacional Sangay in the Andes of Ecuador.

Though it sounds straight-forward and obviously necessary, there are many steps in between and every turn requires much planning and revisions, meeting, studies, funds, travel, etc. All the while maintaining focus and awareness to the delicate needs and desires of the Shuar community. I hope the unforeseen hurdles are few and the project is successful.

1 note · View note

dammitadolfnomorecake · 6 years

Text

DOTW 43 - start

Eren made it through Anna's christening and his birthday in one piece. His post heat blues still lingering, leaving him a sobbing mess as he proudly held his Goddaughter. Erwin was named her second Godfather, but Eren didn't care. He got to cuddle her as much as he liked and she adored the attention. Levi was very attentive to his needs as well. His frayed nerves, coming out of heat, meant this his lover had called Mike to come help him at the apartment, rather than forcing him to go to hospital. Mike had been sympathetic, letting Levi set him up with the saline bag he'd brought with him, and more or less watching over Levi as he gave him a check-up. Given iron supplements to help with the anemia from the nose bleeds, he was warned that if he had another bad nosebleed, Mike wanted him to come in. Thankfully, he hadn't. Because his birthday was during his post heat, Anna's christening was the only thing they had planned. He'd already talked to Hanji about it, and had been made to promise he'd come spend a little time with her again, once his mood had lifted. Levi had surprised him with tickets to the Charity Ball, and a promise of day out once his post heat had passed. From what Eren could remember, it was the same Ball Petra had forced on Levi last year. It wasn't Levi's scene, but his alpha had promised he'd love it, and to dance with him. So it was acting as a kind of light at the end of the tunnel. He just had to hold out a little longer. * Levi had had a shit day at work. He couldn't take time off to be there the whole time Eren went through his post heat depression, which left him bitter enough as it was. What he fucking hated though, was being called out on a fucking prank. It was a waste of fucking time and resources, and maybe because he'd rejected Petra's invitation to this years Charity Ball, she bounced the call through to them like she took some joy in sending them on a nearly hour long trip to nowhere. It was the fucking boons. Erwin was in high spirits, teasing him about leaving Titan behind to rush home to Eren, though that had faded into annoyance rivalling his own when they arrived to find absolutely nothing. No stabbing victim. No fighting. No one even home at the residence... which looked like it'd been abandoned for some time. Levi let Erwin call it through to Petra, the address would be flagged and marked in case of future calls. Irritated, he grabbed his phone off the dash. Erwin raising an eyebrow "Calling Eren?" "After this fuck around, I need to let him know I'll be home late" "How's he doing?" Levi rolled his eyes "You saw him at Anna's christening" "He was post heat" "He still is. It should be gone tomorrow, or the day after" "Mike said his heat had been rough" "Since when do you and Mike talk about my omega?" "Since you leave a stinking blanket in my spare room" "Fuck. You could have washed it and returned it. Its Eren's second favourite" Erwin laughed "Who would have thought you'd care about favourite and second favourite blankets?" "I have no idea about blankets. That's Eren's Department. I just know that the green furry thing is his second favourite" "The word you want it "Mink". It's a mink blanket" "Oh, fuck off. It's furry, but not as furry as the blue one. He's lucky I know how to get stains out" Erwin snorted, making Levi roll his eyes again "Get your head out of the gutter. He over heated during his heat and got blood all over it. Killed both the pillows too" "Damn" "Yeah. Eren doesn't do blood at the best of times. He's not one to run away, but I could see why he was freaking out. Anyway, shut up" Eren was sleeping when he called, his boyfriend mumbling something he thought was intelligible, and even if Levi couldn't work out what he was saying, he was sure it was adorable. A sleepy Eren was adorable. Explaining carefully he'd be late home, his boyfriend gave a heavy sigh, before mumbling he understood and hanging up. He was probably in this shit but there wasn't anything he could do about it. People were wankers. Over the next couple of days, they were called out to another three pranks, while Eld and Gunther also had the same issue. They couldn't ignore the calls, not on the