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waterfallofspace · 1 year

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The Feline In The Ferocious.

The one in which C/huuya meets a kitten in an alley, and D/azai meets the kitten in C/huuya. Feat. Allergic C/huuya, teasing bastard D/azai (with a touch of genuine caring), and an ADORABLE calico kitten that totally has C/huuya’s eyes. I’ve been posting so many fics recently I’m so sorry, but I had to write something for our beloved C/huuya’s birthday, so here it is! Quite short, but it’s just a little birthday gift~ My first attempt at B/SD, so I hope it’s alright character voice wise~ I adore S/oukoku, so while they’re definitely not in a relationship in this, they have their normal banter/flirty/they’re-in-love-but-can’t-say-it thing goin’ on haha~ For anyone bothering to read this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy~ (references to swearing and cat scratches/blood, so proceed with caution if you don’t like those!) For the kitten, I’m picturing a Calico with Blue Eyes, and to know why- just, just google it okay. The colours of its fur are like the combination of D/azai & C/huuya’s hair, with some white to mix it together, and blue eyes like C/huuya’s. (Yes, I’ve fully lost my mind, incase you were curious~) Characters: D/azai, C/huuya, and an adorable little Calico Kitten with Blue Eyes Word Count: 2.3k ~~~~~~~

Chuuya is, and always will be, a dog person. He’s liked them for as long as he can remember, but once he found out Dazai dislikes dogs, he’s since grown to love them even more. It’s not like Dazai is scared of them, or even nervous around them. ‘Though could you imagine how wonderful that would be?’ No, sadly, he just doesn’t care for them. A bit disappointing to not be able to scare him. However just seeing the annoyance slip out from behind his mask when Chuuya walks a dog into the room he’s in is enough to bring a frankly worrying amount of joy to Chuuya. All that to say, Chuuya is a dog person. But… he’s never been able to pass by a cat in trouble without helping. It’s a weakness he’s deeply embarrassed about, similar in his mind to being such a lightweight. Just things that feel way too fragile, which is a feeling he can’t stand. Anyways, this is what’s going through Chuuya’s head as he stops in the alley, eyes meeting the wide ones of a kitten, half stuck in a paper bag. It mews, a pathetic sort of noise that tugs Chuuya’s heart in a way he’d much rather ignore. Alas… “Fuck, what kind of person would do that-” He growls to himself as he gently pulls the bag off of the trembling kitten. “Hey little guy, it’s okay, I’ve got you now. You’re probably hungry, hm? I wish I had something to give you… I’ll try to find somewhere safer for you to go, okay? Maybe there’s an animal shelter or something nearby I could drop you off in front of.” Ocean eyes meet his own, a sadness lingering just below the surface, like waves hiding the current of a stormy sea. A sadness that he couldn’t help but feel a kinship too. ‘Is that what my eyes look like too..?’ “I’m sorry, I would take you home if I could, buuhht… oh hell, not already- heH’ishh’iew-! Ishh’iew-! tisSH-iSHH-kshhh’uee-! kkDXGT’shoo-! dtNNGt’shiew-! hH’NXGT’choo-! Hehh… hEH-! hEH’ktSHH’iew-!” Chuuya tries to aim away from the kitten as the ticklish fit bursts its way out of him. He can feel his eyes already watering. ‘Damn it, why do I have to stop every time?! Maybe I really am as weak as Dazai says. Can’t even hold a kitten withou-’ The kitten cuts off his self loathing with a gentle purr, the feeling vibrating through his hands. Tiny claws begin to knead into his arm as he lets the kitten settle itself against his chest, the warmth that settles there having no relation to the kitten’s body temperature. “Oh come on- You can’t stay. I’m sorry, I am, but I really can’t take you home with m-” “Chuuya~ Are you cuddling with a sweet little kitten?” And just like that, the warm feeling swells, turning into a burning pit in his gut. Chuuya would know that voice anywhere. ‘Goddamn it, how did he find me here?!’ he groans to himself, considering just for a minute dropping the kitten. However when he looks down, and sees the sad eyes looking back at him once more, all thoughts of that are wiped clean. With a strong sigh, Chuuya whips around to face his ex-partner. A smile is painted across his face, but, like most of Dazai’s smiles, it’s like that of a doll. Fake, carefully crafted, and entirely lifeless. Almost as if there was no humanity in it, just a mask placed to hide whatever was simmering beneath. “N- no! I am not cuddling! It jumped into my arms, and I didn’t exactly want to throw it on the ground.” “Awww~ Chuuya does have a heart! I was starting to get worried that you were more robot than person!” The words cut as deep as they’re supposed to, and Chuuya can’t help the wince that escapes. Nor can he seem to prevent the anger that flurries inside him as a response. However, there was no time for any of that, as a much more urgent matter was beginning to present itself. “hehh-” “Hm? What was that, Chuuya? You have something to say?” As desperately as Chuuya wants to find a clever retort, every ounce of control he has is currently being poured into keeping his nose under control. His eyes have, thankfully, decided to cooperate and stop watering, but the tickle that dances in his sinuses is far from backing down. “Oh shhhhuuuhh… shut up, you Aahhhh-! Guhhh… You ass.” “Your words, they sting!” Dazai sighs, dramatically draping his arm over his face, before leaning forward again. Chuuya holds his breath, feeling a warmth flush through his cheeks. He’s quite familiar with the look he’s being given. Dazai is studying him, taking in every piece of his situation, and piecing it together into a plan intended to torment him. Dazai steps forward, reaching a hand out towards his face, and Chuuya closes his eyes, just to open them again at the cry of pain the other man lets out. Looking down, Chuuya sees a red patch start to form on one of Dazai’s bandaged arms, the man looking quite offended as he glares at the kitten Chuuya’s still cradling. “That thing just scratched me! I’m telling you, this is why cats are the worst.” Giving Dazai a smile dripping with fake sympathy, and the kitten a few scratches behind the ear, Chuuya swallows hard, hoping to gain enough control to use his voice. “I thhhought it was dogs you disliked. Is it just all animals then? Maybe they can juuhhst sense something about you that drives them to hhhhate you. They’re not the only ones.” “Something bothering you Chuuya~?” “Ass. hehH-!” A hand comes up to pinch his nose shut before he’s even conscious of it. A hand that was just petting the allergen he’s currently cuddling holding. Dazai seems to notice the mistake he’s made even before Chuuya, giving him a smile with a lot more emotion in it then the previous one. “Bless you.” “Wha- hEH’ESHH’ooo-! GoddaahH’ISHH’iew-! Damn it- eshh’uu-! ishh’uu-! tshhh’iew-! hH’keSHH’ooo-! hEH- hH’nGT’choo-!” “Wow! Bless you a lot more than just once! Is Chuuya getting sick~?” Coming from anyone else the question might be asked out of concern, or curiosity, but from Dazai, it was entirely a taunt. Meant to mean ‘I know that’s not it, I know what’s wrong, are you gonna tell me, or am I gonna get to tease it out of you?’ “Shut up. I’m fine. Why are you here anyways, shouldn’t you be off solving some crime or something?” “I am actually working on a case right now! The case of the sneezy Chuuya! I intend to work until it’s completed, and find out who committed this crime against Chuuya’s poor nose!” “You’re such an ass, Dazai.” “I’m an ass for caring about my dear dear friend?” “ihh’kTSHH’ieww-! hH’ishh-kshh-tshhh’oo-!” “What adorable sneezes you have Chibi! Almost… kittenish!” Asshole as he may be, Chuuya has to admit he’s clever. Not only did he figure out what was causing the allergy attack, but also a way to taunt Chuuya with that fact, while also pointing out a weakness he knows will get under his skin. Unfortunately, knowing where it’s meant to go doesn’t exactly stop it from getting there. “Sh- shut up, Dazai.” “What a retort! I’m wounded, I’m taken down, I’m broken beyond repair~!” Chuuya rolls his eyes at the dramatics, Dazai practically grasping his chest. Then, with a slight eye roll, and a subtle step forward, he lets a seriousness enter his eyes. “Did you sneeze out all your clever responses along with the cat hair?” ‘Tipping his hand so early isn’t like him…’ Chuuya feels a slight tightness in his chest as he realizes there’s a deeper game going on here that he wasn’t aware of until now. Already steps behind, playing a game in which he doesn’t know the rules. Just one of the prerequisites of talking to Dazai. Deciding the best course of action is ignoring him, Chuuya turns his attention back to the kitten, who by now is sleeping peacefully, pressing its head gently against his hand. It’s small enough to fit in one, so with the other, Chuuya pushes Dazai aside. “I have places to be. Unlike you, I still care about my job, and intend to get my work done.” Dazai says nothing, but falls into stride beside Chuuya, once again matching his steps as if it comes as naturally to him as breathing. Breathing which, currently, is not coming so naturally to Chuuya. “hHEH- uhhh… hh’NGT’shhhooo-! Fucking hell- NGT-! hH’DNNT-! hEH’kNNT’shieww-! hahh… hAH’nGTtt’shoo-! kKDXNtt-!” “Stop that.” Chuuya nearly falls over at the voice. All teasing has been lost, and the eyes staring back at his had lost their glimmer of mischief. There was nothing but an unsettling level of sincerity, something that looked deeply out of place on Dazai. “Whhahh… what…?” “I said stop that. The stifling. We both know it’ll just make you sneeze more anyways, and it gives you a headache.” Then, tilting his head with a crooked smirk as he lets the mischief flood back in, he adds- “Plus, I miss the kitten sneezing! It’s so cute to see Chuuya shaking his head like a cat when they get something on their face~ you know, you actually remind me of a cat in many ways. I could list them if you wan-” “Don’t you fucking dare. I’ll… I’ll…. hehh- hDT-!uhhhh” He manages to stall it off with a wrist pressed firmly under his nose, both of them noticing the way it trembles at the sudden allergen presence. “Didn’t think that one through, did you?” “hEH! ESHH’IEW-! heH’ishh’oo-! Kishhh’oo-! Tshhh’iew-! hAHH’nnmCHH’ooo-! mmMPFSHH’ooo-! mM’tsHH’iew-! hIH’mmtISH’ooo-!” Setting for muffling them against his wrist, Chuuya ducks his head again and again, Dazai watching intently, muttering something under his breath. It was long gone before it reached Chuuya’s ears, lost in the wind, but if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he heard the word cute. A light ticklish cough works its way out of his throat, bringing tears to his eyes as he attempts to catch his breath through it. This wakes the kitten, who mews softly, intense eyes staring into his own. “Sorry for waking you.” It’s soft, but loud enough that Dazai should have heard it. Still, Chuuya assumes he didn’t, as no comments are raised. Instead, his ex-partner continues to walk in stride, silence hovering uncomfortably between them, broken up only by ticklish coughs. “There’s a shelter around this block, hand me the kitten.” Chuuya nearly jumps at the sudden noise, his twitching nose taking this lapse of control as an invitation to start up again. “What d- hEH’ketSHH’iew-! hH’ishh’oo-! mM’NNT’shoo-! Ishhh-kshhh-kshh’oo-!” “Bless you, Chuuya.” The sincerity is back, and still startles Chuuya to his core. “Tha- oh shut up. Where’s the shelter? There’s no way in hell I’m handing her over to you, you’d just toss her in a gutter or something.” Dazai lets a hand fly to his forehead, the other grasping his chest, dramatics back in full swing, and mask comfortably back on. “Chuuya wounds me! I would never do such a thing to an innocent creature! I merely wish to be the one saving- her did you say?- by giving her to the kind shelter staff! And perhaps, even find someone grateful enough to-” “If you finish that sentence I will throw you in a gutter.” They approach the building, and true to his word, Dazai takes the kitten from Chuuya’s arms delicately, and marches into the building with another painted smile. Finally alone, Chuuya allows himself to succumb to the fit he’s been fighting for nearly ten minutes. “ihhh’hEH! hH’ESHH-ISHH-TISHH’ooo-! Fuckin- ihh’keSHH’ooo-! Fuckin’ hell- hAH’ASHH’ooo-! Ketshh’iew-! mM’tiSHH’uee-! Ihh’kishhiew-! heH’ishh’oo! ishh’shiew-shhiew-shhiew-hEH’ISHH’shiew-!” “Adorable. Bless you Chuuya~” “Christ, Dazai! When did you get back?!” “Oh, uhm, I believe it was around ‘fuckin hell’. What language! You should be more delicate with your tongue, it can deal with much more beautiful words than that filth! And, for that matter, a lot more than just words~” “Oi! You realize you just said it too, right?” Chuuya responds, choosing to ignore the last part, though the pink tint that spreads across his face (without his permission) tells Dazai that he did in fact hear it. “But Chuuya forgets, I said it when quoting him! Thus, according to the rules of foul language, it doesn’t count.” “Bullshhhhit. hIH’kishhiew-! hH’ISHH’ooo-!” “Care to look it up in the official rulebook, Chuuuuya?” “Oh, whatever, you ass.” And then, with a gentle tone that neither of them acknowledges, “How’s the kitten?” “They were thrilled to have her. I even got a kiss on the cheek for my efforts!” Chuuya rolls his eyes, but Dazai doesn’t miss the brief flash of hurt that shines through them. “I’m sorry you couldn’t keep her.” “What-?!” “The kitten.” Dazai meets Chuuya’s eyes, a cautious yet soft look in his gaze that Chuuya can’t help but love and hate at the same time. They stay like that for a beat longer than they’d care to admit, both trying to get lost in the silence, lost to the world, to melt away from themselves and find their place in each other. Like they used to. Like they know they can never do again. “Ach. Whatever. I’m a dog person anyways.” “I never did understand that. They’re foul creatures, slobbery, gross, feisty- Hey wait, maybe I do understand!” “Oi you ass, get over here!” Chuuya yells, throwing a punch that Dazai easily dodges, the smirk painted across his face maybe just a touch less fake than it was before. Neither of them talk about it again, both heading their separate ways, but when a kitten shaped stuffed animal shows up outside Chuuya’s apartment, he can’t help but let out a smile along with the sigh.

#waterfallwrites #posting so many but is our cute little short beloved's birthday #happy birthday to C/huuya #soooo if anyone bothers to read this i hope you enjoy!#and thank you again~#b/ungo s/tray d/ogs #b/sd #c/huuya and d/azai #my belooooveds #snz #snzkink #snzfic #and i will apologize once more at the end here for posting so much

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salamanderinspace · 2 years

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have you been reading all the Calico Jack frat AU stuff??? i know i shouldn't like it but i sure do

I know there's a lot of "gross frat bro" Calico Jack out there but here now I give you:

gross Nu-Metal bro Calico Jack.

He spent a week scratching 666 into his piece-of-shit car's paint job 666 times, and he hasn't driven anywhere without getting pulled over since then. He wears skirts and dresses to "air things out," even during hockey practice. He's not like a Juggalo but he's seen ICP on his way to and from JagerTour and he thinks they're ok. His friends tattooed a dick on his left butt cheek when he was passed out on cough syrup. He would've had it covered but he thinks its funny. His only other tattoo is Krusty the Clown smoking a blunt. His last landlord paid a priest to do an exorcism when he moved out. He's in a combination Papa Roach / RAtM cover band with three other white guys Ed and two white guys. Izzy reluctantly comes to every show and stands in the back with his arms crossed, unmoving, until the venue is closed down for black mold. And yes, Jack plays bass. One time on the anniversay of Dimebag Darryl's death, Jack crashed Ed's car, got up and walked to a bar, then got arrested later for public urination. He's never been invited to a wedding but he tail-gated his little sisters' prom party after pissing in the limo. In the summer he sits on the porch in his thong (it has gonzo on the front, if you can picture that) and plays Mario Kart on Switch. He shotguns one beer for every blue shell. His favorite movie is Airheads (1994). He always wonders why he's never been called for Jury Duty.

I could go all day honestly.

#calico jack #modern au #ofmd #our flag means death #alcohol mention #as a clarification this is all written with love

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mystery-vixen · 3 years

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touching, 9, with munkujerry? (i know that might sound weird im sorry-)

Don’t be sorry! Nothing weird about it. I’d love to! 😌

9. Listening to their heartbeat

Pairing: Mungojerrie/Munkustrap

Warnings: None!

There was a bounce in Mungojerrie’s step today. He was giddy from a fun filled night spent with Rumpleteazer. The pair had only just returned from a successful heist and the calico rejoiced in their shared victory.

An excellent night like tonight would best be ended by falling asleep beside an attractive Tom and Mungojerrie celebrated in the fact he’d landed Munkustrap of all people. Again, Mungojerrie felt excited at the thought of wrapping one of Munkustrap’s heavy arms around his waist and scooting back into his chest. The grey Tom no doubt would already be asleep by now, but Mungojerrie didn’t mind all that much. If he was lucky Munk would be long gone from this physical world and far away enough that Jerrie could get away with moving some of his things around. An excellent night and a prank to look forward to in the morning. Wonderful!

The Calico slipped by the entrance to Munkustrap’s den and didn’t concern himself with knocking. He’d never had to. After all, he’d might as well call it their den now that he barely went to his own.

Upon creeping inside Jerrie’s wide smile dropped and he found himself looking at Munk sitting upright on their bed. He hadn’t expected the Tom to be awake at this hour. Normally, he would be fast asleep or at least on his way there.

Munkustrap was turned so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed and he had his head lowered into his hands. He looked.. so small. Mungojerrie couldn’t recall a time he’d ever seen the grey Tom look like this.

One of Munk’s ears turned towards Jerrie when he’d entered and the Tom’s head shot up to look at him. Mungojerrie was taken aback at the sight of him. Munkustrap’s gorgeous blue eyes were red and puffy from crying. His face was flushed a bright shade of pink and Jerrie could see a slight shiver in his body as he attempted to hide his countenance.

“Jerrie!” Munk shouted, surprised to see the Calico in the doorway. He turned his eyes back to the ground and quickly began wiping them with his fingers. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight.”

Stunned, Jerrie stayed standing in the doorway and stared at Munk. He wasn’t sure how to react. He’d never seen his lover cry before. It felt almost.. frightening to see him act so differently.

Jerrie swallowed his fear and slowly moved towards the Tom. He rounded the bed with caution in his steps, afraid to approach too quickly. When he’d reached the Tom he stood awkwardly in front of him. Munk didn’t look up at him. He didn’t make an attempt to meet Jerrie’s gaze at all and that broke the Calico’s heart.

He bent down to the floor to sit on his knees and reached out for the Tom tentatively. “Hey. Hey, Munku, look at me,” he whispered as he curled his fingers under Munk’s chin.

Munk allowed for Jerrie to tilt his head upwards with little resistance. He looked so distressed. There was so much pain reflected in his normally cheerful eyes and it made Jerrie’s expression fade to worry.

“What’s wrong?” The question only resulted in Munkustrap squeezing his eyes closed and folding his lips to suppress a sob. More tears slipped through his closed eyelids and he made no attempt to wipe them away this time.

“Oh Treacle..,” Jerrie whispered. He leaned forward and pulled Munk’s head into the crook of his neck and petted his head softly. Munk’s entire body shook as he broke down against Mungojerrie’s shoulder. He wept loudly, his shoulders bouncing and his chest spasming as he struggled to catch short, incomplete gasps between sobs.

Mungojerrie bit his lips. It was so painful to see Munk like this and it made the calico fight back tears of his own. He shushed Munk quietly and soothingly ran a hand up and down his back, keeping his other firmly against the back of Munk’s head.

Munkustrap didn’t bring his hands to Jerrie. He didn’t move aside from the involuntary jolts he gave from his sobs. Mungojerrie noticed this, but didn’t address it. After a long time without speaking Jerrie finally spoke up. “Did... I do something?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Munkustrap sniffled and took a shaky breath that filled his chest. “N-no. It’s not you..,” he shivered. Jerrie relaxed somewhat at hearing that, but not by a lot. He stayed quiet, not asking, but just waiting for Munk to tell him why he was so upset.

“I’m just.. overwhelmed. That’s all,” Munk whimpered into Jerrie’s fur and the Calico struggled to hear him. “Over what? Being the protector?” He asked quietly and Munk sniffled again.

“And the leader..,” he added and brought his arms up behind Jerrie to lightly brush his fingers against him. Jerrie pulled his hands away from Munk only for a second to pull his arms firmly around him and then returned to holding him tightly. “It.. it’s just a lot sometimes.”

“Ya doing so well, Munku. We all appreciate ya an’ all the effort ya put in.” Munkustrap shook his head against Jerrie’s shoulder. “I feel like such a failure...,” he whimpered. “I’m just.. not enough.” Munk’s voice broke and he began to sob even louder.

“Hey, hey!” Mungojerrie called. He rose to his feet and gently pushed Munkustrap back with his hands firmly held onto Munk’s shoulders. The grey Tom’s head instantly fell back between his knees and he covered his head with his hands, completely blocking Jerrie out as he cried again.

“No!” Jerrie yelled and reached out for Munk. He struggled to pull Munk’s hands away from his head and he pulled his back up by his shoulders to sit upright again. Quickly, Mungojerrie placed his hands on Munk’s chest to keep him from falling down again and he crawled into the Tom’s lap, locking his legs either side of Munk’s waist. He pulled Munk’s face against his chest and pressed his cheek atop the grey Tom’s head.

Munkustrap responded quickly, pulling Jerrie further into his lap and squeezing his body tightly in his arms. The force of the hug made Jerrie wince with pain and the air was squeezed out of him. He didn’t make it known however, and continued to hold Munk close as he sobbed.

“It’s alright. It’s okay. Promise,” he said down to the Tom. “Just focus. Listen to my heart. Just listen.” He petted Munk’s head as he encouraged him and the Tom shook violently beneath him. Slowly, Munk began to calm down with his ear pressed firmly against Mungojerrie’s chest and after a few minutes he fell almost completely silent.

His arms loosened slightly so they weren’t squeezing Jerrie as painfully, but remained firm around him. After a long silence Mungojerrie spoke again. “Ya not a failure, treacle tart.. ya are enough. More than enough.” He hoped his words were getting through to Munk. The grey Tom inhaled shakily.

“He just made it look so easy,” He whispered and Jerrie furrowed his brows. “Ya dad?”

“..Yes,” Munk responded, turning his face so that his mouth and nose were buried in Jerrie’s fur. The Calico sighed quietly and nuzzled his nose against the top of Munk’s head. “Ya know he probably felt like this too. Just didn’t show it. He wouldn’t have let ya see him like that.”

Munk let a long, hot breath escape his lips and feeling it against his skin made Jerrie shiver. “No... I know you’re right. I just..,” Munk trailed off.

“That’s right. I’m right. Also right about ya being the best leader there is,” Jerrie interrupted him and his posture softened to lean against Munk. “Everyone has bad days, Munku. Ya allowed to feel like this, ya know.” Munk didn’t respond for a long time, but then he sighed and loosened his shoulders. “I guess...” That would have to do it then.

Mungojerrie smiled, content that Munk wasn’t as upset anymore and shifted to move off his lap. Before he could completely back off the grey Tom pulled him back and held his hips firmly in place on his lap. Jerrie was somewhat surprised by the jerky motion, but didn’t question when Munk spoke up.

“Please. A little longer.. please.”

Mungojerrie’s eyes softened and he wrapped his arms back around Munk’s shoulders. He gently scratched the spot behind the Tom’s ear in the way he knew his lover enjoyed and sighed.

“As long as ya need..”

#mmm angst #hurt/comfort #whump #thanks for the ask!#munkustrap #mungojerrie #munkujerrie #cats the musical #cats fanfiction #fanfic #my writing

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readyplayerhobi · 4 years

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Flower | 09

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff, slight angst

; Word Count: 4.2k

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: A Christmas present for you all! This has been my favourite chapter of Flower so far so I hope you all enjoy it too! Please reblog if you enjoyed and let me know what you think in a comment or ask!

; Flower Masterpost

The knock on your front door causes you to pause, clothes in your hand as you put them into your washing machine. You’d been frantically cleaning for the last hour, tidying up your already clean apartment to make sure that it all looked good. When you’d run out of stuff to clean, you’d resorted to washing your clothes early.

Just for something to do while you waited.

But now he’s here. Hoseok is here. At your apartment, for the first time. You’d been to his a few times now but he’d never been to yours. That had been your fault because you simply just hadn’t invited him. It hadn’t entered your head to do that. Not until Chungha got exasperated and pointed out that perhaps he’d like to see where you lived too.

She must have been right because Hoseok had eagerly accepted and so here you were. You’d finished work an hour and a half ago, the time spent since waiting for him to finish and head home to grab his stuff before coming to yours had given you plenty of time to fulminate.

Not only was Hoseok coming over to yours for the first time...but he was going to spend the night. He’d come up with a plan to drive you both to an amusement park a few hours away tomorrow, but it required getting up pretty early. As a result, you’d just blurted out that he could stay with you.

You could tell that he’d been a little shocked at your proposition, not because you were suggesting he stay but because it was you who was suggesting it. He probably hadn’t expected you to propose that for a while yet.

Especially not when you had plans to let him sleep in bed with you too. You’d discussed it with Chungha and Soyeon in depth, wondering whether you should make him sleep out on the couch for the night. They’d been adamant that you couldn’t do that given you were dating, and you’d been together for two months so why not just let him sleep next to you?

If he remained as polite as he’d been, he wouldn’t be putting any moves on you.

The easy way you’d said yes to it and suggested it to him told you, and everyone else who knew you, that you really wanted him to stay over. To sleep next to you. Honestly, it had one of your fantasies. Alongside the sexual ones, sometimes you just thought about him holding you in bed, cuddling with him.

Tonight you were going to get to experience that.

Quickly putting the rest of your clothes into the machine, you pause for a moment as you wonder if it’s stupid of you to be washing your clothes. But you push the thought of the way as you add powder and detergent before turning it on. A final glance around your small apartment lets you see that everything is as clean as it’s going to get and you take in a deep breath, smoothing down your shirt.

Opening the door slowly, you smile at Hoseok as he stands there waiting, a backpack over his shoulder and a bright smile on his own face. “Hi...err...sorry, I was putting my washing on. For some reason. Err...come in.”

He laughs softly as he enters, toeing off his shoes and carefully placing them on the rack you have set up next to the door without even being asked to. Moving forward through the tiny hall, you gesture to the living room and attached kitchen with a nervous movement.

“Errm so...this is the living room, obviously. And the kitchen. The door you just passed is the bathroom and the other door is my bedroom. It’s not very big,” You feel yourself heat up in embarrassment as your hands twist together. “I mean...I can still barely afford it but it’s home at least.”

Hoseok looks around slowly, eyes darting everywhere as he takes in the decor of the place. You weren’t allowed to put things on the wall so the only decorations were on the bookcase in the corner, your television stand, your couch, the coffee table and the drawers next to the bookcase. Looking around, you take it in the same way he does.

A fluffy throw in slate grey is draped over the couch, covering both the back and the seat cushions while an array of interesting cushions and plushies cover it. Your Pusheen plush sits in pride of place but there’s also a bao bun with a smiley face, an overly cartoony calico cat stretched out along the back and a Jack Skellington face on the couch as well.

Other plushies dot the room as well, from the set of Pokémon on the bookcase which included all the Eeveelutions you’d carefully collected over the years and various Pokéball’s to random cute ones and even a Pac-Man. Amongst all of that, was other stuff you’d collected; a range of animal shaped hand creams, a bunch of tiny Harry Potter chibi snow globes, some Funko POP figures featuring Disney characters along with a Totoro clock.

Random lights were currently turned on around the room including the PlayStation logo light, the Mario Mushroom light and a Yoshi egg. Part of you cringed as you took in how...colourful and pretty everything was compared to Hoseok. It looked so...delicate next to him.

He was stood there in black ripped jeans with a Guns n Roses shirt on, his tattoos the only thing that matched the room really. And yet he didn’t look disgusted by it, instead he just looked fascinated. Moving forward, he looked over the various books, Blu-Ray’s and video games you’d collected over the years along with the tiny Totoro figures that almost made up a little set.

“Oh my god...this is literally you in a room.” He marvelled, eyes wide as he took in the light shade that covered the light bulb hanging in the room. It was simple, just a curved circle but it was navy blue with tiny circles cut into little rockets and planets. When you turned it on, which was rarely, it made the room light up with a space theme.

“Err...yeah...I’m sorry, I know it’s a lot.” You apologise, rubbing at your forearm as you feel the swirl of negative feelings within you start to bubble. Already you’re regretting letting him into your home, into your safe space. This was where you felt most comfortable, where you felt happy. You only let people in that you trusted, and after two months you were pretty sure you could.

But it was still overwhelming, letting someone into the very private part of you and letting them see what made you happy.

“Don’t apologise, this is great. You’ve seen my place, it’s barren compared to this. I like it. It’s nice. Feels...cosy.” Hoseok said with a bright grin, white teeth flashing as you glanced at you before looking into your kitchen with eager curiosity.

The cuteness extends into there too, sweet woodland themed animal print oven gloves draped over the oven handle while a whole array of cute magnets cover the fridge along with pictures and important notices. A Totoro egg timer sits next to a little polka dot flower pot on the window sill while a cat themed calendar is propped up on the microwave.

A soft meow combined with pressure on his lower legs causes Hoseok to jump slightly, looking down before he grins even bigger. “Oh hello there! You must be Kasumi! Your mommy has told me so much about you.” He croons in a high pitched voice, the kind people only use on babies or animals.

But you can see the delight in his eyes as she sits in front of him, her cream fluffy coat combining with her dark paws and ears alongside astonishingly azure eyes to make her look like the prettiest cat ever. You were pretty sure that she was a ragdoll cat, which meant it was even more shocking that you’d found her in a shelter as a kitten.

She observes Hoseok for a moment longer before meowing sweetly at him, pushing up to butt his hand with her head and he coos as he crouches down, stroking and talking absolute nonsense to her. You get the sense that he’s just fallen in love at first sight with your cat, the smile on his face bigger than anything you’d seen as she flops to the floor, belly presented and batting at his hand playfully.

“I’m gonna steal your cat.” He teases, looking up at you with playful eyes and you snort, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Over my dead body. She loves me anyway, right Kasumi?” At her name, her ears twitch and she looks at you upside down, letting out a soft mewl as her loud purrs reach you. You grin and crouch down, arms open as you make kissing noises to her and she immediately jumps up, rushing over to you. Standing back up with her in your arms, you smile smugly at Hoseok and wonder why on earth you’re suddenly competing with him over the affection of your own cat.

It looks like the thought runs through his head as well as he shakes it before walking over to you, dropping his backpack past you onto the couch before he places his hands on your waist. Leaning close, you feel your shoulders rising at his attention and he chuckles quietly.

“I guess I’ve got some competition then, huh?” He murmurs before kissing you, the gesture ever so gentle. It’s nothing intense, yet it fires you up in ways you’d never really considered before. Here, in your home, with your cat in your arms and your boyfriend kissing you, you feel happier than you can remember in recent memory. It feels...almost normal.

Hoseok pulls away quickly, smiling as he looks you up and down with a raised brow. “Can I go change if you’re in your pyjamas already?”

His tone is ever so slightly teasing and you look away, pressing your face into Kasumi’s soft fur to avoid the embarrassment.

“Yeah...sorry. I don’t...I don’t see the point in wasting clothes when I’m at home. Pyjamas or die you know?” He snorts in response, kissing your cheek before grabbing his backpack again.

“I get it, I’ll be back in a minute.”

It turns out that Hoseok’s pyjamas are just...his normal lounge clothes apparently. A pair of plain black sweatpants is combined with an overly large Star Wars shirt, a few holes in both items that cause you to raise a brow in amusement. A far cry from the matching set of pyjamas you’re wearing; a set of Marauder's Map leggings combined with a black shirt and a gold Hogwarts crest.

“You can tell our personalities just from what we’re wearing.” He looks up from his phone, brows raised before looking between you both with a lopsided smile. Without a word, he walks over to you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him tightly.

Body stiffening automatically without you even meaning, you force yourself to relax in his embrace. You still weren’t used to the open affection Hoseok lavished on you, the casual touches of his not normal enough for you to accept openly like you did with your friends and family. But you were getting there.

You just wished that you could extend the open affection to him in the same way. It was hard though, you weren’t naturally open to physical gestures like that. Normally you just accepted them, but you wanted to discover to be open with him.

Because as you melted into his arms, you realised that you really liked this.

“What are you trying to say, huh? That I’m ratty and old while you’re young and put together?” He teases, squeezing tightly while rocking you from side to side, putting just enough pressure that you have to stagger back as you giggle against his chest.

“No! I mean...you are older than me…”

“Excuse you! I’m only two years older than you! Hardly Hugh Hefner here.” Hoseok protests, his voice loud but you can hear the playfulness in it. It makes you happy to hear that, knowing that he’s going along with you.

“You’re right...you don’t have as much money as him. I’m missing out.” At that, he leans back enough for you to see his face, his jaw dropped while he tries to stop a smile from spreading. It causes you to grin in response, squeezing him tightly in response before you press your face back to his chest. “It’s okay though, you’re pretty.”

“Wow...okay. Does that make me the Playboy Bunny in this situation?” You snort, hands lowering without even meaning to and making him jerk in surprise as you squeeze his ass without even thinking. The very ass that your friends had teased you about weeks ago.

“How do you look with bunny ears and a tail?”

He moves away at that, eyeing you suspiciously as he bites his lower lip, the flesh disappearing between his teeth. “Let’s never find out, shall we?”

“Awww. There’s people who find that kinky. They get dressed up as animals and stuff. Sometimes it’s just...they just wanna dress up but sometimes they dress up and it’s like...they wanna have sex in those suits.” Hoseok just stares at you in disgust, looking away before nodding slowly.

“Sounds great. I’m never doing that. Just want you to know,” he pauses, looking up at the ceiling before cringing and shrugging. You’re suddenly reminded of that woman trying alcohol meme as he makes a considering face. “Okay maybe I’d try it once if you were into it but I don’t think it’s for me.”

You steadfastly avoid his face at that, body heating rapidly at the thought of him thinking about having sex with you knew he probably had. If you were thinking that way about him, then there was no one way someone like him wasn’t thinking that way too. And it was a very strange sensation to know that he wanted you like that.

So you just gestured to the couch, watching as he sits down and scoops Kasumi into his lap. A quick phone call gets you food ordered from your favourite Chinese place, Hoseok stating his preferences to you as he flicks through Netflix and strokes the fluff ball he’s holding.

The next few hours pass by in a food coma bliss of delicious food combined with both of you starting a show on Amazon instead called The Boys. It had surprised you both with how violent and gory it was yet you enjoyed it thoroughly, much to Hoseok’s amusement. Maybe he thought your love of cute things meant that you didn’t like that kind of stuff but you enjoyed it just as much.

You both made it through three episodes before you found yourself getting tired, it was nearing 11pm and as lame as it made you sound...you were someone who went to sleep a bit earlier than that. It amused Hoseok when your head started to loll onto his shoulder, the pleasant warmth and comfort of his body as you cuddled up together lulling you into drowsiness.

Which was why when the episode finally ended, he stood up and gently pulled you up as well. “Come on sleepy, I think it’s time for bed. Sometime’s tired.” He was using that voice that he’d used on Kasumi earlier, and part of you wanted to protest it but you were too drowsy to bother. So instead, you went around the room after shaking his hands off to turn off all the lights.

Hoseok went to the bathroom while you did that, telling you that he was just going to go to the toilet and brush his teeth. By the time you had finished cleaning everything up and throwing the empty Chinese cartons away, he was standing a little awkwardly outside your bedroom.

Smiling, you opened the door and let him in. “You can go in.”

He gave a little smile before heading in and pausing as he looked around once more. Your room was barely big enough for the double bed in it, one side pressed up against the wall while a bedside table rested next to it. A wardrobe was next to that and a chest of drawers along with a mirror.

“Err...sorry...it’s a little cramped.” You say quietly, rubbing your arms nervously once more and he just shakes his head at you with a small sigh that sounds more amused than you’d expected.

“You need to stop apologising for everything. It’s fine, honestly. Don’t stress yourself over it.” He heads over to the bed and looked down at it, teeth clanking against his lip ring as it looked down. “I’m gonna guess that you sleep on this side?”

Pointing at the side closest to the bedside table, you go to nod before realise he’s being rhetorical. It was blatantly obvious which side you slept on, given the other side was covered in a large array of plushies. From more Pokémon to a Star Wars teddy, Toothless from How To Train Your Dragon, a cute cat face, a fluffy llama and so much more.

The side Hoseok would be sleeping on was covered in them and you cover your face in dual embarrassment and horror, realising that you’d blatantly forgotten to clean it off for him. “Err...yeah. You can just...put them on the floor or something. Sorry, I mean…”

You cut yourself off from apologising again at his look but he just smiles and shrugs. “It’s okay, I’ll sort it out.”

Quickly, you leave the room to prevent any further embarrassment for you. Sometimes you really wondered why Hoseok stayed with you given how different you both obviously were. The thought made your chest hurt and you pressed as it, frowning as you did your own nightly routine. It took a little longer than Hoseok’s as you had a whole skincare routine to go through and so ten minutes later you walked back in with a face mask on.

He was lying on his back, pillows propped up behind him as he looked through his phone and you noted with amusement the little ice cream plush that was still situated next to him. In fact...he made the most bizarre image laid there.

Your bedding was white, with tiny rainbows ending in clouds interspersed with yellow stars and little cartoons unicorns and pegasus that jumped and frolicked. You liked your bedding to look as cute as everything else, only it looked childish with him in it now.

His tattoos look at complete odds with it all, dark hair pushed back and making him look even hotter than ever with it all messed up. He looked dark and brooding in your bed, anathema to your bedding and it was both adorable and bizarrely attractive.

A sudden thought rushes through your head that one day, if everything goes right, you’ll be having sex with him in that bed. Cheeks heating, you quickly rush forward and sit on the bed carefully, plugging your phone into the charger before looking back over at him.

“Do you need your phone charging too? I have another cable and plug.” You offer and he lets out a noise, head turning towards you before his eyes finally pull away. When he finally notices your face, he jerks away in shock before his face contorts and he squints at you.

“The fuck is on your face? Are you cosplaying Michael Myers or something?” Hoseok mutters, leaning forward a bit and looking you over. You try not to laugh, not wanting the face mask to move and you push at his face lightly.

“Don’t make me laugh, you’ll ruin it. It’s just a face mask, my night routine.” Laying back on the bed, he pulls a face at you.

“You do that every night? Isn’t it tiring?” You shake your head, checking in your Twitter feed as you wait for the time to pass until you can take it off again. “Is that why your skin always looks so pretty? Or is that makeup?”

“Hoseok! I haven’t worn makeup the last three times we’ve met up. You haven’t noticed between that and makeup?” He just stares at you for a moment before shrugging, his hand suddenly running along your back in slow and steady movements. It feels like electricity moves through your body as he does so, but you can’t tell any sexual intention behind it.

“I feel like no matter what I say here...I’m going to get myself in trouble. So...I will be smart and say that you look beautiful with and without makeup.” His smile is boylike then, making his entire face look far younger than he actually is and you sighed softly in defeat, shaking your head before checking the clock on your bedside table. “Why does your clock look like that?”

You pull off the face mask and throw it into the small trash can underneath the table, gently patting at your face to get the excess moisture to absorb. Glancing at the clock, you note it’s unusual shape and size while the orange numbers glow.

“It’s one of those clocks that simulate sunrise to help make it easier to wake up in the morning. I struggle with feeling tired and in winter I never want to get up. Err...I tend to get a little...or a lot...depressed with it. So I got this because daylight is meant to make you happier so ten minutes before my alarm goes off, it starts to light up and simulate a sunrise. It works pretty well in fairness.” You finish, rubbing your cheeks before grabbing the next step of your routine.

“Really? Huh. Cool.” He hands you his phone once you’ve finished, turning onto his side watching you intently. The attention makes you feel warm inside and finally you’re ready to go to bed, lifting the covers and cautiously sliding in next to him. It feels warm and comfortable as usual, your pillow and bedding maximised for comfort.

Reaching over, you turn off the lamp, leaving you both in darkness. The room feels oppressively silent at that moment before you realise that you can hear his breathing next to you. Suddenly, you feel hyper aware of his every movement and sound, your own body stiff beneath the covers.

A few minutes pass by like that, you unsure what to do now and too tense to sleep even after feeling so drowsy earlier. And then suddenly Hoseok reaches out, his hand resting on your stomach tentatively before stroking gently when you don’t react.

“You’re so tense.” He laughs softly and you feel the need to apologise again. But you hold it back, knowing that you have no reason to apologise. Hoseok knows by now what you’re like, he’s aware of your shy and awkward nature and he must know how out of your comfort zone you’re feeling right now.

Which is why you appreciate how slow he moves, his hand spreading heat through your stomach as his slow movements lead you to relaxing ever so slightly. He keeps doing it, his breathing just as hypnotising and you find your eyelids fluttering shut as the earlier drowsiness comes back.

“Can you turn over? On your side?” Hoseok asks softly, hand pausing and it takes a few seconds for you to acknowledge what he’d said. But you do so, shifting lazily until your back is facing him and your head is pressed comfortably into the pillow with your hand slotted beneath both pillows.