off chance that someone actually needed help. By the time the Charity Ball rolled around, he was done. He didn't want to go. Even though he'd promised Eren. Taking Eren out shopping for something to wear, he'd upset his omega by not paying attention when Eren wanted to know. His boyfriend simply enquiring what was and wasn't ok to do, and what was and wasn't ok wear. The cherry on top being when he'd snapped. Eren throwing his three dress selections at him, before storming out the store. He didn't even notice they'd changed stores, or that Eren had suggested wearing a dress... he didn't mean to bring his work home with him... and heading out after his shift was a shit idea. He was just so done... awkwardly paying for Eren's three selections, he trailed out of the store, looking for his love. Eren was sitting on a bench a little way away from the store. He needed to explain things. Wandering down to where Eren was sitting, Eren turned away from him as he sat. Yep. He was in the shit "Eren. Look. I'm sorry, ok" "No" "We've been prank calls at work, and I guess we're all feeling annoyed over it. I didn't mean to bring my shit day home with me" "Levi. You don't even want to go. What are we even doing here?" "I..." "You what? I don't know any of these people and the ones who do know me, think I'm either a whore for being a stripper, or a basket case for being there while my brother died" "No one thinks that" "You don't need to fucking lie. I'm nervous and I asked you what I should do, and you couldn't even give me a reply. If you don't want to go. Then there's no point going" "I want to go, because I know you'll enjoy it" "How am I supposed to enjoy it? Not when you don't want to be there" "Eren, the whole point of going is to drink some expensive alcohol and dance. I don't usually dance, and I'm usually avoiding Petra, because she somehow can't get it through her head that I'm gay. But I bought those tickets because I wanted to go with you. I want to show off my boyfriend" Eren sighed, an angry pout on his lips as he turned to him "You're not allowed to leave me alone. I cannot fend for myself against your friends. And no Petra. Or Olou" "I won't let Petra and Olou near you" "Do you promise?" "I promise I'll try my hardest not to let you get trapped by them" "And don't leave me with Erwin either, or his friends" "Eren, do you just hate all our work friends?" "I don't hate them. I just don't know them. I'm fucking terrified of fucking this up and embarrassing you. Or saying the wrong thing. I'm a freak as it is. That's why I need you to tell me the do's and don't's of this. Fuck. Just take me home" "You're not a freak and you're not going to fuck up. Eld and Gunther don't mind you, neither does Mike, he'll be there. You've met Marcel, he and his mate will probably be there. So will Erwin, he might even dance with you, though he will step on your feet. You've met Rico and Nanaba before, even if you don't remember them" Eren still looked angry "I'm sorry. Ok. So please, let me take you out for a night of drinks we don't have to pay for, and bad dancing" "And I want a new blanket. My green one is missing" "It's at Erwin's. I took it for my rut" Eren sighed "What? Is something wrong with that?" "No. I just really liked that blanket" "And you'll get it back. Let's just go home. I'll let you use my credit card to buy whatever blanket you want" "It won't be the same" "What does that mean?" "It means that I really liked that blanket" He didn't get the blanket issue. Erwin would wash and return it. Then it could go back into the small colony blankets they'd collected... maybe he could just slip it back in, and all would be forgiven? It wasn't like Eren didn't change his mind about his favourites with no consultation... Omegas... he feared he would never understand them. * Eren didn't want to wear a dress. He'd just dragged Levi into the store because it felt like he was supposed to. He didn't know any of Levi's friends that were male omegas, and was certain that outside him and Marco, there weren't any in Levi's life. That's why he felt dressing like a girl would probably go over better. He'd been trying to ask him all about this, only for Levi to either hum, or reply with "yeah". He didn't understand why Levi didn't understand why this was such a big thing for him. He took up all his alpha's time. Levi never went out for drinks with his friends, other than Erwin. He felt selfish. And what was worse, Levi wore his mark and hadn't said anything about marking him back... Levi was even calling him his mate. But how could he be his mate, without the mark he so desperately wanted? Why had Levi let him