And then carefully shuffles up behind you, a warm and heavy weight sliding around your waist as he wraps an arm around you. Pulling slightly, he tugs you into a more comfortable position and you’re suddenly wide awake again. Even though you’ve been cuddled up with him before on a couch, it’s somehow completely different now that you’re lying together in bed.

Every bit of his front presses to your back and you’ve never been so aware of someone else. He feels like a furnace behind you, though you’re not sure if that’s because he actually is warm or if it’s because your body is burning hot. But you like it, as nervous as it makes you feel.

Your limbs feel like you could go outside and run a marathon yet the idea of leaving the bed is so far beyond you. His warm breath gently puffs against your neck as he settles a little more and you swallow hard, forcing your body to relax as you get used to the feeling. It’s been a long time since you’ve slept next to someone, and you’d never felt comfortable with them.

But you do with him. You do with Hoseok.

And without even realising it, your wandering mind begins to drift off as you lay there comfortably, feeling safe and content about everything.

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spnsmile · 4 years

Text

Happy?

Monday prompt: BET #SpnsStayatHome

@pray4jensen @bend-me-shape-me @helianthus21 @verobatto-angelxhunter

Castiel leaving Dean to babysit Jack for a few hours comes back to find Dean declaring something utterly ridiculous as—

“I’m going to make you happy!”

This after Jack casually praises Dean not only for being a very good hunter but also an expert hustler, baby driver, fisher, the best chef in the Bunker and just about everything Jack also wants to become (though not really a making of a very good role model), still made Dean feel so good about himself which was rare because in the Bunker— between him and his brother— these are all essential stuff they needed under their sleeves and he thinks Cas barely cares about trivial stuff so Dean appreciates the kid’s honesty because kids never lie.

Until the catch when the boy mentions something in lines of, “Except, you can’t make Cas happy,” making Dean’s eyebrows twitch.

“Excuse me? I can’t make Cas…happy? Did Cas tell you this? That I don’t make him happy?”

“No, but he doesn’t need to say anything. He is not happy, that’s—"

“Wait, you’re telling me I can’t make Cas happy?”

“I think you can’t do that.”

“Even if I’m hilarious?” it has gone very serious.

Actually, Jack means the deal with the Empty but Dean still ignorant of context naturally heard it differently. He heard it like a taunt a challenge on his ability. No one ever challenges Dean without the consequences for even doubting le Dean Winchester! Excuse his French, but he can do anything he put his mind into—and just like that when the angel finally returns from his errand as if summoned, Dean studies him very carefully wondering when the last time Cas’ smile muscles were ever used.

“Cas, you ever been happy?”

Castiel freezes like Dean just told him there’s no such thing as profound bond and continues to look like Dean just gutted him when Dean looks him square in the eyes.

“Happy. I am asking if you’ve ever been happy?”

Eyes widening with a frantic look that seems so out of place from a very simple question, Castiel dwindles. He glances at Jack’s direction searchingly before running the tip of his tongue on his chapped lips.

“Um… why?”

“Ah, shit.” Scraping sound of the chair on the floor as it gets pushed back, Dean stands up tall before the angel, dead flicker on his eyes.

“What—why?” Cas looks taken aback when Dean turns his heels and walks away. Exchanging a confused looked with Jack, the angel runs after him. “D-Dean, what?”

“You should have said something.”

“About what?” voice quivers a little but no one pauses to check as they drag the conversation to the corridor, possibly aiming for a door to shut on the angel’s face, but Cas doesn’t wait for that so he pulls Dean’s arm back.

“Dean—”

“You not being happy, alright?” annoyance not equal to the hunter’s troubled handsome face. Castiel quickly steps on Dean’s space in concern.

“I don’t understand. What’s my happiness got to do with you?” again with the quiver on the voice.

Dean rolls his eyes heavenward. “ I’m not supposed to ask if my best friend if he is happy?”

Castiel shakes his head, lost for words, nothing to describe his shock at the turn of events. Dean returns it with guilt realizing how the ocean blues eyes always there when he is in dire need, those blues he considers so precious to behold have never expressed real joy since it’s fall. Just always stormy anger and determination to fulfill tasks after tasks season per season beneath the blues of the sky.

But never joy. Well, one time with that burger… Dammit. But then…

An idea suddenly occurs to Dean.

“Cas, I’ve never been a good friend to you—”

“That’s not—“

“No, hear me out. I really suck, I know—”

“Dean—” reprimanding, not right to say.

“I always make you angry—”

“Um… okay…” a slow take.

“I always get on your bad side—”

“That is true.” Approving this time.

“I annoy you most of the time—”

Castiel just nods not even trying to stop him now.

Dean glares. “Of course, you realize what this means, do you?”

“Um…” Castiel squints, remembering the Bugs Bunny line Dean always repeats when they watch the loony tunes together, “…war?”

“I’m gonna make you happy,” Dean says with relished determination.

Then true apprehension sets in. The angel saw it in his eyes.

Castiel gulps. “Please, don’t.”

Can’t make Cas happy? You wanna bet?

Three days passed since then. The Bunker remained at peace, oblivious to the upcoming storm. Dean was busy in his room while Castiel can only wait in vain. He becomes apprehensive every time Dean walks into the kitchen or the library or in his general vicinity. Except Dean only smiles at him and do absolutely nothing.

It begins with a text.

Dean smiles to himself in the kitchen with Sam drinking his coffee, Jack opposite him when Castiel’s familiar light steps come bounding from the corridor.

“Dean…”

Sam turns to the angel from his laptop, “Hey, Cas—get this—”

“Dean, you sent me a good morning text.” Cas says urgently, following Dean to the stainless kitchen worktable like he’s afraid Dean would vanish from thin air. Dean who’s wearing a gray calico apron on top of his dark green shirt, sleeves pulled up to his elbows and a very charming look on his face when they stand opposite each other with the angel holding his phone like it’s the bible.

Dean leans both hands on the table, smirking. “So?”

“There’s an emoji text… with a heart.” Cas insists like it’s very important that they understand and make it clear. Sam stares up quietly from one to another. Dean only smirks and shrugs like he’s teasing the overly reacting angel from a trivial text.

“There’s more where that came from, you just wait this afternoon, Cas.” Winks the hunter like it’s allowed to look even prettier in the morning with his beautifully shaped lopsided smirk playfully turning up as the angel helplessly stares in his direction.

Castiel’s eyes widen.

Oh, but that’s just the beginning.

“Dean, why are you thinking about me?”

Cas’ says from the other line of the phone with voice deep and sounding uncomfortable to Dean who’s currently driving the impala after a successful hunt for the day. Cas was left to babysit Jack in the Bunker while Dean took care of the ghouls in Minnesota that took about half a day to hunt and another half a day to kill.

Out of the Bunker the entire day, he messages Cas and promptly receives a call from a very stricken angel.

“You said in your message ‘I’m thinking about you’…Do you have any specific reason why you are thinking about me?”

“Nothing really,” Dean hums in satisfaction, “I’m just thinking about you, that’s all.”

Castiel gasps. “T-that’s very nice of you, Dean… umm…I cannot think of why a person would think about another—”

“Why? Aren’t you thinking about me all the time too?”

There’s a sound of something crashing on the floor so it’s either Cas was reading a book or holding a laptop and Dean’s betting it’s the latter so he hopes its Sam’s laptop not his.

Dean smirks again and perhaps just forgot Sam is sitting beside him until his brother clears his throat again with a funny look on his face.

Dean ignores him.

That same week when Castiel and Jack return from grocery shopping, Dean is there waiting for them in the war room table with a beer can in one hand and book on the other. He looks up and warmly greets them ‘Welcome home,’ especially giving Castiel a very long, meaningful look, green eyes speaking volumes of sincerity so Castiel stammers a response. Dean meets him on the bottom of the stairs and without a word, twirls Cas by the shoulder and begins removing his coat—

“D-Dean!?”

“Yeah, it’s summer, what are you doing still wearing this? You’ll get hot. Well, you’re hot—” and no one asks if it’s the current body temperature but Castiel adamantly fights him.

“My vessel does not respond to the weather as with you humans—”

Dean takes it off anyway, grinning at another success. Before Castiel can say anything, Jack stands Dean’s side, shoulders hunching and waiting for his own jacket to be peeled. Dean takes it too with a smirk, then sees Sam watching from the table giving him the same funny expression he had from the kitchen.

“You wanna get your flannel taken off too?” Dean shoots over Sam as he puts the coats on his arms. Sam rolls his eyes but it all didn’t matter because even when Cas seems annoyed when they reached the kitchen, he was smiling at Dean the entire evening with less coat off his shoulder.

And it just goes on and on be it in the Bunker, the Impala, in the middle of the case while they are working as FBI agents, Dean will just light up like fire in the middle of nowhere.

“Hey, Cas.”

“What?”

“Who do you think is my speed dial number 1?”

“Um… I’m guessing it’s no longer Sam?”

Dean laughs out loud before knocking on their prospect’s door with an agent’s grim expression returning on his face in a flick of a finger.

One night when Dean strolls past Sam in the kitchen comes the awaited talk because Sam has been watching them and knows it’s no longer ordinary ‘thing’ he can ignore even when he wished he could because just the other night, Sam caught the two dancing on top of the war room table with dopey smiles on their faces, arms around each other with Dean saying something about having a dream of tap dancing and symbolic lamps—

“Dean, you realize you’re giving Cas the ‘boyfriend treatment’...”

Dean who’s jut taken a can of beer from his stash doesn’t break a sweat shrugging, “You’re still speed dial 1 on my second phone, alright?”

“I—I don’t care! What’s up with you and Cas? Are you guys…?”

Dean leans his hips on the table and shrugs.

“Does it matter if we label it?”

“What?”

“Uh… I don’t know what you wanna hear, Sam, but… did you see how Cas’s been smiling a lot these days? And I just thought… it’s not bad. These simple things I’m doing… not bad at all.”

“Yes, I know, Dean. And it’s good.” Sam puts on the ‘I’m-trying-to-not-butt-in-but-i-think-you-need–to-hear’ look when he clasps both hands. “But don’t you think you’ll be confusing Cas? He told me about this whole thing, about how you were only trying to prove Jack a point. But this is more than a bet, Dean… This is Cas’ happiness… what’ll happen if you suddenly stop?”

Dean suddenly stops just enough to give Sam a serious look like he’s thinking and overthinking stuff once again before his thoughts come into a halt and he lifts his green eyes at his brother bearing something like a revelation lights his face.

He smiles.

“You got it all wrong, Sammy.” Then he was just gone.

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

“Are you happy?”

“Asking me this when you just shoved me on your door…” Castiel says, voice deep and husky inside Dean’s room, behind Dean’s closed door, with Dean upon him inches from his face, both hands

Castiel puts careful hands-on Dean’s chest, pushing him a little. Locking eyes with those beautiful orbs is enough for Castiel to forget why they were there in the first place.

“I think I maybe being selfish here, Cas but… I ….”

Castiel tilts his head.

“Why are you so fixated on making me happy, Dean?”

“Will this make you happy?”

“I prefer if you do not take this position.”

“What position?” Dean says, breathless, their hips dancing at the friction. Castiel takes Dean’s neck with rough hands and jerks him closer, foreheads bumping. In reality, Castiel is worried. Castiel knows Dean has been trying to make him happy for weeks now. With that kind of determination, it’s only natural Dean finally realizes what Castiel really wants.

“You don’t have to do all of this, Dean. Making me happy… this is too much…”

“You really want me to stop?” Dean says in a husky voice, his mouth already nipping on the angel’s chin sending shivers all over his body.

“I’m just saying you don’t have to do this to prove anything… Just stay by my side.”

“And if I really wanna do it?” the green eyes flash in arousal. Castiel eyes him searchingly, to see if Dean means it, if Dean is ready because Castiel has been waiting for a very long time. But he still fears it, fears the Empty that may just pull him out of nowhere.

“Are you scared, Cas?” Dean suddenly asks, pressing his lips on the angel’s cheeks, “Don’t look so scared… I’m gonna eat you, not leave you, ‘kay? I got you, Cas…”

Their lips crushed and it’s one thing for Dean to groan, another for Castiel to crush his lips on the man. When Dean lands flat on his back on the bed, Castiel as his top, he looks at the human—the man with the very soul he built from hell now ready to be taken apart again and all for him to take—

Dean who trusts him. Dean who loves him.

And Castiel realizes one thing that night when he wreaks havoc on Dean’s bed, while he breaks Dean apart and put him back again, it’s all too clear, realized why he was still in Dean’s arms the entire night, Dean resting on his chest.

Happiness is impossible to attain.

So, when Jack sits by his side munching on his sandwich months later with Castiel and Dean’s relationship out for the world to question yet bearing no real significance to their truth— comes the most important question.

“Cas, are you happy?”

“No, Jack,” Castiel says with eyes twinkling, watching Dean wrestle the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven. Dean whose wearing his apron again, against the blue shirt with solid determination to have the overlarge turkey inside his oven. Sam who’s there telling him how to do it. Dean growling, not listening just because.

“I’m not happy… I want to see more.”

Castiel just looks at Dean with pure hunger and longing and maybe yes, also lust. Such a human ‘thing’ he has acquired since living in this world for many years, first unable to grasp it until finally, it’s here, with him, a feeling also afflicting the angel. Of the real truth about happiness. That in a way, you cannot just say ‘enough’.

Not with what they have. Castiel smiles.

Oh, he is happy, but not too happy.

He will never get enough of Dean.

The end. Ao3 #stayathomechallenge

#SPNStayAtHome #destiel ficlet #cas x dean fluff #tooth rotting fluff #Destiel #DEANCAS #dean winchester #destiel domestics #domestics

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bangtancentricsblog · 4 years

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○ red devil ○

➣ the beast from another realm loves a mortal meta human

❒ pairing: min yoongi x reader

❒ genre: fluff, slight angst

❒ alternative universe: hellboy au (tbh idk if I managed to really covey it)

❒ rating: NC 17

❒ word count: 1.3k +

warnings/disclosures: yoongi has a tail, he is indeed red (hence the nickname), mc is institutionalized, the cats have no names, almost smut scene, hellboy yoongi, meta human fire user mc, cameos from human retainer Hoseok, fishman namjoon, Yoongi’s father Seokjin *cough*

monster mash ml • main ml • AO3

It’s dark out when Yoongi makes his way across town, the darkness is his friend after all because people wouldn't take kindly to seeing him in the daylight. He’d rather not be the subject of yet another scandal, especially if his father has anything to do with it. He shivers at the thought, he hated when that old fart gave him lectures especially when looking so damn smug. If anything he much rather prefer the lectures from his know it all amphibious friend Namjoon. His destination is in sight, the building is shrouded in darkness but if he knows anything it’s that you are already waiting for him. He tries not to acknowledge the grin that tugs at his lips, but it’s there.

Your room in the west wing of the facility, basically abandoned compared to the east. He knows it’s because of your powers, it’s for the safety of the normal human patients. His father had gotten them to allow you to keep your cats with you, your children you had liked to remind him whenever he snuck out to see you. He missed those furry little shits but he missed you more. He’s quick to climb the fire escape, one that leads right to your bedroom but also the roof. He can feel his tail flick behind him as he climbs the ladders higher and higher and then comes to a stop on the roof.

Candles flicker as the soft wisps of wind that brush over his cheeks, your back is to him as you sit on the futon spread out across the bed sheets to protect it from dirt. He can hear the soft purrs of the cats that sit in your lap without even looking. The soft crunch of gravel under his boots catches your attention as you glance over your shoulder at him. You smile at him all soft and dreamy just like he’s used to, the cats dart around your body rubbing themselves against his legs as he closes the distance between you.

“Hey.” you breathe softly.

“Hey.” he mimics and this time when the smile splits his lips he can't help himself. He kisses you soft and sweet just how you like. Hands cupping your cheeks, as he presses closer, you sigh taking his lower lip between your teeth. He groans pushing you slowly so you're on your back and his weight rests comfortable against you.

“Missed you.” he whispers, twining his fingers with yours and squeezing gently.

“Missed you more Red.” you mewl spreading your thighs to get him closer. His tail swishes behind him as he shifts again pressing his body tight to yours to really feel the softness of your thighs, and how your body cradles him. You’re empty hand moves to tangle in his hair pulling just the slightest as you kiss at his jaw.

“Want you.” you whine nipping at his neck playfully.

“I know baby, want you too.” He’s kissing you again before he nuzzles your temple, the cats have joined you on the futon rubbing themselves against the two of you. You giggle happily turning your head to kiss them as one of them butts their head against your cheek. Yoongi laughs along with you, wrapping his arms tight around you so he can roll the both of you onto your sides. The soft press of your breasts against his chest reminds him just how long he’s gone without seeing you.

“The babies ruined the mood.” you murmur into his chest.

“Hmm, I don't know about that.” you smack at his chest playfully with a scoff reaching out to pet at your calico that manages to slip in between your bodies comfortably. He’s holding you close pinky resting just above the swell of your ass as he sighs heavily coming to the conclusion that he’s been effectively cock blocked by your furry brats. Still he loves that he can spend this time with you, because he just misses you so much.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You.” he breathes, meeting your gaze. There are tears in your lashes and you blink rapidly to try and clear them. They fall anyways as Yoongi coos at you rubbing at your back to sooth you, it works as you begin to hiccup. He’s raining kisses across your face, the salt of your tears on your cheeks are bitter on his tongue and he wished he could do more to comfort you.

“Hey, shh, c’mon don't cry it makes my eyes sweat.”

“M’sorry, I don't like it here.”

“I know baby, but this is for your own good. Just hang in there a little longer.”

“How much longer? I wanna go home.” He doesn't say anything else, just pulls you closer because the truth is he doesn't know how much longer you have to stay here. Hadn’t agreed when Seokjin had admitted you to this facility, but he understood the reasons why he had done so. You were young and struggling with your powers, and spontaneous combustions were a hard thing to explain especially when they were so frequent. The cats, all three of the fur balls hiss at something or someone who has come to interrupt your moment.

“Yoongi, ___.” Hoseok says in a clipped tone. You peek over Yoongi’s shoulder at Hoseok, and he smiles briefly before sighing heavily.

“Always the faithful dog Seok, what does the geezer want?” Yoongi asks miffed.

“You need to get home, and ___ you should go back to your room. The staff is lenient but not that lenient.”

“Sorry Hobi, is Jin mad?”

“No, but he will be if this one doesn't get home soon.”

“Do I have to go? I can stay with her, just for today.” Yoongi whines.

“I’m afraid not, your father wants you home now. To be perfectly honest I’m shocked to even see you made it here unseen.”

“I’m stealthy like a cat.” You burst out laughing as Yoongi looks down at you. You don't mean to but he’s been the center of attention since you’d been admitted. Always caught by some amatuer or security camera as he made his way to see you, and at first you’d been upset because he could get hurt. Then slowly you’d found it funny because how had he gotten caught so many times? It was almost like he’d made it his purpose. Hoseok lets out a chuckle quickly covering it up with a cough murmuring about how cold it is.

“Yoongi please can you just listen to me for once?” Hoseok almost begs because it's always a struggle to get him to leave your side.

“No, not when what I ask for is something this simple.”

“___, will you please say something to him.”

“Can I go with him?” you add rather unhelpfully, but your tone is so hopeful he just wants to give in and say yes. Instead he opts for something a little more helpful to his cause.

“I wasn't supposed to tell you, but you’re being released the coming week.” You dart up and out of Yoongi’s hold, eyes widened.

“Really?” you ask excitedly, as something sparks around you. The cats are quick to leave darting away from the futon as your body ignites and you gape happily at Yoongi. He stares in wonder and not for the first time as the blue flames engulf your being. It’s beautiful as it always has been the shifting colors that wrap around your being, he startled out of his thoughts when you throw yourself at him again. He’s lucky that he and the futon you lay on are flame retardant.

“I can’t wait to go home.” you laugh and cry into his shoulder.

“Me neither.” He whispers into your hair. Hoseok is watching the two of you embrace and he wonders if he should tell Yoongi that he’s been seen, again by some kid with a disposable camera. Well he guess the news can wait until the old man is yelling at him for it, he doesn't want to ruin the moment after all.

#houseofddaeng #heartsforbtsnet #bangtanuniversity #bangtanarmynet #emm writes #monster mash day 2 #spoopy season 2020 #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi #reader #jung hoseok #Kim Seokjin #alternative universe: hellboy au #genre: fluff #genre: angst #hellboy yoongi #fire meta human mc

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rokutouxei · 4 years

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one fear.jpg

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theodorus van gogh/reader | gen | 2013

trying to get theo to like a cat? near impossible, right? not for you! + bonus: Arthur is an asshole 😊 | this is a crackfic leave me alone | [ao3]

“Calico? Calico, where are you?”

Cat brush in one hand and an old hand towel in another, you walk through the quiet hallways of the mansion trying to find the little kitten that had wandered into your life a week ago. You had just finished cleaning up after lunch, and you had a little bit of downtime before taking down the morning’s laundry—so you decided maybe you’d give her a little brush, maybe a little scrub down to get the dirt off her fur. After all, she needs to be clean, as she’d taken a habit out of sleeping next to you in your own bed (yes, in your own bed, where you had been banished to sleep whenever you felt like “choosing the cat over Theo”).

Calico, you called her, because of her tricolored coat. You asked Theo to give her a Dutch name, but with a scoff and narrowed eyes he refused to give her one. Not that you minded; a name could wait—and you already had a plan hatching in your mind on how you would get Theo to absolutely adore her to bits.

First things first though, you needed to find her.

“Calicoooo, where are—” you see a familiar face round a corner, his blue eyes reflecting a sort of mischievous contentment, a spring in his step. “Oh, Arthur. Just you.”

“Oh, darling, just me? That stings,” he jabs, but that smirk on his face. Classic Arthur. “Where’re you off to? A little adventure?”

“No, I’m looking for the kitten,” you say. “Leonardo and I left her with Lumiere earlier today in the library to play, but now she’s gone missing! I worry she’s walked out and off.”

“Aw, I’m sure she hasn’t,” Arthur says, awfully confident. “In fact, I did see her just now. Having the time of her life. Have you gone by Theo’s room?”

Theo’s room? To go looking for a cat? “Well, no, I hadn’t thought to look there.”

“You should, ‘cause I just saw the little furball right there.” Arthur ushers you closer to him, a conspiratorial smile on his face, and you take a step so he can whisper in your ear. “And just between you and me, you should probably gently enter the room. Don’t want to disturb whatever’s happening in there and spook the cat. Something interesting’s going on.”

“O-okay,” you say, and Arthur returns to his usual smug self. “Thank you for telling me, Arthur.”

“No problem, anything for our little miss,” he says, before tipping an invisible hat and walking towards the direction of his own room, the spring still in his step.

Now, in any other regular day, you would have taken the extra joy in Arthur’s countenance as a little more than just slightly suspicious. But you were really worried over where the little kitten had gone; so much so that it all went over your head. You do just as Arthur’s told, turning a hallway so you’re headed towards Theo’s room instead of the back garden, and hope she’s still where Arthur last saw her.

On your way to Theo’s room, your eyes pass over the gazebo lying in the garden, and your mind returns to that time last week when you’d found Calico.

You were in the garden looking for King—Theo’s dog—because you were going to take him out for a long-awaited walk. Old-style leash in one hand, you were shouting his name loudly, but the large golden retriever didn’t seem to want to show himself to you.

You’d gone around most of the garden without luck, until near the gazebo, you spotted his brown tail, wagging excitedly. He was crouched under some bushes, only a tiny bit of his rear end and his tail visible from where you are. “Found you, King!” you said out loud to yourself, speed-walking towards him. “I can’t believe you made me take so much time looking for you, what are you doing down there?” You crouch down on your knees to pet him and get his attention.

When you do, you see what’s got him so busy under that bush.

A kitten!

Scruffy, dirty, probably no more than a month old, King was making a mess out of the poor kit, leaving it soppy and wet with his slobber. You took out a handkerchief you’d kept in your pocket to gently wipe down the kitten before picking it up.

The small kit meowed at you, eyes wide, mouth seemingly shaped into a smile.

With one look, you were in love with her; near-sprinting, you dashed into the Comte’s room to ask if you could keep her.

(Later that day, Theo would frown and ask why you hadn’t asked him first if you could keep the kitten. You said he has no say in the matter, and he teased you for being an insolent dog.)

Now, the little kitten you’d picked up in the bushes looked a little less vulnerable than it did last week. You’d fed her meat and gave her milk, gave her a bath and a bed made of old hand towels to sleep on. You’d spent most of your free time over the past week tending to the kitten. Most importantly, you think, you’d given her a family that would take care of her for her whole life.

You turn the corner to Theo’s room, spotting the door slightly ajar. You wonder if Theo’s in his room, but you suppose he isn’t, if Calico is in there. After all, Theo isn’t exactly good with cats. He adamantly denies being afraid of them, saying that he just doesn’t like how they’re fickle and snobbish—in comparison to dogs, that is—but you know that maybe he really is a little afraid of their slightly sharp claws. Earlier last week he’d outright refused to be in the same room as Calico, until you’d shot him your best puppy dog eyes and nearly cried out of sadness that he wasn’t getting along with the little kit. Now, at least, he tolerates her presence, albeit he still doesn’t approach her or mind her much.

I’ll change that, you tell yourself. I’ll make him love her so much he won’t get his hands off of her, maybe I’ll even get jealous.

Finally, you stand in front of Theo’s room, the door open by maybe an inch off the frame, and you hear Theo mumbling to himself from inside. You do as Arthur’s told you—despite all previous experiences saying you shouldn’t!—and peek discreetly into the room, the gap between the door and the doorframe revealing the unbelievable. Theo, sat on the edge of his bed, your little calico kitten in his visibly trembling hands.

(Oh no, he’s so scared.)

“You know, you came into her life pretty quickly, but you have something you have to know,” Theo says, his voice shaking (the poor man!). You bite your lower lip to hold back a laugh. “You little… filthy poesje… I loved her first! So you don’t get to take her away like that.”

You lean against the wall next to the door to brace yourself. Arthur is a monster! He could have told you so you could prepare your heart, but he didn’t! You press a hand against your mouth trying to silence your snickers, but when you hear Theo letting out a panicked screech and spot Calico next to you a few seconds later, there’s no stopping the laughter that rolls out of you. Theo is by the doorway in seconds.

“How long have you been there?” he asks, voice stern. His ears are red though.

“Long enough,” you say, grinning. “Were you threatening my little baby?”

He grimaces. “I won’t stoop down to threatening a cat.”

“And yet you did,” you say. You pull him closer to you and steal a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Jealous?”

“No,” he retorts, bringing you into the room. Calico follows your intertwined footsteps, as the both of you end up on Theo’s bed. It was rare for Theo to hide his feelings from you. He’s like that, seeming rude, selfish, stingy with his words—but he’s very straightforward now, in his very own Theo fashion. So to straight up deny he harbored any ill feelings? This rivalry must be intense! Theo pulls you into his lap with a strong arm and you rest against him. These are all practiced moves, cuddles you’ve mastered.

You lower your voice near-mockingly, “‘I loved her first,’” you imitate him, and he frowns.

“Well I did,” Theo insists, pressing his face against your neck. He sighs at the contact, and you do too. “I just needed to make sure she knew.”

“She’s not stealing me away from you, you know,” you try to reassure him, and you think softly about how silly this is. How cute. How this is a story you’ll be telling in the future. You run your fingers through Theo’s hair gently.

Theo only mumbles. “What makes you like cats so much anyway.”

“‘Cause they mostly remind me of us,” you say, and you feel him tense up. You chuckle. “Mostly because ‘I love you but I’m taking none of your shit’.”

“That is like you,” he admits, and you smile.

“Why do you hate cats anyway?”

“I don’t hate them,” Theo begins, voice strained. “I just don’t get along with them.”

You shrug. “Did you know cats are awfully loyal to their humans?”

“Never crossed my mind,” he says.

“Well, now you know,” you say. “They’re aloof and won’t pay attention to anyone out of their circle, but to those people they do consider part of family, they’re very protective. And clingy. Much subtler than dogs, but they’re really affectionate animals, if you know how they show their love.” You sigh. “Kind of like you.”

He’s huffy. “That’s an insult, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t!” you chuckle. “I swear, it isn’t. You know what I mean. You’re more dog than cat, but you do show affection a little differently than everyone else.” A beat. “And that’s fine! Because I know it’s how you show that you care. Sometimes it involves your claws. But that’s okay. Because I understand your love language. The same way you need to learn a cat’s love language.”

Theo pauses.

Got him.

“I love you,” you say, just in case, just to make sure. Just to drive it in.

That’s it, you tell yourself, patting yourself mentally on the back. That’s how you win.

Theo sighs in defeat and just hugs you closer to him, to which you respond with a kiss on his forehead. He only huffs “Fine,” before staring at the cat on the floor. She looks up expectantly.

He’s still trembling, but he reaches out a hand to rub Calico’s little head. She purrs. It makes the both of you smile.

later

“How did you know where to find me? Or us, for that matter.”

“Oh, well, Arthur said he saw something interesting, and to go to your room, is all.”

“Interesting?”

“He seemed in awfully high spirits.”

A sigh. “Oh, branleur.”

earlier

“Shit! Fuck!” The sound of Theo’s agitated, exasperated shouting from across the hall draws Arthur’s attention. Out to take a break from writing, Arthur feels like he’s found a goldmine. He quietly dashes from where he is to the unlocked door of Theo’s room; Arthur gently pushes it open by a crack to look inside. “Stomme kut! Kuthoer! Dikzak! Kutfiets!” The little miss’ little Calico is playing at Theo’s feet, jumping up and down trying to get up on him, tiny claws digging in the hem of his pants. Without a break, “Merde! Putain! Fils de pute! Crétin!” Theo bends down trying to pick the kitten up, but every time he does, the kitten tries to jump on his shoulder, making him flinch. “Fucker! Dégénéré! Krijg de klere!”

A satisfied smile crawls over Arthur’s face. “Three languages? Must be tough,” he hums, unable to hold back the cackle that escapes his mouth.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire theo #ikevamp theo #fics #fic #rating:G

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cowboyshit · 4 years

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La Princesse (Part Two)

I ahhh! here’s part two! I thought it would only be two parts, but I think it’s going to eventually go into a third part. no smut happens yet (sorry!), but I did decide to make jungle boy the foc’s best friend and might have hinted at a potential oc love interest for him IF I ever get the courage up to write a fic for him askjfkdfllsj hopefully I didn’t butcher any of the characters too much here!!!

Previously: part one

Ship: Chris Jericho x Sarah Rose (plus-sized FOC)

Summary: It’s been one week since Chris Jericho singled Sarah out at an AEW company party and asked if she’d let him be her sugar daddy. One week. That was all the time he gave her to make up her mind. The more days pass, the more Sarah realizes she kind of really wants to say yes.. and when she does, she gets a small taste of just what Chris Jericho has in mind for her...

Rating: Mature (sexual talk / sugar daddy/sugar baby stuff)

Warnings: sugar daddy kink stuff, mainly dirty talk

Length: 4,991 words

Available below the cut

“Are you kidding me?!” Her voice echoed around the empty, one-room studio apartment, yelled in irritated agony from her cramped adjacent bathroom. “That’s the second time this month the hot water has gone out,” she muttered as she stumbled out of her bathroom with a large towel wrapped and secured around her, searching for where she’d set her phone. Her large calico cat stretched and mewed softly from where it’d been lounging on the bed. When she glanced over, she noticed her phone was lying by the cat’s side.

“Thanks Vixen,” she said, as if her cat had told her where her phone was and reached to grab it before dialing her landlord.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

Suppressing a frustrated sigh, she kept her voice as level and calm as possible when the answering machine clicked over. “Hi Blake, it’s Ashley. The hot water is out again. I’ll be leaving out of town today, back Thursday evening, so if we could get someone to come look at it before I get home, that’d be fantastic. Thank you!” Ending the call, she groaned in irritation and sighed through her nose to settle her frayed nerves. Getting upset about it wasn’t going to solve her problems and she had places to be. Ice cold shower it was.

It’d been six days since Chris Jericho had cornered her at the company party and propositioned her to be her sugar daddy. Every day since, when she came face-to-face with areas of her life that were less-than-ideal and would be easily fixed with money, his deal sounded better and better. When she browsed social media and inevitably came across a post about him, she’d pause and eventually catch herself staring at him for a little too long. All in all, the closer Wednesday drew, the more she began to realize she was considering accepting his offer.

She assumed he was only going to have her as his arm candy behind-the-scenes and couldn’t see him wanting to parade her out every time he had a show. She’d been a bigger sized girl her entire life, bullied in school, bullied at home, and shunned from social events just because she wasn’t the “ideal size” by society’s skewed, incorrect standards. Sure, the world was changing, growing, a body positive movement was on the rise, but there were still leaps and bounds to make. She’d only just begun to respect her body herself and still stumbled from time to time, catching old, hurtful thoughts returning, but she supposed it was all a learning process. All that aside, this was Chris Jericho. He wouldn’t want a fat girl on his arm as a sign of status, right? This would probably just be a fun, private thing.

Her heart sunk a little bit and she took a breath to steel herself against the disappointment. Shaking her head, she glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror and rolled her eyes.

“You’re letting old insecurities get the best of you,” she reminded herself. Besides, the point wasn’t whether or not he wanted to show her off. The point was that Chris Jericho confessed not only that he’d been watching her behind the scenes and not only that he thought she was beautiful, but that he wanted her. He wanted to shower her in gifts his wealth and status could bring. He wanted to spoil her. All he asked in return was her dutiful obedience and her returned affections. Which wasn’t a downside in the slightest, considering she was attracted to him.

She looked around her small studio apartment and met the green-yellow eyes of her cat, who softly meowed at her. “We wouldn’t be heartbroken to leave this place behind, would we baby?” She asked as she moved to scoop her kitty up into her arms and scratched her affectionately behind the ears and under her chin. “I’ll be back Thursday night,” she pressed a sweet kiss on her forehead, “you be good for the sitter.”

Goodbyes given, dressed and showered, she gathered her small carry-on and caught a rideshare to the airport. Having to fly practically every week got her used to the hassle quickly, making most airports less intimidating than they’d originally seemed. Plus, since her best friend lived nearby, she often got lucky enough to fly to the shows along with him.

“Sarah! Hey!” Right on cue, a soft, warm male voice beckoned, raising just loud enough for her to catch it above the background chatter of the airport terminal.

“Jack!” She grinned as she caught sight of the slender, fit young athlete with the luscious, long tumble of soft, curly hair. Jungle Boy Jack Perry was a few years younger than she was and the two had become surprisingly quick friends. Surprising on Sarah’s part because she hadn’t expected to consider herself friends with any of the talent on the roster. Jungle Boy was humble though, and down to earth. Sweet, and caring. She appreciated his friendship more than ever as well as his advice whenever she was faced with a problem in her life.

She hadn’t told him about Jericho’s offer yet… she didn’t think he’d be so interested in the idea as she was. Not that she and Jungle Boy were anything romantic – they’d probably both laugh at anyone who suggested it – but because he didn’t trust Chris Jericho as far as he could throw him, and he wouldn’t want Sarah getting mixed up with the likes of the Inner Circle.

“Always love it when we get the same flight,” he said after a quick hug, then raised an eyebrow pointedly at the ticket in her hand. “I’ll like it even better if you tell me you’re sitting with me.”

Sarah looked at her ticket and read her seat number aloud.

A grin lit up Jungle Boy’s gentle, youthful face. “Perfect! I’m next to you and Marko’s next to me. We’ve got the row. Come on, we’re waiting over here.”

Jungle Boy reached with his long arms, fingers scooping the handle of her carry on and tugging it out of her grasp before she could say a word. He led her toward the waiting area in front of the gate which was still only half-crowded and sure to gain numbers the closer that loading time came. Marko glanced up from his phone as they neared, his voluminous mane of curly hair barely contained by the baseball cap he wore backwards on his head. His grin picked up bright, showing all his teeth, and Sarah found it infectious as always, smiling back.

“Sarah! It’s been forever!”

“It’s only been a week, Marko,” she said with a laugh as she lowered to the seat beside him.

“Oh yeah!” He laughed and went back to typing on his phone.

Immediately, naturally, Sarah cheated her body toward Jungle Boy as he turned toward her. They started talking, mostly about their day since they texted or talked on the phone or met up and hung out occasionally throughout the week. When she’d first started in AEW as backstage personnel she’d felt completely out of her element and sure someone was going to point a finger in her face and tell her she didn’t belong, but Jungle Boy never did that. When she confessed to him that she had pipe dreams about being a wrestler, he’d been encouraging.

And still was. She hadn’t taken the jump yet to try and pursue that avenue, even though she was lucky to have so many chances at her fingertips. Jungle Boy didn’t press, but he constantly reminded her of how important it was to follow your dreams, no matter what.

They were called for boarding and as they shuffled through the loading ramp to the airplane, Marko elbowed Jungle Boy in the ribs and jerked his head toward her. Sarah caught it out of the corner of her eye, but it was clear she wasn’t supposed to. They were exchanging looks, communicating without talking, Jungle Boy frowning and shaking his head as he motioned for Marko to stop, and Marko nodding encouragingly and lifting his brows higher.

“Uh, guys? What sort of super-secret meeting are you two having?”

Jungle Boy jumped a little in place at having been caught and a sheepish expression crossed his sweet face as he looked at her and then down at the ground, readjusting his grip on the handle of his rolling carry-on. Marko, on the other hand, didn’t look too upset at having been caught. His blue eyes jumped between them, back and forth and back and forth, and he raised an elbow and jabbed Jungle Boy again.

“Someone’s got to talk, otherwise this is going to be a long plane ride,” she said as they shifted closer to loading.

“Let’s talk after,” Jungle Boy suggested, his deep voice ever calm, but when Sarah met his eyes she saw something that gave her pause. Worry twisted in her belly. Jungle Boy said nothing, but reached between them and gently wrapped his long, artful fingers around hers. He gave a comforting squeeze and separated their hands.

The flight was only a couple hours, but Sarah spent the entirety of it wondering what on earth Jungle Boy wanted to say to her. And why did Marko know? Was Jungle Boy… into her beyond their friendship? Never in a million years would she have the thought that he could want their relationship to be romantic, and nearly laughed the thought off. But you never thought Chris Jericho would look twice at you, did you? Sarah frowned and pretended to be interested in the in-flight film, but she hadn’t been able to pay attention to it the entire time and still couldn’t, too caught up in the thoughts running through her mind.

She hoped that wasn’t it. It wasn’t any fault of his, he was handsome and sweet and charming… but he wasn’t her type.

They shared a ride to the hotel and had just checked in when Marko noticed a fellow roster-member loitering in the lobby. “Sammy!” He shouted, grin spreading with imp-like delight over his face as he ducked through the crowd, quick, and went for the phone Sammy Guevara was using to record his YouTube vlog with. Sammy shouted as Marko snatched it out of his hands, and the shenanigans were on. The two sped off into the crowd, chasing one another, and Sarah grinned and shook her head. Boys.

After realizing their rooms were near one another’s, Sarah and Jungle Boy started for the elevators. He still hadn’t started talking and she was too nervous about it to prompt him. The tension between them on the elevator was thick enough to cut with a knife. They’d never been like this before… Sarah was worried. Maybe she should be the one to start, to rip the band aid off and just get it all out in the open. The doors opened, and they stepped calmly out into the hallway, beginning to walk toward their rooms. Hers came up first and they came to a stop. Sarah drew in a heavy breath and turned toward Jungle Boy.

“Why were you with Jericho?” He said it softly, but it was loud enough. Sarah stared, still open-mouthed, and slowly closed her lips. Jungle Boy’s brows dipped, and his eyes lifted to her face. He looked… concerned. Not angry. Not jealous. Worried.

“When?” She said like an idiot, her brain still scrambling through the fact that Jungle Boy had seen her with Jericho when he proposed the idea she be his sugar baby. How much had he seen? Had he seen Jericho tilt the glass and gently pour expensive champagne past her lips? Had he seen Jericho pull her in close as he leaned forward and leave a sweet, lingering kiss against them?

“At the party. Last week.” He said it calmly, but with a rising edge to his tone. Don’t play dumb and innocent with me, Sarah Rose. I know you too well.

“Oh...I…” her face was getting hot. Damnit! She was always so susceptible to blushing, and remembering that intimate, shared moment with Jericho struck energy in her veins and made her heartbeat quicken.

“Look, Sarah…” Jungle Boy started, one hand on his luggage, the other pinching the slender dip of his hip, “I care about you, okay? I’m not going to sit here and tell you who to talk to and who not to talk to, but Jericho…” he trailed off for a minute in thought and shook his head, brow pinching in as his dark, worried eyes returned to hers. “I just don’t think he’s a good person. I don’t think he’d really care about you.” Her initial worry about not telling him for that very reason (that he mistrusted Jericho) had been right. He and Jericho had their own slowly-brewing rivalry, after all.

Still, his concern touched her. Would it be different if he knew the truth?