mark him? He didn't understand, and each time his boyfriend called him his mate... really fucking hurt. Tonight was just going to make it worse. He didn't want to be near Levi's friends, because Levi's friends would see he wasn't marked back. That he... that his alpha didn't love him as much he loved him. Feeling like an idiot, Eren did his hair and makeup, a shimmering dark green eyeshadow, with black wingtips. His dress just as deep, green in a certain light, and black in another. It hugged the lines of his hips and thighs, while the top ruffled hid his lack of cleavage. Pairing it with silver accessories, he hoped he didn't look too stupid... and that his dress wasn't too short. He could bend over and not show his boxer briefs... which meant it had to be acceptable? This would have been easier if Levi just told him what the fuck to wear, and not fobbed him off with "Just wear what you want to, you'll look beautiful either way". Well looking beautiful didn't just fucking happen. It took tucking, plucking, shaving and styling. Levi had dressed in a plain black suit, with a white shirt and a dark green tie. See. His alpha looked good. Fuck. He should have just worn a suit. Was it too late to head back in? He could change... he should change. Stepping back into the bathroom, Levi caught him before he could flee "Where are you going?" "I'm changing" "You just spent two hours in there. We need to go" "I look stupid!" "I'm sure you look fine" He didn't want to look fine. Fine was a nice pair of jeans and a shirt. He wanted to look good "I look stupid" "Then you'll look as good as I do. Get out here" "I look stupid because you didn't tell me what to wear" "Eren, we're going to be late" "Let me just..." "Get out here. At least let me see" Walking out, he knew he looked stupid. He felt stupid. Climbing to his feet, Levi looked him up and down "I knew it. I look fucking stupid" Levi cleared his throat "What? No. No. Just the opposite. Look perfect" "I think I look stupid" "You definitely don't. I don't know if I want to let you out, looking like that" "I... I'll change" "Eren, you look amazing" "I'm a guy in a dress" "And? So? Is there something wrong with that?" "People don't usually approve" "They're wrong. You look great, and we need to leave. We'll be late otherwise" "I feel stupid" "You're not stupid. You don't look stupid. Every single person there is going to wish they looked as good as you do" Yeah. Well. As long as "Marcel" wasn't there with his boyfriend, he might be able to salvage the night. Levi didn't seem to be in such a shit mood anymore "Fine. The dress stays on" "For now" Eren huffed. He didn't feel sexy or comfortable... he didn't know why Levi would want him out of it... He would never understand alphas. Having called a taxi, so they could both drink, Eren managed to make it out the back of it without flashing anyone. He'd though the Ball would be at some kind of club building or something. Not in a huge grand scale glass building that seemed to soar all the way up to heaven "Impressive, isn't it?" "Not what I was expecting" "It was delayed this year, purely because the place was still under construction. Erwin's already inside, he's saved our seats" "There's seats?" "It's a charity ball, but there's also a silent auction and guest speaker thing. Don't worry, you can drink through the whole thing" "Are you encouraging me to drink?" "I'm encouraging you, as we didn't do anything for your twenty first" "Which was like a whole week ago. I'm fine. We survived it. I didn't want anything, and I got to see Anna" "Anna or not, you barely touched your birthday cake" Levi had made him more of a birthday muffin, because smells had been making him sick. Both of them were paranoid about setting his nose of again, especially before the christening. His nose had bled that night, but only for a few minutes... still, it'd been enough to scare him. He didn't care they didn't do anything, like going clubbing. It was safer inside. He got to cuddle with Levi and cuddle with Anna, and he was legally Anna's Godfather now "Levi. It's fine. Seriously. I'm still not used to having good birthdays, it would have been too much. Can we head inside now? My butt's freezing" "Sure. Let me help you up the stairs" Taking his hand, Levi lead him around like he was a fancy lady from a movie. He didn't just hold his hand, instead he glowed with a confidence, as he really was showing him off. Presenting their two tickets, Levi lead him into the main fiction room. Eren's eyes widened, it was amazing. There was so much glass and rose gold, that he didn't know where to look. It was incredible. For someone