“Jack…” she glanced around and knew they might run into another familiar face or be overheard. “Come on,” she jerked her chin toward her hotel door and pulled the keycard free, swiping and unlocking it. They walked in and she set her bag by the bed before lowering to sit on its edge. Jungle Boy leaned on the entertainment center in front of her, arms crossed over his slim but muscular chest.

“Chris Jericho isn’t going to be my boyfriend.”

He looked a little relieved but could read her and knew by her tone and expression that there was more coming.

“He… look, this is probably going to sound crazy, okay, but… hear me out. He asked me if he could be my sugar daddy.”

Jungle Boy’s brows shot up, wrinkling his forehead, and then fell and pinched hard inward.

“I know, I know. I couldn’t believe it either. I mean,” she frowned and glanced down her front, seeing her belly protruding with how she sat. “I’m not exactly sugar baby material for Chris freaking Jericho, you know?” She laughed, intending it to come across as a joke. A natural defense mechanism. Make the joke about yourself before someone can make it about you. She still hadn’t quite outgrown that gut reaction, even in Jungle Boy’s presence, who constantly chided her any time she said anything negative about herself. Even now, amid this new revelation, her self-deprecating comment had a stern frown from him thrown briefly her way.

“I haven’t given him an answer yet.” She said.

“And when you do? What are you going to say?”

She hesitated, gently pinching her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought. But it wasn’t her answer she was thinking so hard about. She was worried what Jungle Boy was going to say and how he was going to look at her if she told the truth.

“I think…” she forced herself to meet his eyes. “I think I might say yes? I know it’s crazy, but I could really use the financial help, and… you know me well enough by now to know I like my men to be older. I dunno… it might be fun to just live a little, and I’ve never really been anyone’s first choice, romantically, especially not someone as in the celebrity spotlight as him. It makes me feel…” she was bright red, but forced the word out, “sexy. It’s not like we’re going to fall in love or anything serious. It just makes me feel good that I have a multimillionaire who wants to spoil me and give me pretty things and have some fun with. I’ve never had anything like that before, you know?”

Sarah trailed off, quiet, and swore she could hear the heavy beats of her heart as she waited for what he was going to say. He sighed a long, low breath and reached up, pushing his long, thick curls out of his face.

“I get it… kind of. I mean, I don’t, but I’m… trying to.” He looked at her and she saw the confliction written clear as day across her face. “Just… promise me if it starts to go sour or he isn’t treating you fair, you aren’t going to keep it from me? Just… be safe, Rose. That’s all I’m saying.” She could tell he didn’t like it, not one bit, but what could she expect? He already told her he didn’t like Jericho, so she couldn’t think he’d suddenly get over it and cheer for her. But… it meant something that his only worry remained for her. That he wasn’t going to tell her what to do or what not to do, even if he didn’t like it himself. He just wanted her to be safe.

Sarah smiled, standing from the bed and walking over to him. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. He sighed the tension from his body after a lingering second, then reached with his long arms to gently wrap around her and hold her against him.

“I’ll be safe.” She promised and felt a little giddy. Saying it all out loud somehow made it more real. Like it wasn’t some fantasy in her mind. It was concrete. Factual. Tomorrow she’d be one-on-one with Chris Jericho, telling him she wanted to be his sugar baby and he, her sugar daddy.

“Alright,” he said, his chest rumbling gently with that smooth, low voice of his. His arms squeezed a little harder for a second, then released their tension. They stepped apart but remained close. “And if he ever hurts you, Sarah, or tries to make you do something you don’t want to…” something crept in the underbelly of his voice – the hero’s tone – and he pulled her back, so his eyes could squarely meet hers, “you’re not going to keep it from me. Me, Luchasaurus, and Marko… we’ll always have your back.”

Sarah doubted a man who was ready to spoil her was going to cause her harm, but she reminded herself Jungle Boy saw someone far different than she did when he looked at the likes of Chris Jericho. The fact that he wasn’t making her feel bad for considering going for it and only making sure that she knew she had an out if things went sideways was what was most important. So, Sarah held her tongue and didn’t argue or try and point out that Jericho could be different than what he thought he knew. She smiled and reached for his hand, giving it a little squeeze.

“Thank you, Jack. I don’t know what I used to do without you.”

His grin pushed higher into one side of his cheek than the other.

“Hey, by the way,” she kept her tone lofty as she released his hand and turned to start unpacking her suitcase, “I heard Valentina was going to be at the show tonight.”

There was a small stumble behind her, and Sarah bit down on her smile to keep it from spreading as she glanced over at him. He tried to play cool, but she had always had a feeling he liked the little spit-fire independent wrestler. Valentina hadn’t been signed to the AEW roster yet, but word was tonight was her try-out with the audience. She’d have a match that’d air on Dark next week and they’d see how receptive everyone was to her. Sarah had a feeling she was going to have an AEW contract in front of her before long… and it’d be fun to tease Jungle Boy about how bashful and tongue-tied he got around her.

“Just thought you’d like to know.” Sarah said with obviously feigned innocence in her voice and grinned over at Jungle Boy, who frowned and tried his very best to pretend he wasn’t personally interested.

“Oh, uh, that’s good for her…” His voice trailed, and he frowned and nodded. “I’m sure she’ll do well.” He was doing his best, but Sarah was struggling to fight the smile from spreading across her face, clearly seeing how affected he was by just a mention of her. Sarah couldn’t believe she’d actually been afraid his feelings had gone romantic for her.

“Yeah,” she agreed, calming her grin as best she could. “Good for her.”

*****

“There you are.”

Everything inside her body seized and twisted tight. Butterflies in her stomach. The voice had come from behind her, and she’d been bent, reaching to fix where the cords had been taped to the ground. A glance over her shoulder at him as she stood showed Jericho with his head tilted, eyes peering over his sunglasses as he appreciated her large ass bent toward him. On the shoulder of his flashy, sequined suit jacket he held the beautiful AEW World Champion belt. For a second her eyes were stuck on it and the way it glittered like stars, even under the unflattering fluorescent lights hanging overhead.

Then she looked at him. She’d turned to face him and felt entirely underdressed for the moment in her company t-shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and tennis shoes. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she hadn’t bothered wearing make-up. Sometimes she needed to run around backstage or jump in and help move something heavy, and she could work up a sweat. Her job didn’t require her to look glamorous, though she’d thought about it that night, knowing Jericho would be coming to her before the show.

Damnit… she should have put some on. What if he changed his mind?

In contrast to her, Jericho was ready for the spotlight as ever. His long blond and peppered white hair was tied neatly back, not a strand out of place. He must’ve shaved before coming to the convention center, because his face was smooth, without even a hint of a five o’clock shadow. He had on a sequined black suit jacket, no shirt underneath, and it gave a peek of his aged, but sturdy, strong chest underneath. Sarah swallowed her nerves down and met his eyes as he slowly pulled the sunglasses off his face.

Jericho leaned in and, gripping her gently on the elbow, turned her this way and that so he could lay a sweet, fondly lingering kiss to either side of her cheeks. Sarah could feel how warm her cheeks had gotten when he moved back and saw the way his grin deepened as he noticed it too. She was blushing beneath his stare, her heart beating quickly beneath his all-knowing stare. He knew how much he affected her, and he seemed to like it.

“Did you consider my offer, baby girl?” He reached lazily and brushed a strand of her hair back over her shoulder. His eyes met hers.

This was it. Sarah was going to tell Chris Jericho she wanted to be his sugar baby.

“Yes,” she squeaked and cleared her throat, floundering shyly beneath his steady, amused stare.

“And?” His pupils jumped, studying her. Was he… actually nervous she’d say no? Was Chris Jericho worried that she wouldn’t want him?

“I… want to.” She whispered it, couldn’t say it too loud, but she managed to push the words out somehow.

A smile spread over his face as he pushed his sunglasses up into his hair. It was that same celebratory grin he wore whenever the world was turning in his favor; when thousands upon thousands of people chanted the phrases he spoke. “Ohhh princess,” he chuckled breathy in a lower tone, licking his lips and letting his eyes drop purposely slow down every round curve of her body. He leaned in, careful not to bump her into the world championship belt, and lowered his mouth softly against hers. Sarah found herself naturally pressing up on her toes so she could deepen their kiss, pursing her lips. Jericho pushed his tongue along hers and groaned as he did. The sound of it rumbling in his throat tightened the muscles in her lower abdomen and made her shift her weight, pressing and squishing the fat of her thighs together.

“Heh,” he pulled away slowly and stared down at her. His fingers slipped up and down the back of her arm, raising goosebumps where he touched. As if unable to keep himself from her, Jericho leaned in again, one hand steadying the belt and keeping it on his shoulder as he pressed his nose into her hair and littered quick, soft teasing kisses warmly on the sensitive skin of her neck. He spoke low, whispering promises as his free hand pinched into the fat over her hip. “Mmm baby… daddy can’t wait to spoil you… I’m going to buy you the world.”

“God…” she whimpered, eyes wanting to roll. Her fingers bent at her sides, desperate to touch him, to grab him and pull her hard against her. She refrained, but just barely. This was pornographic perfection and they hadn’t even done anything yet. It had to be some sort of dream or something, because real life couldn’t be like this.

“You can just call me daddy, princess. No need to call me a god.” He said as he pulled away from her, mouth spread in that trademark conceited grin of his. It was the one that said he knew exactly what a shit he was being. It was the one that said he knew he could get away with being a shit because he was who he was. “Now,” he said, straightening and shifting the weight of the belt more comfortable on his shoulder. He wore the strap with such comfortability, like an extension of his arm. A piece of himself. “We need to get you to wardrobe and make-up. Come on.”

Jericho turned, hand settling on her arm, fingers gently pinching her arm. He guided her alongside him and didn’t break stride, even when her confusion caused her to stumble a bit.

“Wait- Wardrobe? Make-up? Why?”

“Baby,” Jericho tilted his head and glanced down at her, sunglasses still pushed up into his hair so his blue eyes could be hers. “You’ve got new status now and daddy wants to make sure the whole world knows it. You can’t come out with me and the Inner Circle in your company clothes.”

“C-come out with you? Like… on live… television?”

“Princess,” he laughed gently, not mocking, “if you really don’t feel comfortable, you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do - hey-” he reached out and stopped her in the hallway, turning to face her. “I need you to understand sweetheart… anything that makes you uncomfortable, you need to tell me, okay? I want to show you off, but if you don’t like that, you don’t have to.”

Sarah barely felt like she could breathe for a minute, touched by the concern written sincere across his face. She hadn’t… expected that. But then again, he was so good to those who were closest to him, should she be so surprised? She was, essentially, a part of Jericho’s Inner Circle now, and she saw how much he touted the greatness he saw in every member of his faction.

“I… want to.” She decided, nodding and looking up at him, nervous but excited smile pushing into her soft, round cheeks.

He lit up with what appeared to be genuine happiness, and Sarah’s heart lifted. She had a feeling being his sugar baby wasn’t going to be hard at all, because she genuinely enjoyed doing things that made him happy. She liked to think of herself as the one person Chris Jericho wanted enough and cared for enough that it’d keep his eyes and make him want to spend what he earned on her. Only the best for a man like Chris Jericho, and he wanted her.

“Then come on princess, let’s get a taste of all the ways daddy is going to spoil you.” He said, playfully slipping his fingers down the large curve of her ass and pinching into the ample fat there. She squeaked in surprise and jumped a little, making him laugh and smacked his palm against it. The clap bounced around the narrow cement walls of the hallway as he rubbed his hand gently over where it’d stung. His fingers curled and squeezed into the fat and then released, finally pulling away.

“Daddy’s going to have so much fun with you,” he said with a chuckle, “I’m having trouble keeping my hands off you”

She ducked her head, cheeks warming again, and laughed. Her dazed gaze reached his handsome profile. “I can’t wait until you don’t have to keep them off me, daddy.” She managed to say it, though it took a second longer than a natural flow to a conversation. He didn’t seem to mind the hesitation, eyes jerking to her face and smile twitching over his lips. To hear her call him daddy seemed to have an instant effect, a damn near magnetized pull.

“This is going to be the longest show of my whole damn career, isn’t it?” He asked as they neared the doorway with the printed paper sign slipped in a clear plastic sheet protector that read: WARDROBE. He reached for the door handle and ran his eyes shamelessly again up and down her curved figure. “All I’m going to be thinking about tonight is all the ways I’m going to get you to say, ‘thank you daddy’ afterwards and how many times I’m going to get you to say it.”

She couldn’t find sense to respond - she was breathless, dizzy, mind running wild with all the dirty thoughts he must have in mind and how badly she wanted him - he winked and pushed the door handle open, holding it for her before he nodded for her to step inside. “Come on princess, let’s get you ready. Daddy wants to show his sugar baby off to the whole damn world.”

#chris jericho #chris jericho fanfiction #aew fanfiction #wrestling fanfiction #fanfiction #mine: fanfiction #my fics: chris jericho

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verai-marcel · 5 years

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Before This Dance Is Through (RDR2 Fanfic, Chapter 1 of 3, Arthur x Fem!Reader, 18+ ONLY)

Summary: You work at a super cute cat cafe run by your boss, Charles Smith. His friend, Arthur Morgan, is a tattoo artist who works across the street and comes by for coffee before he starts work. You’ve maintained a quiet and gentle persona in the hopes of getting him to fall for you, but one day, he catches you dancing your heart out to some dubstep in the downtown plaza early in the morning before most people are awake. What will you say to him when you see him staring at you, a dumbfounded look on his face?

Author’s Notes: My dear @r0xy-w0lf asked me for a fic about a Reader who can dance, and @myboah had a post asking what if Arthur was a tattoo artist in a modern AU. And SO BLAM, this story exploded from my brain, demanding to be written. And finally, I know practically nothing about street dance, so references might be vague to hide my ignorance. I'm sorry!

Tags: modern AU, tattoo artist Arthur, fluff, romance, smut in Chapter 3, rough sex, probably incorrect dance terminology

AO3 Link is here, darlin’.

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Chapter 1 - Dance Around the Issue

It was a gorgeous summer morning, and you were cleaning tables at the cat cafe that you worked at. A pair of women were sitting in the corner, with one of them lifting her shirt sleeve to show off a tattoo. You noticed that it was an amazing design, a tiger lily that melted into a butterfly.

“That is so beautiful. Did you come up with it?”

“No, I just heard that if you talk to him for a while, he’ll come up with something for you, and it’s always this soul deep, beautiful thing that represents you perfectly.”

“Really? You just… talked?”

“Yeah, he sits you down, gets you some water, and just asks you how your day’s been, how you’re doing, and, I don’t know, I just ended up talking about my hopes and dreams. All the while he’s drawing in some little sketchbook. Twenty minutes later, he shows me this design and asks if it’s good, and I immediately said yes, draw it on me!”

“What, no way. No way anyone is that good.”

“His Instagram account says otherwise.”

You didn’t hear either of them speak for a while as one of them messed with her phone before handing it to the other. Then there were some gasps.

“Holy fuck. Holy FUCK.”

“I know, right? And here’s the kicker: he doesn’t even handle his Instagram account, he says his friend does all that social media stuff for him.”

“Well, whoever it is does a fucking good job at marketing him.”

“Right? Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing?”

The conversation carried on as you moved away from them, taking all the dishes and cups back into the kitchen.

Glancing at Charles, your boss and owner of the cafe, you noticed the smile on his face; it wasn’t a normal smile, more like the smile of someone laughing at an inside joke.

“What's up?” you asked as you walked by.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said.

***

Later that day, you reminded him.

“So what were you going to tell me?”

Charles scrunched his lips together as he tried to remember. “Oh, the two women talking about that tattoo artist? That’s Arthur.”

“Your friend who just joined the studio across the street?”

“Yup. Javier finally convinced him to leave his old studio after putting some hard numbers in front of him. Arthur’s so loyal, it took Javier writing out how much gas and time he was using to commute, and how little he was getting as an apprentice when he could be charging more as a solo artist.”

You had heard bits and pieces about Arthur from Charles and Javier, who was Charles’ business partner for the cafe, and did marketing for him. Javier was a charismatic man, who had actually suggested Charles hire a helper so he could focus on managing the cat lounge part of the cafe, which is why you were brought on board. So in a way, you were grateful to him, as you loved the laid back atmosphere of this job.

And during the slow times, you could play with the cats.

***

You first met Arthur at the crack of dawn on a slow morning.

"Hi, welcome to Crafty Cats!" You greeted the grumpy looking man with one of your gentle smiles; you were naturally quiet and easy-going when in the cafe, and fortunately that matched the general vibe of the lounge. Charles wanted it to be a place where people could relax and maybe consider adopting a cat, which was the other half of the business that he focused on. Your job was to make the cafe a place where people felt welcome, like they were coming back to an old friend.

You observed the man as he walked up to the counter. He was easy on the eyes, but a bit intimidating, a big guy with big arms. His left bicep had a tattoo that went up his arm under the sleeve of his shirt; you couldn't see the rest of it, but it looked like some kind of animal, maybe a deer. His dark blue muscle shirt showed off his body rather magnificently, and his black jeans wrapped his hips lovingly. Good lord, if you didn't have a big man kink, you sure as hell had one now.

"G'mornin'. Is Charles around?"

Oh, his voice was deep, just the way you liked it, with a mix between a Texan and a southern twang to it. You pointed towards the cat lounge. Through the large window in the wall that separated the coffee bar and the cat lounge, you could see Charles in there brushing one of the cats.

"I'll let you in," you said, walking out from around the counter. The man followed silently as you opened the door carefully and went inside. Immediately Natasha, a calico, started hissing at you. You rolled your eyes and ignored her; this was normal.

"Hey, someone's here to see you?" You asked quietly.

Charles looked up and smiled. "Hey Arthur. Have a seat, you can help me brush Natasha."

You winced. She only liked Charles. Whenever anyone else tried to pet her, she'd at best walk away. At worst, she'd hiss and bat at whoever came near.

So you watched in utter disbelief as Arthur held his hand out and she immediately went up to him and nudged his hand, then plopped into his lap and started purring.

"What…"

Charles laughed at your reaction. "Arthur has a way with animals."

Then you heard Arthur croon softly to the cat, and your face heated up; you were suddenly wishing he was saying those things to you in that gravelly voice.

"Good kitty, yer just a little sweetheart, ain'tcha?" he murmured as he took the brush that Charles wordlessly handed him and gently brushed Natasha. She just purred and blinked her eyes slowly.

Charles got up and gestured for you to follow him. "I'll get you a coffee," he said over his shoulder to Arthur as he exited the lounge area with you.

As soon as the door was shut, Charles looked at you knowingly.

"He's single."

"I didn't ask!"

Charles just smirked at you. "I could tell you wanted to know." He poured a cup of black coffee and handed it to you. "Bring this to him, please."

You just shook your head. Your boss, playing matchmaker. Funny guy. But far too observant.

***

It's been a couple months since then. Almost every morning, Arthur comes in for a coffee and plays with the cats, then goes to his studio. Sometimes he stops by after work to just chill with the cats, and Charles lets him. You wondered about the nepotism of it all, since the cat lounge had an admission price, but you didn’t bring it up.

Turns out, you didn’t need to.

On a busy morning, Arthur, who was waiting in line for his coffee because he didn’t want to be that guy, asked you once he reached the counter, “Don’tchu charge people for hangin’ out in there?”

You nodded as you poured his coffee. “Yeah, $12 an hour.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything else as he accepted the coffee from you.

“But Charles said it’s okay for you,” you quickly added. “He said you’re not allowed to have pets at your place.”

“Charles and his big mouth,” he grumbled, but a soft smile played on his lips as he spoke.

You loved his small smiles, his irreverent humor, his grumpy cheer.

He gave you a twenty.

"What's this for?" you asked, blinking stupidly.

"For the time in there," he replied, pointing a thumb at the cat lounge.

"I said-"

"Tell Charles he can shove his charity." And he walked into the cat lounge, sat down, and was immediately surrounded by three cats.

You smiled at the scene; a big man, rough around the edges, speaking gently to some cats.

And then two women sat next to him and started chatting with him.

You bristled, but you couldn't do anything about it. After all, who the hell were you, when you hadn't scrounged up the courage to talk to him beyond the usual small talk?

***

The twilight right before dawn was your favourite time, because no one would be out in the downtown square near the clock tower at this hour. You put your bag down and pulled out your phone and a small Bluetooth speaker. Switching to your dance playlist, a mix of dubstep, hip hop, and house music, you connected your phone to the speaker and hit play.

As the music flowed through you, you let your body take over, pushing your active mind back as you popped and locked with the beat, undulating your body like it was liquid.

This was your secret passion: street dance. You could do it with a group in public, but on your own? You'd rather dance where few people could see, but your studio apartment was cramped, and the park had too many dog walkers, even at this hour. So when you could, you came here, with your little speaker, and danced your heart out. You shook out the stress of the day to day, and let yourself just be in the moment, feel the rhythm of the song, the beat of life as it thrummed through you.

Today, you were dancing out your frustration of being too meek to approach Arthur, too shy to talk more with him. Definitely too scared to ask him out on a date. You couldn't help but be quiet and polite; it was how you were raised. But inside, you were a storm of passion and emotion, always letting out everything in the form of dance. Your dance today was aggressive, fiery, raw.

Years ago, a friend had suggested you get out your stress through physical exercise, and had dragged you to one of his street dance classes. And you had fallen in love with the feeling of letting the music take over. Now you dance any chance you get, if you could get yourself out of bed early enough.

Your playlist ended as the sun lit up the plaza, and you went to grab your speaker when you heard a familiar voice behind you.

"Didn't know you could dance like that," Arthur said as he came up behind you.

You jumped. "How long have you been watching?"

"Oh…" He checked his watch. "Since 'bout half an hour ago."

That was the length of your playlist. He had been watching the whole time?

"Sorry, didn't mean to gawk, I just…" Arthur trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck and looking nervously away.

"It's fine," you said quickly to assuage his embarrassment. "I'm dancing in a public square, it's not a big deal."

He nodded his head, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

You waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

"You, uh, you dance good,” he finally said. Immediately sighing, he spoke again. “I mean, it was fun to watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your face heated up.

Looking at your wide-eyed reaction and realizing what he said and how it sounded, Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, guess I better get goin’.”

Your heart raced as you watched him start to walk to work. It was now or never. You gathered your courage, while the energy of the dance still beat in your blood. “Hey, would you like to get dinner with me tonight?”

He stopped mid-stride. Turning around, the confused look in his eyes made your heart plummet.

“Are… you askin’ me out on a date?” His tone was that of disbelief.

“Um, I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, I just...” You trailed off when you saw the confusion melt away, replaced with a genuine smile.

“I’d love to have dinner with you.” Arthur beamed at you, and it felt like you got a direct hit from the sun.

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Chapter 2 is next.

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #charles smith #arthur x reader #female reader #modern AU #tattoo artist Arthur #nsft #fanfic #writing #tumblr request #biker au

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fox-guardian · 5 years

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(This ended up being kinda long, but I hope it works. Also, mood.)

"Are you sure you have room for company?" Jekyll asked with a chuckle, glancing around at the four cats spread out around the fireplace. There was a large, grey-blue cat curled up in an armchair; a more slim, orange cat stretching out in front of the unlit logs; a large calico on top of a different armchair; and a long, lean, elegant, black cat sauntering about towards Jekyll as he hung his hat and coat on the stand by the front door.

"Oh, it's just the weather," Utterson replied, giving the calico some welcomed head scritches, "They tend to come by when it gets chilly, like today."

"Chilly is right," said Jekyll, taking off his gloves and rubbing his hands together. He bent down to the black tomcat at his feet, "Isn't it chilly? Isn't it~?" He reached and pet him, and the cat's bright yellow eyes began to close as it leaned into his hand.

Utterson lit the fireplace. "That's Catkyll," he said, glancing back at the black cat, "He showed up recently. A very sweet boy."

"'Catkyll?'" Jekyll inquired, "What sort of a name is that?"

Utterson turned and looked back at him, "It's a play on your name, actually. Cat and Jekyll. Cat-kyll." He picked up a firepoker and sighed, "Not my best work, but I hadn't got much to work with."

Jekyll smiled, tilting his head, "You named him after me? How sweet." He picked up Catkyll with ease, bringing his yellow eyes to meet Jekyll's deep black ones, "Is it because he's such a handsome little man~?" he said with heavy sarcasm.

Utterson chuckled, "Well, there is that, though it was mostly something else." He then sat down on the couch and held up his left hand. "Catkyll?" The cat, currently cradled in Jekyll's arms, turned to him. His eyes went wide and he leapt down from Jekyll's grasp and landed in Utterson's lap. He began making sweet little trilling noises as he wrapped his paws around Utterson's wrist, nuzzling his face into his hand. Whenever Utterson wasn't petting him, he'd whine and wiggle about until he continued.

Utterson giggled, a wholesome giggle. The kind of giggle that is very clearly from someone who has just been blessed with the antics of a silly little animal and has a quiet but strong appreciation for such moments.

Jekyll, on the other hand, stood behind the couch, betrayed. How could he, the man Jekyll trusted the most, call him out like this? And through naming his cat after him at that? Such a wholesome gesture, ruined by the fact that it calls unnecessary attention to Jekyll's secret love of hugs. How could he? If anyone knew of this his reputation would surely be beyond repair. He was devastated. He stood behind the couch, staring outward. The kind of empty, distant stare you give to a fixed point on a wall when something embarrassing has just happened and you can't stand to look at anyone.

"I do not act like that," he insisted, finally moving his eyes down to the lawyer, who was now tickling Catkyll's tummy.

"I know," Utterson replied, sighing "but you do love hugs... And cuddles."

...How dare he.

"Well, I don't whine when I don't get enough hugs."

Utterson turned to look at him and cocked an eyebrow, "Need I remind you-"

"YoU NEED NOT," Jekyll cut him off, aware that he would not win this round. Vengeance was in order. He walked over to the armchair that was being warmed by the big grey cat.

"Well, THIS one reminds me of you."

"Really?" asked Utterson, a tad surprised.

"Mm-hm," he said, confidently. The grey cat lifted its head and looked up at Jekyll with sleepy blue eyes.

"And why does he remind you of me?" asked Utterson, Catkyll still clutching his wrist and purring.

"Well uh..." Jekyll started, unsure of where to actually start, "He has... a very sweet little face. I mean, just look at those cheeks." He then pet said cheeks and the cat let out a low purr as its eyes slowly shut.

"And that reminds you of me?" said Utterson, quizically.

"Uhhmm..." Jekyll's face started to feel warm, he wondered if it had gone visibly red, "...yes?" This was not going as planned. He scooped up the cat in his arms, a very chunky boy indeed. "Not to mention he is quite huggable," he said, leaning into the grey fluff to demonstrate.

Utterson smiled smugly, "How kind of you." He then looked as though he remembered something, "You know, I've actually been meaning to name that one for a while. He doesn't seem to belong to anyone and has been around here quite often."

Jekyll sat down next to him, cradling the grey cat like a baby, "Well, how about... Pawtterson? Like Utterson but a cat pun," he put on an sarcastic smile, "since he reminds me so much of you~"

"Pawtterson..." he pondered aloud, beaming with pride at Jekyll's clever pun that he couldn't bring himself to admit that he had already thought of himself, "That sounds lovely."

They sat in front of the fire, each with a cat bearing a pun of the other's name in their arms, silent and comfortably so. Eventually, Utterson spoke softly, like you do when things just feel too peaceful to disrupt at a normal speaking volume, "I've had this cat -- Pawtterson, that is -- for quite some time. He's very sweet, though a bit lazy. He seems to like you quite a bit."

"Mm," Jekyll responded in a similarly soft tone, although his was more as if he'd started to doze off and simply didn't feel like raising his voice much, "He does, doesn't he?"

Utterson looked at him, "You could take him, if you'd like."

Jekyll turned to him, his voice more awake but still hushed, "Take him? As in... as my own? To keep?"

Utterson turned back to Catkyll, who was stretching his legs out on his lap, "If you'd like to, that is. To keep you company."

"No no no," Jekyll shook his head, turning back to the feline in question, "I don't think I could take care of him well enough. I'm far too busy."

Utterson turned to him again, speaking sincerely, "I'm sure you'd take great care of him, and he'd love you for it."

Jekyll kept his eyes on Pawtterson, "No... I'm no good for him."

Utterson looked down at Catkyll, then back up to his almost-namesake, "Well, my offer stands, and you can come here to see him anytime you like, of course."

He smiled, Pawtterson purring in his arms, "That sounds good.”

The silence returned, peaceful and calm, only the crackling fire and quiet purring could be heard. The two gentlemen fell sound asleep right on that couch, and when they woke later on, the two cats were curled up together in an armchair, sleeping soundly by the fire's warmth.

#fg's writing #jekyll and hyde #the strangest case #gabriel utterson #fg's utterson #henry jekyll #fg's jekyll #asks #fg's answers #writing requests #kinda

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magic-and-moonlit-wings · 5 years

Text

Chapter 43: Breaking Down

-I M trying 2 make text messages look more like txts.- I will probably still veer towards -writing text messages spelled like ordinary dialogue- for the most part, with abbreviations sprinkled in once in a while.

Becoming The Mask

+=+

The dream was … vague. Toby didn't see anything graphic or specific. He didn't scream or jolt upright when he woke. Describing what exactly happened, it wouldn't even sound like a nightmare.

Innocuous; that was the SAT word someone like Blinky might use to describe it.

Toby was at school. Probably school. There was grass underfoot but lockers nearby. Darci and Mary were with him but occasionally blurred into just one girl or the other. Jim arrived, and cheerily informed them all, "Did you hear? Claire's a rock star now."

And Toby knew, with absolute certainty, that Claire Nuñez was dead.

He stood there listening to nonsense words from his friends before the dream faded out and he woke up. His breath hitched. He was shaking. His eyes stung.

Oh, god, Claire was gone.

She, she couldn't be, they weren't down in Trollmarket tonight, she was at home, she was with her parents and –

– and a Changeling. "Every Changeling you've met so far has had personal incentive to keep you alive; that's not going to be universally true." Jim had drugged his own mother unconscious without qualm after sixteen years of knowing and adoring her. Not Enrique had only been with the Nuñezes for a few months. Overdosing was easy to do by accident. Changelings were supposed to guard their secrets with their life (or, preferably, their enemies' lives) and Claire had as good as promised she was going to expose him –

His phone, Toby needed his phone, where had he left his phone?

Had he gotten his phone out of his pocket when he stripped down to his boxers for bed? Once his fumbling fingers confirmed it wasn't on the dresser in easy reach, Toby untangled himself from his blanket and stumbled to his feet. He dug through the laundry hamper for his pants. Empty pocket, empty pocket, was this even the right pair? Empty pocket, bingo! Back pocket!

His finger was headed for the call button before he noticed what time it was. Claire should be asleep. Toby wanted to hear her voice, to reassure himself that she was okay, that nobody had stolen her phone to keep her from calling for help – okay, even he could recognize his imagination was probably getting the best of him now.

-R U OK?-

Maybe he should text the group chat instead? Even if the girls were asleep, Blinky and AAARRRGGHH were in the chat now and they would be awake. Talking to someone, even if they weren't Claire, might be able to break Toby's thoughts out of the downward spirals of worry. It could be hours before Claire woke up and saw the message and texted him back.

Should he call? It wouldn't wake her if her phone was off. Of course, getting no answer might just make him feel worse.

He was hungry.

Are you hungry or are you upset?

He turned on his TV and started a round of Go-Go Sushi. He had the app on his phone as well, but using the TV gave him a larger screen, and keeping his hands off his phone would keep Toby from blowing Claire's up with a thousand texts. The peppy music, cheery colours and low stakes of the game were comforting.

Toby's phone buzzed and he dropped the controller. A cartoon fish informed him he had lost. Toby didn't care. He sighed deeply with relief when he read Claire's reply.

-yeah, Y?-

… Okay, how was he supposed to answer that without sounding like he was freaking out over nothing? Or looking like some kind of idiot who hadn't had it sink in months ago that volunteering to fight trolls might be, you know, dangerous?

Before he could work out a response, Claire texted him again.

-Did NE sneak out and go 2 ur house?- -I'll kill that little monster if mom & dad find him gone!-

-not that!- Toby replied hastily, and then considered. -At least I don't think so?- -I had a nightmare where you got hurt and woke up worried.-

Yes, 'you got hurt' was a much better, less ominous thing to say than 'you vanished and I was pretty sure you died'.

His phone rang. He'd taken a picture of Claire, Mary and Darci at the lunch table when they started sitting with him and Jim, which he'd been using as a contact picture for all three of them since most of his photos of them were in Trollmarket. The version of that picture he'd cropped to focus on Claire now lit up his screen.

"Hey."

"I'm fine, Toby. I get why you needed to check. I get nightmares too."

"You do?" About Darci and Mary, he'd guess, since she had known them longer and had never contacted him in the middle of the night except for troll matters.

"Enrique," she said simply, and Toby felt horrible for not making the connection. "Not Enrique's a brat, but he's been good about letting me check on Enrique with that mirror trick Jim showed us. I mean, it doesn't help that much, because I feel like I should've, I don't know, done something when he was getting kidnapped, but at least I know he's okay while we look for a way to save him." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I figured it'd be easier for you to get back to sleep if I called you."

"Yeah. This … this really helps. I'm glad you're okay. I'll let you get back to sleep."

"See you at school."

Toby clicked the 'end call' button and picked up his game controller again.

Well. Now he knew Claire was still alive, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep anytime soon.

There were some ominous scratchy noises and quiet thumps behind him, and the sound of his window sliding up. He turned, raising the game controller as if to throw it, and was paralysed by the sight of a red-eyed figure climbing in.

"Toby!"

"Jim?!"

"Chompsky said you needed help." The gnome was on the Changeling's shoulder; Toby could see him now that Jim was in the light and his eyes weren't glowing anymore. "I thought you were under attack."

"… I had a nightmare." He should've gone ahead and texted the group chat if the whole team was going to find out anyway.

"Did you want something to eat?" Jim offered.

Toby shook his head. He almost, jokingly, asked for that tea Jim had been slipping to Dr L for years, before that thought yanked his earlier fears for Claire to the forefront of his mind, and suddenly he was shaking again and could only take shallow breaths.

Chompsky hopped off Jim's arm and scurried over to Toby, chattering in a tone that might be meant to be soothing, and patted Toby's foot.

"Okay, new plan," said Jim, wide-eyed. He turned blue and sprouted horns. He picked Toby up – Toby flinched a little, and Jim did too – and put Toby on his back, and then Jim carried Toby piggyback down the stairs and to Nana's room, where he set Toby on his feet and shifted back into human shape, still half-holding Toby up.

Jim knocked on the half-open door before he pushed it open all the way.

Three cats looked up from the bed and blinked lazily at the boys. The other two paused their tussle on the floor, but only long enough to check who was there. Nana's cats were almost as used to the Lakes as they were the Domzalskis.

Nana didn't sleep with her hearing aid in. Mr Meow-Meow PI always batted her face when her alarm clock rang, and she trusted the cat to do the same if the smoke detector went off. Jim guided Toby to the bed and nudged Nana's shoulder. Her snoring stopped. She groped around for her glasses – Jim moved them under her hand and retreated back to the doorway. Toby sagged.

"Toby-Pie?" Nana blinked at him and put her hearing aid in. "You've been crying."

Jim's shadow vanished from the doorway, either to cook something or go back home.

Toby climbed onto the bed, displacing the nearest cat. Special Agent Patches rumbled warningly at him, but made room, and didn't put her ears back or hiss. The last time Toby had done this, the old calico had been just a kitten. He wondered if she could remember.

"I had a bad dream," said Toby. "One of my friends – she got hurt. She disappeared, and I thought she was dead. And I talked to her, for real after I woke up, so I know she isn't really gone, but – but it could happen. Anytime. And – I'm scared."

"Oh, Toby." Nana hugged him as best she could, then pushed down the blanket – a challenge, with Toby lying on it – to free her arms and hug him better.

"She and Jim have been fighting. He … he's wrong, but he doesn't really get why she's upset. Like, he sort of gets it but not enough to realize he should apologize, just enough to think she'll understand if he explains better. And, I know it's not all Jim's fault, because he didn't want us to know in the first place and we're the ones who followed him, but I'm still mad at him. I still feel like, like he put us in danger."

Toby's voice hitched in something like a hiccup.

"And he's just, just so hard to be mad at because he – there's so much he's not telling us but it's obvious he's hurting too, and that he wasn't trying to hurt anyone else on purpose – like, not for the sake of hurting us, I mean, because some of the stuff was on purpose and he knew it'd hurt but he thought it was, like, the lesser of two evils – and all that makes me feel guilty for being mad at him but also madder for him making me feel guilty."

"Do you need to not see Jimmy for a while?" Nana offered. She looked puzzled as well as concerned. Toby probably hadn't made a lot of sense.

"I don't know what I need."

One of the cats, he didn't see which one, hopped onto his leg and started kneading. Nana rubbed his back. After a while, Toby dozed off.

Once she was sure he was settled, Nancy got up. The bedside table, where her phone was, was on the side of the bed Toby was now sleeping on, so she had to go around the bed to get to it.

+=+

Dr Tiffany Archenn had been one of Waltolomew Stricklander's earliest recruits for Changeling world domination independent of Gunmar – so early that he had still been going by 'Waltolomew' back then.

He had also been trying, since the early 1980s, to convince her to take a guidance counsellor job at his high school. He'd had far less luck persuading her on that score.

Her current therapy practice helped the Janus Order keep an eye on what sort of things humans wanted, for bribery, or worried over, for blackmail, and whether any of them had seen troll or goblin or Changeling activity that needed to be covered up, and to identify future parents suitable for hosting new Changelings. Transferring to the school would reduce her utility, and make her job and Walter's redundant.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted to transfer elsewhere but couldn't bear to leave his school without any Changeling influence. He'd been a teacher at one school or another since Arcadia Oaks was founded. Naturally he would hesitate to cut the Janus Order's ties to the school system, even if he wanted to do something different personally.

That wasn't why he was visiting her that night. He had come to propose an even more ludicrous plan. Interim Head of the Janus Order? Her?!

"Why would I want to paint a target on my back?"

"You've turned down promotions in the past. Otto will assume you were selected because you lack ambition, and therefore be more likely to try recruiting you than killing you, but more likely to ignore you than either."

Walter was clever. Unfortunately, this meant he sometimes overthought problems with simple solutions. "Have you considered bringing Otto with you?"

Otto would suspect a murder attempt, of course, but he might still go, out of curiosity about what Walter was up to and with intent of being the one to stab first.

"The project is sensitive. Including Otto would be unfeasible."

"And you can't just kill him, because?"

"I don't know what information he's arranged to have released in the event of his death or the means by which it would come out. A bomb with a dead man's switch is the most challenging to defuse."

"Bottle bombs are the most difficult to defuse," Tiffany corrected. Those depended on the explosive's internal chemical reaction rather than an external fuse, a reaction which began immediately during the bomb's construction, and the improvised nature of most bottle bombs meant the explosion was nearly impossible to time accurately in advance.

"My point is, Otto suspects me of involvement in Bular's death, and might have gathered enough circumstantial evidence to sway the rest of the Order."

"In fairness, the Trollhunter has never had much luck against Bular before. Them finally killing him does make one wonder if they had inside help." Walter gave her an unamused look. Tiffany kept her expression mildly interested, like she was encouraging a patient to air their worries.

"Therefore," Walter continued, "I need Otto distracted, not dead. If he does turn up dead in a way that can be connected to me, any speculation he's been sharing abruptly gains weight."

"Or a faithful Changeling became indignant at being accused of treason and killed the accuser." Changelings weren't the most even-tempered of … Actually, and bearing in mind that most of her basis of comparison was Gumm-Gumm behaviour, Changelings might be the most even-tempered of trolls. Said evenness came at the cost of repressed emotion, so it wasn't same as a healthy capacity to feel and release one's emotions in order to remain calm, but still. "You realize you're just giving him time to find or fabricate more evidence against you."

"As interim head, you would have the authority to order his execution, if you so chose."

Oooh, a chance to do your dirty work for you, how tempting. Execute him yourself, you lazy ass.

"You would put me in a position of authority over you?" she taunted, like they didn't both know she would shunt the responsibility back to him at the first opportunity. Tiffany liked being obscure and going unnoticed. She wasn't going to ruin that for herself by accepting a promotion.

"Who else could I trust to give it back?" said Walter, clearly thinking along the same lines.

Ah, so that was his true goal. He wanted her to recommend candidates, and implying she was his first choice would give her incentive to suggest ones good enough to take herself out of consideration.

"Bernie Sturges." Bernie was more on the side of science than anything else.

"Otto got to them first."

"Really. I always thought they were one of yours – wanting to keep the world as it is until they're done studying it."

"Dr Sturges is investigating Bular's cause of death."

"I see." Tiffany tapped her chin. "Then you will want to delay them, before they find anything that could be ... misconstrued, as proof of your involvement. Like a friendly-fire injury from when you tried to drive the Trollhunter away and they dodged, causing your knife to hit Bular instead."

"I wasn't there for that battle."