coming from a dirty strip club, he'd never thought he'd step foot in somewhere like here "Holy fuck" "Our table is 32. Don't worry about the smells, they use scent cancellers to keep everyone calm" "Levi. You didn't tell me there were going to be this many people!" "It's a Charity Ball slash Gala. It's not my fault people want to come to these things. Here, let's find our seats?" "I think I'm going to fucking face plant" "If you do, I promise to step over and you walk away like I don't know you" "What? No" "There are probably 60 plus medically trained personal here. Not including specialists. You'll be fighting them off" "Don't you dare leave my side, or let me fall" "Relax, you know I won't" Led through to their table, Erwin was already there. As were Petra, Olou, Mike, Eld and Gunther. It looked like they had a full table, which was a relief. Sitting the back "corner", Levi crossed his arms, while Eren took the seat next to him. Accidentally meeting eyes with Petra, he swallowed hard. She was already pouting. It wasn't his fault that Levi chose him, and the didn't have the parts to get him excited "Eren, you look lovely" "Thanks, Erwin. I don't know I feel lovely. There's way too many people" Erwin laughed a little too politely "I know those feelings. Levi's already taken up his usual position. He always hides himself" "That's because I don't want to have to talk anymore than I absolutely have to" See. He knew Levi wouldn't want to be here... "Eld, Gunther. You both remember Eren don't you? He's Levi's mate" Gunther reached across the table to shake his hand "We do, but Erwin always insists of introducing everyone to everyone else like it's his job" Awkwardly shaking Eld's as well, he was happy Olou and Petra didn't try playing nice "We've heard a lot about the omega that marked Levi. He's not this grumpy at home, is he?" "No. Not always. He said he was up for dancing tonight" Eld and Gunther both laughed "Eren's my mate. Of course I don't mind dancing with him" "Eren's your mate? I don't see a mark" Petra somehow always knew where to strike "You should see it. Eren gave Levi quite the impressive mark" Coming past their table, Erwin called a waiter over. Ordering drinks for them all, Erwin assured him that once the formalities were done there was an open bar. Thank fuck for that "Levi was the one who wanted the bonding mark. I should have covered it with concealer" "It's my mark, I don't care who sees. It's not like I don't plan to marry Eren" Petra paled. The look of horrified realisation setting in. She was never going to win Levi's affections and now she would have to sit across from them all night. If only Petra had taken "no" as an answer from the beginning, she could have found her own happiness sooner. Sitting through speech after speech, Eren politely clapped when everyone else did. He had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, and Levi was too busy ignoring their surround to tell him. It was kind of amazing people paid for the opportunity to come to this. Once the speeches were over, it was like a wind had blown through the whole place. The mood changing in an instant. Leaning forward in his seat, Levi nudged his elbow with his "Want to go take a look around?" "You sure? You look pretty bored" "Speeches are boring as shit" "Ok. I supposed I need another drink" His drink had disappeared all too fast, even though he'd only slowly slipped at it "I never thought I'd see the day Levi actually enjoyed one of these things. Make sure you to stay out of trouble" Levi ignored Erwin, taking Eren's hand and "helping" him stand. They did a wide loop of the function room. The art on display was part of the charity auction. A small box under each, with a fancy looking notebook thing for people to write their names, numbers and bid. Eren wondered if there was something wrong with him, because he found none of this appealing. Levi thought the same. Picking up on his thoughts, his boyfriend started picking each apart. It was so much more fun doing that, than trying to interrupt it. Stopping by the bar, they ran into a few people Levi knew. Eren's stomach rolling and clenching at the way Levi kept introducing him as his mate. Their eyes kept going to his neck, only to find no bonding mark. It seemed like Levi knew half the people at bar, all wanting to talk to him. It was probably close to an hour before they continued on, starting to pick apart the art on the other side. By the time they reached their table again, Eren shoes were pinching, blisters forming on his feet... just like those idiots at the New Year's party. He'd tried wearing bandaids, but they'd been rolled down