"Trolls are stone, scars last a long time. Did you and Bular never fight side by side?" She dropped this line of questioning. "Zelda Nomura."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Put her through a week of diplomacy where she can't pull her swords on everyone and she'll be blackmailing you to take your job back."

"Or the Order will descend into anarchy before my return."

Really, Tiffany just assumed Nomura was involved in whatever Walter was trying to hide about Bular's death. Everyone knew Nomura had once tried to infiltrate Trollmarket and steal the Amulet. She probably still had connections there. Maybe she had even found sympathizers.

(Not Changeling sympathizers; Tiffany couldn't stretch her imagination that far. But Gumm-Gumm sympathizers would still exist in troll communities, quietly, only eating humans in secret, willing to turn a blind eye to machinations leading to Gunmar's escape.)

"Gladys Groe."

"She and Otto despise one another."

"Exactly."

"And she's impulsive. I don't want to return and immediately have to start putting out fires."

"The new agent, the one who cooks." Everyone liked a good cook, so he'd probably survive, and he hadn't had much time to build a reputation on the surface, so he wouldn't be popular enough to usurp Walter or enough of a threat for Otto to attack. "If he won't give you your job back, you can give him detention for however long his human cover is still in high school."

"Absolutely not." Walter took out the fountain pen he used as a fidget tool. Tiffany had caught the flicker of red and gold in his eyes. "Otto would – Jim doesn't have the experience for anyone to respect his authority yet."

"Jennifer Smith, then." She practically ran Omni-Reach Travel already, so it wouldn't even be that much of stretch for her.

Walter's hands stilled and his expression softened as he considered. "Perhaps."

Tiffany's phone rang before she could think of any other recommendations. She checked it on reflex. A patient, probably having something of a crisis considering the time. She could leave it for her answering machine, but, 5:30 was late enough in the morning to justify the ringing phone waking her up and her being coherent about it.

"I should take this."

Walter nodded, still looking thoughtful. Tiffany put on a yawn as she answered, and watched Walter out of the corner of her eye to see how long it took him to yawn back.

"Hello?"

"Ah, good morning Dr Archenn. This is Nancy Domzalski. I was expecting your answering machine."

Walter yawned. He didn't open his mouth wider than a slit, but Tiffany saw his jaw move. Eleven seconds.

"I was just starting to wake up," she lied. "How can I help you?"

"I was hoping to reschedule my grandson's next appointment. Do you have any sooner times available?"

Dr Archenn reviewed her mental notes. Tobias Domzalski, age fifteen. No, wait, sixteen. Still fifteen? He turned sixteen soon if he hadn't already. Initially brought in for grief counselling, having lost his parents at a young age; continued to meet with her because Nancy didn't want to take him away from a therapist he had already built up trust and rapport with, in case he needed further help in the future; stress-related compulsive eating; family history of clinical depression; next appointment scheduled in three weeks.

"I'll have to look over my schedule and get back to you." She had it programmed into her phone and hadn't figured out how to check it without hanging up on a phone call. She had it physically written down as well, but that book was in her office.

"Of course," said Nancy. "I … I don't believe he's in immediate trouble, it doesn't have to be today … but I do think sooner would be best."

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Previous Chapter (The school play happens)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (The kids try a new strategy for convincing Vendel their families are trustworthy)

Technically I don't think Tiffany should've been answering a call related to her practice while someone else was in the room, per the terms of patient confidentiality and all that, but Tiffany already discloses things about her patients to the Janus Order as she deems it necessary, so she's not all that concerned about the ethics of her behaviour here.

Nancy does not think Toby is delusional. She thinks he's frightened and stressed and hesitant to tell her why (all of which is true) and so is reaching out to someone she thinks will be able to help him.

I have decided that Nancy currently has at least five cats. There's the Siamese and Persian that Toby mentions in the show (upon AAARRRGGHH telling him he smells like cat, "My Nana has a Siamese," which might also be the cat we saw getting food levitated out of its bowl when Jim summoned the armour for the first time; later, watching Jim train, Toby gives AAARRRGGHH a paper bag with "dander from my Nana's Persian, and a couple of hairballs"), a calico, probably an orange tabby, and maybe a tuxedo cat – that's a particular form of black and white patches, both common and cute. Any cats of other description confirmed to be hers in the Tales of Arcadia franchise at a later time were simply not in the room during this chapter.

I want to keep Otto in the story but it's getting trickier to justify why Walter isn't trying to kill him off while he has the opportunity. Thoughts?

#Trollhunters #My Fanfiction #Becoming The Mask chapters #Tales of Arcadia #Monday is fanfic day!#Tobias Domzalski #dream sequence #Claire Nuñez #death and grief #cell phones #Gnome Chompsky #Changeling Jim #cats #Nana Nancy Domzalski #Walter Strickler #Changelings #Original Character

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chopper-witch · 5 years

Text

A Most Bewitching Tale: Aura (Ch. 1)

Characters: Reader x Loki, Nicky Fury, Maria Hill, Tony Stark

Warnings: None

WC: 2,000+

Things to know: I’m making SHIELD a more real thing than it currently is from AoS5 (since 6 isn't out but it seems like they are rebuilding it?). Stark never sold his tower and it’s where they will be staying (for now). This is post-IW/EG because I don’t want to deal with that (everyone is alive, yeah!). Also: your two calico cats are named after Würzburg (the second largest witch hunt in history where over 900 were killed) and Bamberg (the largest, over 1,000 killed). Würz and Bambe (like Bambi, without the ‘I’ when spoken)

Summary: Loki keeps entering your shop; you just want to know why.

A/N: Okay this is my old story that I never finished (Behind the Mask) but turned into Reader X Loki.

_____

The familiar jingle of the door forces you to stand up rapidly in order to greet your customer, especially because this visitor does not feel like a regular. Summer can throw off auras, but this feels… strange, wrong almost.

As you stand, mind focused on what could be causing the awkward energy pulse, your head bumps the bottom of said counter.

Great. Not like you needed your head to function or anything.

“Hi, uh, welcome to Illusive Arts, can I help you with - ah,”one of your two familiars, Würz, jumps onto your shoulder, claws digging their way in with one paw while the other swats at your face. “- anything?”

The stranger looks amused at the sight before him. A frazzled woman pulling calico cat off her unbuttoned flannel while also fighting off the growing bump on her forehead.

“Würz, go bother your sister or something,” you hiss after successful pulling him off you, shoving him away.

The cat meows loudly in response, bolting away to find his sister.

As you turn to look towards the door again, you are surprised to see the stranger already at your counter. His clothes seem out of place - not faux-witchy like the enthusiasts; not formal like the real sorcerers and such that come in; not plain like the randoms that just wander in. The clothes are rather an odd combination to create a witchy-super hero: dark green leather pants with a cotton v-neck and a matching green vest. It’s ugly.

The more you look, the more you realize he looks familar. Dark, black, curly hair; pale, defined face; vibrant green - maybe blue? - eyes; tall; lean but muscular…

And using a very poor masking spell.

It’s as yours eyes truly focus on him do you see the shimmer around the edges. With every muscle movement (a blink, involuntary twitch) the spell fractures just a little more. For the average person, they will never noticed him. To a trained witch, it depends on their abilities with masking.

For you, easy. Very easy.

You smile.

It’s Loki. The man who tried to take down New York - and the world - but couldn’t do so even with the help of an alien army. Someone so feared and hated around the world yet appears so weak in person.

You could just say you know who he is, spit his name out. But it is much more fun to play ignorant.

“So, may I help you?” You repeat, placing your right elbow onto the table to support your head with your right hand.

“I think I am just browsing for today, but thank you. I will let you know,” Loki grins playfully.

Oh yeah. Definitely him. The crack follows in green, the light green shimmer blazing for just a moment.

As he walks towards the bookshelves to the right of her, you shake your head. People have said he is amazing at magic, a danger that should be watched out for.

The man can’t even do a proper masking spell. What danger could he possibly be?

After an hour of meandering, he leaves empty handed.

—

The same thing happens for nearly three weeks, save Mondays: he comes in, he meanders through your shop, he leaves with nothing.

While you shouldn’t inherently be bothered by this, something about his visits does bother you. Most regular visitors who leave empty handed look at different things all the time and come every few weeks, not every day. Something isn’t adding up.

So the next night, a Friday, when the shop is technically supposed to be closed due to the full moon, you open it just before he comes in. And once he wanders past the first layer of bookshelves, you begin to close your shop.

Locked door, check. Closed blinds, check. Open sign off, check. Cats somewhere out of the way, possibly.

You lean against the door, waiting just a few more minutes.

About five minutes into wandering he always stops in front of the Nature Magic section, so you speed off to there, not wanting to give away your abilities immediately. It’s in the back of all the rows, up all the stairs. And for each row, there is a set of five stairs.

Despite being mildly out of breath 50 steps later, you still continue towards the man, determined.

“Why this is new,” Loki muses, placing one of the many books down as you turn the corner.

“Why do you keep coming into my shop?” you demand, stopping barely a foot from him. Maybe panting a lot little.

“Because I like it.”

You cross your arms. He’s lying. “No. That’s not true. Why do you come every day at the same time doing practically the same thing?”

“I enjoy routine.” Loki shrugs and turns to you. The masking is crackling more; he is losing his grip on it.

“Possibly. But why my shop?”

“My, uh, friend, Dr. Strange suggested it to me.” He nods, satisfied with his answer.

You narrow your eyes. Strange rarely comes in here - he has everything he needs at his fingertips and can access anything almost immediately. Something about Loki coming to your shop every single day is off, really off.

“Lies. You are lying.” You step closer.

“I am not!” He protests, crossing his arms.

“Have you seen anything wonder woman related? Cause I have something very similar to her truth lasso or whatever it’s called and I will get it and I will use it on you.”

Your threat is very real and you can conjure it in seconds. And it will work on the God of Lies.

It will work on anyone.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well horrible masking isn’t enough. If you are going to ever fit in, my dear Loki, you need to catch up on mortal pop culture as well,” you angrily explain.

A chair is quickly conjured by you.

Before Loki can even protest that he is Loki, he is stuck sitting on the chair, bound to it by some mystic, unseeable chain. Hands stuck together behind him by something sticky - magical tape possibly? - and unmoving. The masking drops entirely; any shimmer left over gone. Something not even he can slither out of, though he tries first by struggling against. The he tries to his seidr.

He’s suck.

You stare down at him. Why is he so desperate to constantly be in you store? Why your store?

Your right hand grabs an empty hex bag off the wall, tucking it away in the back pocket of your jeans. Hopefully it won’t be needed, but this is a supposed god.

While Loki continues to try and squirm out of a very, very tough chain, you continue to look him over. As you trace over his every feature, one phrase keeps repeating: Why your store? Why your store? Why you st-

“Oh,” you realize. “You can feel auras, no?”

Loki stops squirming just to look at you. His piercing eyes that were green moments ago look more black now. He’s angry, very angry. But he also feels very powerless. And tired… these chains must have some kind of spell as well.

“Yes,” he spits.

“So you know this is a place Dr. Strange occasionally visits. But when you first came here you felt the aura of a typical magic shop - one run by a lower level witch or something, but Dr. Strange is not one to shop local business.” You step forward, mind working it out as you speak. “When you entered you saw and explored real, intensive magic. The outside aura didn’t match the inside aura. You kept coming back to try and figure out why… am I wrong?”

You squat down so that your face is level with his stomach. You then glance up at him with a soft smile as he tilts down to glare at you.

“No, you are not wrong.”

“Well, Loki. Real masking and cloaking spells can do wonders.” You stand with a sigh, patting his leg. "Most real witches, wizards, sorcerers, whatever you wish to call them, ignore my shop. The idea of entering is distasteful to them once they feel the energy of the shop. But you entered because a powerful sorcerer occasionally came here and you just had to know why.”

“Are you going to turn me in or whatever?” Loki asks, rolling his head back. “I’m assuming you can tell I ought to be watched.”

You cross your arms. The grin you’ve been trying to suppress pulls on your lips before you can stop it.

“Gods no. You need help, clearly. Your masking is horrible, no offense and if you were to ever get in a fight with a real witch or warlock or whatever, you would lose. There is more than Asgardian spells you need to know if you are going to survive out here…”

He straightens back up. Though he tries to hide it, his face is covered in worry. “What do you mean by that?”

“Let’s just say I have a few eyes and ears out there and many are not the fondest of you. And you’ve seen what I can do, and by no means am I the most powerful. And I just chained you to a chair, unable to use magic.” You shrug. “Tomorrow, same time as usual. Be here. We are going to be working on your masking skills. Human magic is likely the best way to go about it since you are on Earth, but I’ll look through some of my notes.”

With a double blink of your eyes Loki is released and the chair is gone. Without the support he stumbles, falling flat on his butt. Despite your amusement (and the giggles that follow), you offer your hand. Hey, might as well be nice to the guy who might kill you later.

Loki takes it, surprised by your strength as you pull him upright. He should be embarrassed; to be entirely honest, however, he is a bit turned on by your magical ability (and that little bit of bondage).

“But why help me?” Loki murmurs, eyes slitted. He isn’t sure if he can trust you.

In the low light your chapped lips look smooth, eyes nearly entirely black. It is in the close proximity when he isn’t trying to get himself away that he finally inhales your scent - something he has since ignored. It is heavy of singed and burned… everything. Wood, flowers, animals, clothes, hair, skin… Loki quickly assumes you work heavily with fire and electricity, two of the things that cause those smells. But blood, too, lingers on you. Blood mix with cedar and pine and various venoms…

You swallow heavily when you realize Loki is picking up on the various scents stuck on you. Your heart is racing in fear that he will expose you. And his breath, right on your neck, is not helping. It’s only making you warmer and your heart beat faster.

To even the odds, you tilt your head up and make direct eye contact.

“I think we can help each other.”

Loki grins down at you. His head pulls just slightly away.

“I have a feeling I will quite enjoy working with you,” Loki muses.

With that he begins to walk away, moving past the other sorcerer, who is trying not to over think is words.

***

When Loki walks into the common level, he does not expect to be greeted with anyone. Especially not Tony, Nick, and Maria sitting at the table straight ahead. All three have stern looks on their faces, eyes watching him walk off the elevator.

“Sit, Reindeer Games,” Tony commands, gesturing to the empty chair at the head of the table.

“What is this?” Loki growls, stomping over to sit at the table.

“Well, you are on probation. You leave only with someone with you. However, you were in the library, according to a video feed and tracker feedback at 10:23 PM…” Fury begins. Maria holds the tablet up so Loki can watch. “But at 10:24 you vanished, in a flash of flight. Your tracker went haywire and we couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Loki closes his eyes. That blasted girl destroyed his illusion and bounced his tracker. While impressed, he may have just gotten himself in a temporary cell because some mortal decided to chain him up. “Witch,” he mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” Tony asks. “Witch? You mean like you used your own magic, which you are prohibited from doing, and got caught?”

Loki opens his eyes and sits upright, slamming his hand on the table. “No, you idiot. Witch. As in I was using magic so I could leave this godforsaken prison without someone but some witch decided to chain me up and berate me with questions!”

Maria and Nick glance to each other. Tony sits back, unsure how to respond.

“What you are saying is there is someone out there who is stronger than you?” Maria confirms.

Loki grits his teeth and turns his head to you. “There are several, according to her. And I’m a target, beyond the ones you guys think I have on me. The magic users of Earth aren’t fond of me, apparently.”

Fury leans back. He’ll look into it, for sure. Any powered beings should have signed the Accords or at least be within SHIELD’s knowledge.

“Not the only ones who aren’t fond of you.” He places his hands flat on the table. “You are back down to not leaving the tower, period. A guard will be assigned. Do not test us further,” Nick announces.

Loki pushes back from the table, storming off towards the elevator. He wanted a late snack and was served disappointment and frustration instead. Not like it mattered, he is often less hungry as of late.

The god flings his door open, ready to strip himself of his clothes and go to bed, only to see a small, leather-bound book, three hex bags, a small bowl and a large black bag on his bed. He approaches it cautiously. After the warning that many other magic users are after him, much better than the girl, he has to admit such items are worrisome. Folded neatly on top of the book is a folded note on a torn out piece of notebook paper. He snatches it, scared someone might be watching.

Loki still opens it, reading it slowly.

“Thought this may be helpful. Page 20-27, read then do. See you tomorrow night.”

Though the god has never seen the woman’s handwriting, he knows this had to be the witch’s.

With a big grin, he dives right in.

___

Taglist:

@dennnnny-just-wants-friends

#loki x reader #loki x you #loki fic #loki imagine #loki fanfic #loki #marvel imagine #AMBT #a most bewitching tale

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faveficarchive · 5 years

Text

All the Colors of the World: Part 4

Les Amours Perdues

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice, Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: After meeting once again post-Macedonia, Mel and Janice come to terms with their feelings for one another, while also coming to terms with who they are individually.

For the rest of her life, Gabrielle would replay the image in her mind: she, atop a horse, holding aloft a sword. Was that really me, the "we must stop the cycle of violence and hatred" pacifist bard? Leading a battle? A warrior Queen? Then, the answer: It was. For some wild moment I was there, I felt the blood singing in my body...that rush. For that second I knew what Xena felt in battle. Dare I admit it? It was...glorious.

But the glory ended. Quickly.

A nerve-shattering clang brought the sword out of her hand, and almost threw her off the horse. Petrus's mount danced around Argo; Xena's mare, however, was leading, and she kept Gabrielle out of the warlord's reach. A rising roar filled the bard's ears: the armies were converging on them and the ground thundered. She was in the eye of the storm. But then she was falling, caught in the fatal throes of gravity, with time shifting wildly. The decent was slow, then fast. She heard—and felt—a sickening crunch in her wrist as she hit the dirt. Before she could stand up, she felt a sharp, agonizing pain in her thigh. The bastard. He had thrown a dagger into her; the hilt protruded from her leg.

He dismounted and walked to her, sword in hand. She looked once again into the dead eyes. How can anyone have eyes with no color? She did not want this to be the last thing she ever saw, but so be it; to counter it, she shut her own vivid eyes and thought of the vivid blue ones so dear to her..

As it turned out, it wasn't the last thing she saw. She heard the familiar whoosh of the chakram riding on the wind, and a gurgle. Opening her eyes, she saw the chakram embedded in Petrus's chest. The warlord dropped to his knees in front of her. His features began to ease into relief as he welcomed death, but then contorted in pain as he coughed up a bit of blood. "As I said, little Queen, you have good taste," he whispered. He fell back on the field, dead.

A wave of exhaustion and relief hit Gabrielle, as the tension and buildup of the past few days snapped within her. She felt herself being scooped into strong, familiar arms, and her eyes caressed Xena's concerned face.

"I'm taking you back to the village," the warrior said.

The bard nodded. So much for the battle rush. Who needs to fight this fucking war anyway? Not me. "Xena?" she began.

"Yes?"

"You have the most wonderful timing."

*****

Colonel Anton Frobisher had not seen Mel since the young woman had spent a year studying at Cambridge ten years ago. He had witnessed her in every stage of her life: as a sweet-natured infant, a curious toddler, a precocious child, a lanky teenager, a soft-spoken young woman. While he was eager to see this latest "version" of his oldest friend's progeny, she remained fixed in his elderly mind as a little girl, an intelligent eight year-old, who—when she didn't have her nose in a book—was chasing around Patches, a very old cat that lived on his estate in Cornwall. Wielding a long stick that she called a sword, the girl swore that the ancient calico was her arch enemy seeking revenge against her. She was...an odd child at times. One day the old cat triumphed and caught Melinda with a rather nasty scratch on the arm.

* * *

June, 1924

Nicholas Pappas carefully dabbed peroxide on the cut. The girl's eyes brimmed with tears, and her lower lip trembled, but she stared stoically past her father into space.

"You're being very brave, Melinda," he said soothingly. "Almost done." Quickly he wrapped some gauze around her arm and tied it neatly. Out of sheer relief a tear escaped her eye, and he soaked it into his dry, callused thumb. "There we go," he said, with a kiss to her forehead. "Come, let's join Uncle Anton for tea."

They headed for porch, where Anton waited in a wicker chair. At the table before him, high tea awaited them all. He ruffled Melinda's hair as she walked by. "I daresay, Melinda, Patches—"

"Catlisto," corrected the girl solemnly.

"Er, yes—Catlisto—may have won the battle, but you won the war. She flew out of the house like a storm."

"No, Uncle Anton, I shall never be rid of Catlisto," Melinda intoned dramatically. "She is an immortal."

Anton shot a glance at Nick, who convulsed in silent laughter over his tea. Good God, Nick, what do you let this child read? "An...immortal, you say?"