by the backs of his shoes. Sitting down in the closest seat, his hand immediately went down to fiddle with the straps "Everything alright?" "Yeah. It's fine. I just need to use the bathroom" "You should have said. I would have taken you" Leaning back, Eren kissed Levi's cheek. His alpha moving his chair forward enough to slide his hand to rest on Eren's side "It's fine. I need to adjust the straps on my shoes. I've already got bandaids on, and don't feel like showing the world my underwear" "I don't mind..." "Levi, seriously. It's ok" He hadn't seen Reiner or Bertholdt, which he hoped meant the pair wasn't here. They'd done a lap of the room, he would have seen them "If you're that worried, I would love another drink" Levi huffed, as if annoyed. Though Eren knew he wasn't. Besides, if Levi headed back to the bar, he might run into more people that he knew and had been neglecting "Fine. Just make sure you take your phone" "I will. It's just a quick trip to redo the straps" Eren got lost in the labyrinth of white walls and art. At least he knew he was in an art gallery or museum of some sort, now. Not just a huge and pointless building. The art and sculptures outside of the function room, were so much more than interesting. Respectfully keeping on the right side of the corded barriers, he finally found the bathrooms. They were just as incredible as the function room, even though the taps were truly hideous. Matte black with rose gold accents. Yeah.... they were definitely wrong for the space. Or any space. Whoever designed them should be smacked over the head with a frypan, or locked in a room with his hideous creation. Rushing into the first available stall, he collapsed down and started wrestling with his straps. Moaning as his feet were freed. Placing both of them together and stretching his toes to point at the door, he snapped a photo of his feet. Sending it through to his boyfriend so Levi knew he made it to the bathroom and would be back soon. Hopefully when he returned, other people would be dancing and Levi would whisk him away to dance... maybe his alpha would even let dance barefoot. He wasn't particularly attached to the heals he was wearing, and his boyfriend really hated people dancing in stupid shoes. With his feet redbandaided, Eren slipped his shoes back on. Opening the bathroom door, he reeled back in panic. Reiner and Bertholdt were both standing there. Smirks playing on their lips as he Eren nearly fell into the toilet backwards "Eren. We really need to stop meeting this way" His heart was racing. Facing Bertholdt had been bad enough, but now Reiner was right there next to him "W-what do you want?" "We want to know why you did it..." "What? Did what?" "Why you talked. Thanks to you, a certain dog of the police has been making trouble for us" "I didn't tell the police anything" "Maybe not. But you told that alpha of yours" "Wha... Levi doesn't know anything" "So you didn't tell him about the knife or Zeke's shirt?" "N-no" "You know, when you lie, you're only making things worse for yourself" "Levi doesn't know anything" Reiner chuckled, shaking his head while Bertholdt stood taller "We know Levi gave the knife and shirt to Floch... what we can't figure out, is why you suddenly mean so little to him. After all, you begged us to save Levi... instead of saving your poor brother" Eren was thrown further off kilter by Bertholdt's words. He didn't know what the alpha was talking about "You're the one who killed Zeke! You're the ones who stabbed him to death!" "No, Eren. You're the one who killed Zeke. Oh! Ho! I don't think he remembers" "How can you not remember killing your own brother?" "He was high... man, the way he screamed for Levi... I think he loved the drugs as much as the sex" "I don't know what you're talking about! Please. Levi doesn't know anything. The police don't know anything!" "You don't remember? The blade at Zeke's throat? We gave you a choice. Zeke or Levi... and you chose Levi. You let Zeke die" "No! No, I didn't! You promised if I let them touch me... you promised they all be safe" Bertholdt let out a laugh that hurt his ears "Eren, do you really think you have that kind of value? Any kind of value? Why do you think Levi let you mark him? You're just convenient" "Levi's different! Levi loves me!" "No one could ever love you. Not with that bastard's blood in your veins" Eren's heart felt like it would burst from his chest. His thoughts just as messed up as his emotions. What Bertholdt was saying, it made no sense "Even Zeke saw you had no value. No value outside of paying his debts and lining his pockets. Why do you think he kept you around? Floch wasn't wrong when he told you it was for the money" "No..." "He groomed you. Made you rely only on him. Treated you like a joke, because you are one. If only they'd killed you that night. That night they killed your mother... but it's too late to change that now" "Fuck! What do you want from me?! What the fuck did I ever do to you?! Nothing! I didn't do anything!" "Your family did. Your father is the cause of all this, but he was too valuable to just kill. No. We needed him. What we didn't need was that wife of his, or his bastard sons!" "Mum died because of him! I was kept like an animal! I was fed from a fucking dog bowl! I've paid for being his son!" "And until you pay with your life, you'll keep paying. That favours coming Eren. Coming sooner than you think, and when you see what it's going to cost you... you might just wish you'd died next to Zeke" This conversation had to have taken a while. Levi would come looking for him. He'd come looking for him if he didn't return soon... he needed to buy time. He needed to figure out what to do. What... no. Levi had handed the shirt over... that's what they'd said... the shirt and the knife... the police had his confession... no... shit... fuck. Fuck. He had to believe Levi wouldn't betray him like that. It was like the phone. They were messing with his head "You can't hurt me. If I disappear, the police will find out everything" "From who? Who's going to care you're gone? The alpha who lied to you? Who wouldn't give you his mark? Who takes you to bed to fuck you, then runs to the police the first chance he gets? Or how about those sweet childhood friends of yours. Armin and Mikasa. You know, Armin is way too trusting. All we had to do was let slip how we were great friends of yours... people always believe what they want to believe, even when the truth is right in front of them. The truth is, you're going to pay for what you've done, and you're going to die. Then Levi's going to die. After that, well, I guess we'll just pick them all off one by one" With a feral snarl, Eren rushed Bertholdt. He was completely out of his league and was savagely slammed down against the hard bathroom floor. Grabbing him by the throat, Bertholdt pulled him up slammed his head down again. Snarling and hissing like a feral cat, Eren fucking fought. But that didn't mean he didn't try. He couldn't get a grip on Bertholdt's suit, but he did manage a impressive kick to the alpha's shin, causing Bertholdt to snarl. Fucking high heels had to hurt. If he was lucky, he would have torn the skin open "You won't hurt my alpha! I won't let you hurt Levi! I'm going to fucking kill you!" When Bertholdt raised him again, Eren through modesty to the wind. Booting him in the stomach and feeling his heels catching as he did... the satisfaction only lasted for a mere fraction of a second, as Reiner booted him hard in the back. Kicked out of Bertholdt's hold, he skidded on the bathroom floor until he hit the toilet cubicle divider. Driving his shoe into Eren's stomach, the omega screamed, trying to escape, but Reiner was an alpha who'd just seen his partner hurt. He couldn't stand up to that kind of raw fury. The last kick smashed into his nose "You have two fucking days, then we're coming for you. If you weren't so fucking useless, someone might actually want you alive. But don't worry, we'll make it nice and slow, just like he wants" Left bloodied and beaten in the bathroom, Eren couldn't even more to curl in on himself. His feet slipped again the tiles flooring, while his nose was bleeding like crazy. His stomach hurt so fucking bad, that was on par with his heat. Angrily he slammed his hands down onto the tiles, over and over as he screamed. Two days. Two fucking days. Then what? Levi left and never came home? He couldn't live without Levi. He didn't know how to do anything without him. The adrenaline seeped from his body, as the coldness of the tiles started to ebb away at his warmth. He loved Levi. They'd spent time together during his heat. He'd actually wanted his alpha. He wanted him there. It might not have been a full heat, but the fact remained that when he needed him, Levi had come home and looked after him... even if by some chance, he'd conceived during his heat, he'd been beaten so badly... Reiner and Bertholdt some how knew his father. Zeke had known his father. The foster home had known his father... his father was the cause of all of this. When would he finally be free of it all? Maybe he if he closed his eyes, he'd die right now? He'd probably be damned straight to hell, but his soul would be carried on the wind, and that was enough.

5 notes · View notes