"Yes, a cat is the form she now takes. Centuries ago she angered the gods, and Zeus turned her into a common house pet." With that, Melinda shoved a scone into her face, in only the way a hungry child can.

"Well," Anton mused, looking out into the yard, "now that I think about it, that old beast has been around here ever since I can remember..."

* * *

He was impressed as she stood in his doorway; Melinda continued to grow more stunning with age. She incorporated her father's looks—the height, the broad shoulders, the black hair and blue eyes—into an irresistible package. He felt a strange attraction toward her—strange, because it was based solely upon her resemblance to the dead man who was her father. Ah, Nick, even though I never told you, you knew how I felt. And you remained my friend anyway. Bless you. "Melinda, I'm so delighted to see you again. You look lovely," he said to the woman, at last. He rose from behind his desk and walked to her. She bent a little to receive the kiss that the shorter man placed on her cheek.

Her smile was shy, yet warm. "Hello, Uncle Anton." She paused. "Or should I call you Colonel?"

"Call me that only when we work, my dear. Do sit down." Mel sat in a leather armchair across from his desk.

"Well, I've got you all set up in a flat, dear, not far from here. Fact is, we've taken over a whole block of flats, it seems. Nothing spectacular, you know, probably nothing you're used to, living in that grand house by yourself."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Uncle Anton." Is he implying I'm...spoiled? The house I live in would barely be big enough to be a shed on his estate, she thought.

"Good. I'll have McKay take your bags over in a bit. Now, I do recall you know quite a number of languages, aside from that ancient nonsense you know."

She chuckled. "Yes, I do."

"Well?" His demand was a bit imperious, as his career-soldier-dom seeped through.

"Oh! Let's see, I know Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Romanian..."

He clasped his hands in delight. "Excellent! We have quite a large number of Polish military in London right now, you know. About 30,000 men. So we need all the help we can get in translating services. I've quite a number of documents that need work. But that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I think you should have dinner at my home. We'll catch up a bit."

"Sounds wonderful."

He stood up and she followed. "Let me walk you out." He stepped outside the office and instructed Sergeant McKay, his assistant, to bring around a car to take Mel and her luggage to her new flat on Mecklenburgh Street.

As they descended the steps to the ground floor, his curiosity overtook him. "Melinda, why is it you are here, in London?" he asked gently. The urgent letter she sent gave no reason for her sudden interest in being so much closer to the war.

"Ah, well, I did want to contribute to the war effort..." she stammered, sliding her glasses up along her nose with a shaky finger. He smiled, charmed at her nervousness.

"But you could have done that just as well in your own country," he retorted.

"Yes, you're right," she conceded. A pause. "I came to find a friend...who's stationed here."

I knew it, he thought smugly. The old girl is in love. "An American, I assume?" She nodded. "What branch is he in?"

A faint blush colored her cheeks. "Er, my friend is in the Women's Army Corps, Uncle Anton."

"A woman?" Frobisher mused.

Mel raised an eyebrow, gently amused. "Yes, unless they changed the admission policy or something."

Oh my. He couldn't keep a grin off his face, which made her blush deepen. So Nick, that's why I caught you poring over Kraft-Ebing one day, when your daughter was a teenager. And I thought it was in reference to me. He noted with empathy the anguish and worry now on her face;. obviously, she was very taken with whomever this person was. He smiled inwardly: And I may be in a position to help. But for the moment he resolved to try and cheer her up: "So she's one of those...what do you call them, wackeys, eh what?" He waggled his thick, gray eyebrows.

He was rewarded with a giggle. "A WAC, you mean."

"And you don't know where her assignment is?"

"No," Mel answered, her expression turning morose once again. "An Army friend said she had been stationed here, in London. But I don't know where, exactly."

He opened the door and they were outside, against the darkened sky. Mel's ebony hair blended into the night, yet her eyes glimmered like beacons, even in the foggy, blacked-out haze of London.

Frobisher patted her arm. "Melinda, if she's here I'll find her. Let me see what I can do. What's your friend's name?"

She ducked her head, preventing him from seeing those bright eyes cloud over in pain. And she told him Janice's name.

Frobisher hung up the phone with a sigh. Almost two weeks had passed since Mel's arrival in London. As he could've predicted, she threw herself into the work at hand, and was very good at it. He regretted that her duties called upon her to act as an escort to military functions for some of the Polish officers, many of whom, inevitably, grew infatuated with her. He noticed the weariness with which she threw off the advances; it was obvious to him that she was discouraged in her search, and losing faith.

Now, finally, after untying knots of bureaucracy, he had news for her. He wouldn't have imagined that finding one American WAC would be so time-consuming; but Janice Covington was, after all, only one of many involved in the war. And the news wasn't good. True, it could be worse, but it still wasn't good. He walked down the corridor to where she shared an office with two other translators. Only one of the translators, Cutts, was in the office. "Hello, sir," the young man greeted Frobisher; he was exempt from military service due to a heart problem.

"Hello, Cutts. Where's Melinda?"

"Think she went to the loo, sir."

Frobisher chuckled at his bluntness. He lingered at Mel's immaculate desk, and noticed the curling, black and white photo taped on the wall above her desk: It was Melinda, looking rather disheveled, with a small, fair-haired woman, wearing a fedora, who gazed at her rather intently. Rather adoringly. And Melinda? How often had he seen the girl grin like that, with such unfettered joy, with such abandon of her very serious, almost mask-like, demeanor?

Cutts noticed Frobisher’s interest in the photo. "It's an odd picture, isn't it, sir?" he said. "Doesn't do Miss Pappas justice, probably not her friend either." The older man smiled mysteriously. On the contrary, it does them more justice than you can imagine.

"I happen to like that photo." He heard Mel's soft voice from the doorway. He turned to her, and immediately his face gave everything away. "You found her?" Mel asked; her tone shifted, and crackled with nerves, almost like a static-filled broadcast.

Frobisher nodded with resignation. "She's in France, Melinda."

After he told her, she immediately went back to the WC, leaving the men staring after her in stunned silence. Crammed into the small room, she pulled off her glasses with a trembling hand and cried above the toilet. This is so...frustrating. Every time I think I'm getting closer...I find out she's somewhere else. Her glasses, cradled loosely in her curled hand, slipped out of her grasp and clattered to the floor. At least they didn't end up in the toilet. That would be just my luck about now. She could not stop the visceral, angry curse that welled up in her mind. God damn you, Janice.

*****

September, 1944

It was Paris, but it sure as hell wasn't springtime. A third-rate hotel served as their base of operations. It did not endear the French to Janice Covington, nor she to them—especially when she growled for whiskey in their dour cafes, and only got red table wine that made Thunderbird taste like Veuve Cliquot.

She walked out of the hotel, and saw him leaning against the ambulance they were taking. Blaylock threw the ambulance keys at her. They sang through the air with a whiz, hit Janice in the right breast, and fell to the ground with a ping. She scowled. He blushed. "Sorry. We've got to get going," he said.

"If they think I'm such an idiot, why are they letting me drive him there?" Janice grunted, scooping the keys from the ground. "They" referred to General Bradley's underlings, the American liaisons to the Force Francaise d'Interior (or FFI; that is, the Resistance), who called upon Captain Blaylock for a driver to escort Max Duval, an FFI leader, to Reims. What Duval would be up to in Reims, Blaylock was not told; but when the Captain offered Janice—the best driver of ambulance, jeep, and truck in Paris—for the mission, he was rebuffed. It took a good deal of conniving on Blaylock's part, but the authorities finally agreed to let Janice drive Duval—if she were escorted by Blaylock.

"They don't think you're an idiot, Janice. They're just touchy about this one. Duval is a pretty important guy, and he was almost killed in the street fighting that went on last month, before the Liberation. Besides, they promoted you, didn't they?" The thought of a WAC—who was also a private—undertaking this crucial task was more than their Division Leader could bear, so they promoted Janice. But not by much.

"Yes, I do so love the alliterative joy of Corporal Covington rolling off my tongue," she said sarcastically.

Blaylock grinned. "Well, if you wanted to be an officer, you should've gone into officers' training."

"I didn't want to be an officer," she snapped.

"Then why the hell are you complaining?" he retorted, confused.

They stopped walking toward the ambulance truck they were taking for the journey. After three months of blood, mud, and death, not to mention the growing realization that her feelings for Melinda Pappas had neither decreased nor deceased, Janice allowed herself a surly outburst, aimed at one of her closest friends: "Because I can."

Luckily, Blaylock was accustomed to such outbursts, having known Janice for many years, and merely shrugged it off. "Well, you need someone to come along anyway, since you barely know French," he chastised her in his gentle way.

Duval, still nursing a broken arm from his fight of several weeks ago, sat morosely in the ambulance truck's open hatch, waiting for them. Aside from her rudimentary Greek, Turkish, and Arabic, Janice knew very few modern languages; French, especially, was perplexing to her for some odd reason and she watched impatiently yet enviously as Blaylock conversed effortlessly with their charge. However, Duval's meaning was unmistakable to her when his moist dark eyes settled on her and he crooned, "Ah, un blonde ange." Both men grinned at her with sheer infatuation.

"Oh, Christ." Janice walked away with a growl and a roll of the eyes, and climbed into the driver's seat. "I hate the French."

Blaylock gestured for Duvall to enter the truck. Closing the hatch, he sauntered over to the passenger side as the engine kicked over.

As they drove out of the city, all was quiet. Judging from the heavy breathing in the back, Duval had fallen asleep. Blaylock studied Janice's sullen profile and racked his brain for conversation, for something to divert his cranky friend. He had noticed as of late she seemed moodier and moodier, more inclined to pick fights with everyone from their Division Leader (concerning the general lack of respect given to the WACs) to a whore on a street corner (who said she would charge Janice more than a regular customer, not only because she was a woman but an American as well). Well, that was my fault, I never should have dared Janice to ask her how much she would charge. Ah. He remembered something he wanted to tell Janice: "Guess who I ran into on Boulevard Saint Germain yesterday."

"Who?"

"Papageno."

Janice blinked in recognition at the name; Papageno was a Greek friend, an important contact in the world of archaeological digs. He could provide men, supplies, and the most crucial gossip with a snap of the fingers. "What's he doing in Paris? I thought he was sitting out the war in England."

"He was. But once he heard Paris was liberated, he came here. I think he wants to be closer to home. Anyway, he sends his regards, and said he would try to meet with you soon. He also asked if you received the scroll he sent you from England."

She remembered with a jolt. The scroll. God, I haven't even thought about it...it all seems like another lifetime ago. And I suppose it is. It also served as a reminder of Mel. But then, I don't need much to remind me of her. "Yeah, I did. I'll have to tell him."

"Are you working on a translation?" Blaylock asked, his professional curiosity piqued.

"Yeah," Janice replied absently.

"Are you using Nick Pappas's daughter again?"

The truck swerved violently, almost ending up in a ditch, and provoking a cry of "Mon Dieu!" from their startled passenger. Blaylock looked at her in alarm.

"Using?" Janice bristled.

"For the translation." Blaylock supplied impatiently. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Uh, yeah...I am...I...she has the scroll now. I left it in her hands." As well as my heart, my sanity, and everything else.

Blaylock's lips quirked as he suppressed a grin. A sudden instinct had overtaken him. "You know," he drawled sadistically, "I've never met Miss Pappas. But I know Clement Young, her former advisor at Vanderbilt."

"Really." Janice said flatly. The last thing she wanted was to talk about was Mel. It's bad enough she consumes my mind...if I dare talk about her, I think I will go crazy.

"Yeah. Clem says she quite brilliant. Practically a genius."

"It's true," Janice quietly affirmed.

"And she's quite a knockout, he says."

Corporal Covington was silent.

"I believe his expression was, 'She's got legs for miles.'" What he omitted was Young's further commentary on the subject: "It's a shame, though: I think she's queerer than a two dollar bill."

Corporal Covington clenched her jaw.

"No opinion on that, Covington?" he teased gently.

And since when did Corporal Covington not have an opinion on a woman? A bittersweet realization hit Blaylock: The woman he was in love with was finally in love with someone. And it still wasn't him.

*****

In an effort to find out more information about her missing friend, Sergeant McKay, Frobisher's assistant, directed Mel to the St. George, a pub that WACs were known to frequent. She selected a Friday evening to go there. It wasn't terribly crowded, and while she was thankful of that, it decreased her chances of finding Janice. She scanned the room and spotted a group of khaki-clad American women at a table. None of them resembled the fiery-haired archaeologist. With a sigh she walked up to the bar. The barkeep smiled and nodded at her; however, before she could order a drink a decidedly unfamiliar hand cupped her ass. What is it with men and my behind? she thought, spinning around in anger. A British soldier, a sergeant, was grinning at her.

"Meg, love! Didn't know you was back in town!" he cried happily in a Cockney accent. His eyes roamed her figure. "Nice outfit! Thought you was doin' your bit overseas, drivin' an' all that. But I'm real glad you're back."

"Sir," she replied icily, "I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is not Meg."

He doubled up in laughter upon hearing her accent. "Bloody hell! That's great...I reckon if Vivian Leigh can play Scarlett O'Hara, so can you!"

"Sir...sergeant," she said, gritting her teeth, "I am not who you think I am." She rifled through her purse, pulling out her work papers and passport, thrusting the documents in his face. As his laughter subsided, he studied the papers. His face paled. "Jesus H. Christ, miss, I'm sorry!" he apologized. "I really thought you was Meg...you're her spittin' image."

"That's quite all right," she replied, relieved that he believed her.

"I should've known a classy-lookin' woman like you was no Meg." Oh wonderful, he's a talker...and a drunk one at that. He'll never shut up. " 'Specially since I heard she's..." He held out a hand, palm down, wiggling it. "gone a little queer...they say she had a bit of funny business on a ship with some American lass. An' I can tell you certainly aren't one of those types of women."

Because he managed to snag Mel's interest, she let his last comment pass. "On a ship?" she asked. Could it be...?

"Yeah, transport to France. 'Bout three months ago." It fit in with the date of Janice's departure for Normandy, she realized; Frobisher had supplied her with the time line. "My mate was a watch on board. Said he recognized Meg from the old days, when she and I went out together. Well, he gets on duty one mornin', see, and hears these noises in a supply room. And there was no mistakin' what them noises were about. He figures it's one of the officers having it off with one of the ladies, and they deserve to have one last time together before hitting the ground, eh? So he doesn't bother 'em. Well, 'bout an hour later he sees Meg come out with some little American WAC!" the sergeant finished the story on a note of incredulous laughter.

Mel slumped onto a barstool. Was that Janice? Who else would be brave—or stupid enough—to do something like that? Was she sleeping with another woman already? And why someone who looks like me? It makes no sense...running away from me to become involved with someone who looks like me? I am never going to figure this out. She scowled, and recalled the woman named Velasko, and her parting words to Mel: "If you ever find Janice Covington, tell her I'm gonna kill her." Take a number, Miss Velasko, Mel thought darkly.

*****

There was a church in Reims, they were told, where they were to deliver Duval. As they reached the town's outskirts, Janice's eyes scanned the rubble and husks of buildings that began to surround them with increasing alarm. "How can we tell what goddamn building is the church?" Janice complained.

"Janice, if anyone could put goddamn and church in the same sentence, it would be you," Blaylock retorted. But he also looked discouraged. Finally he yelled back to Duval, who scurried up to the front. "Ou est la eglise?" he asked the Frenchman, who frantically scanned the streets.

"Ici! Ici!" Duval cried, pointing at a large building which, indeed, still resembled a church, despite its crumbling facade; a stone lineup of angels adorned the top of its entrance, all part of an elaborate-heaven and-hell scene, with its details chipped away. Jesus was missing the arm which pointed upward; demons had faces blown off, rendering them even scarier. The ambulance pulled up too the door. Before Blaylock could stop him, Duval had opened the hatch and was out of the vehicle. A thin man, dressed in black, peered from the open doorway of the church. He then came out and hugged Duval.

"Aw, that's sweet," Janice said, only semi-sarcastically. Blaylock, however, could never get used to the intense fraternal affection of Frenchmen, and he glanced about awkwardly. After a few minutes of speaking with his comrade and some others who emerged from the church, Duval bounded over to them and smothered the Captain with an embrace. Janice laughed at Blaylock's consternation. "Merci beaucoup, mon ami," Duval whispered into the Captain's ear. Then he released Blaylock and turned to Janice. "Ah, Madamoiselle Covington!" he breathed ecstatically. It was Blaylock's turn to laugh.

"Dr. Covington," Janice corrected automatically. Duval blinked in confusion.

"Corporal Covington," Blaylock threw in. Duval looked even more confused. Then he shrugged with a Frenchman's insouciance. "Au revoir, mon blonde ange," he whispered melodramatically and planted a kiss on Janice's lips. She pulled back, sputtering.

Duval's dark-clad comrade came out of the church with a small rucksack. He handed it wordlessly, with a smile, to Blaylock. The Captain opened it and returned the smile grateful at the sight of apples, cheese, bread, and a wineskin. With a final wave the two men departed into the church.

She waited until they had disappeared behind the door, and she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Did I mention I hate the French?" she grumbled as they climbed back into the ambulance truck.

The sound of the wheels blowing out was so like an explosion that Janice thought they hit a mine. The truck swerved violently, spinning around almost 360 degrees, until the end of the vehicle slammed into a tree. Her jaw hit the steering wheel and she bit part of her lip at the impact. But the vehicle was still, and they had not blown up, although the radiator was smoking from under the hood.

She looked at Blaylock, who was rubbing his knee. "You all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, just banged my knee against the dash. You?"

"Fine. The steering wheel packs a hell of a punch, though." She rubbed her jaw. "What happened?"

"Don't know. Either you ran over something sharp in the road, or we set off a mine that, luckily, had a delayed explosion."

She jumped out of the truck. They were on a slight incline, with the passenger side tilted upward. Before Janice could suggest that Blaylock come out on her side, he kicked open his door and jumped out. "Shit!" he cried as she heard him fall with a thud. She ran over to him. He sat on the ground, now rubbing his ankle instead of his knee. "What?" she asked.

"Great. Now I think I sprained my ankle," he moaned.

She held a hand down to him. He grabbed it and hauled himself up; as always, he was impressed with her strength. He leaned on her lightly, relishing the physical contact between them, despite the throbbing pain in his ankle and the grim circumstances. How in the hell do we get out of this?

Janice scanned the road. Her breath caught at the sight: huge shards of broken glass were trailed along the road. "Son of a bitch! I ran over glass and I didn't see it!" She disengaged herself from Blaylock, who leaned against the truck for support.

Blaylock peered into the road. "It's clear glass, Janice. It's hard to see it," he said gently. He knew immediately she would beat herself up about it.

"Fuck!" she screamed, and furiously started to kick at the truck and its flat tires. Obviously she would beat up the faultless vehicle as well. I just have to keep her from kicking me around too, he thought. "Janice," he began patiently, "It was an accident. By the time you would have seen it, it would've been too late anyway. Besides, if you're gonna blame anyone, blame me. I was distracting you by trashing the Giants anyway." He watched as her stopped kicking, and her ragged breathing relaxed into a stable rhythm. "Sorry," she panted.

"Forget about it. Let's just concentrate on getting out of here." They were both silent for a moment. Janice paced, hands crammed into her back pockets, glaring at the road. Then it hit Blaylock. "Hey! There was a farm about two miles back—"

"A farm?" she echoed.

"Yeah, you didn't see it. It was on my side of the road. It looked pretty abandoned, but there was a truck there! I remember seeing it. If we could get that truck...I mean, if there are people there maybe they would drive us to Paris, or we could exchange the food for the vehicle..."

"Or if there isn't anyone there, I could hotwire it," Janice grinned.

He stared at her. She was a doctor—an intelligent and admired professional in her field (in spite of her father's reputation), a Harvard graduate, and a beautiful woman. But she was also as much of a roughneck and hooligan as her father, the infamous Harry Covington. It was the duality of Janice that intrigued him, and compelled him to love her. "Where in hell did you learn to hotwire a car?" She opened her mouth to reply, and he cut her off: "Never mind, I don't want to know. Okay, let's walk back to that farm." Tentatively he put all his weight on both legs, and winced when the swollen ankle screamed its protest.

"Wait a minute, hotshot. You're not going anywhere. You can hardly walk." With a gentle shove she pushed him against the truck again.

"The truck's not going to come to us, Janice."

"Look, why don't you let me go get it and I'll bring it back. You stay here."

His face darkened. "No deal, Covington. I'm not letting you go alone."

"For Christ's sake, Dan, you're injured. You have to admit you'd slow me down if you came along. Hell, I could run there if I went by myself."

"You don't know—"

"—any French, yes, I know, but I know how to pantomime real well, and I think between that and my pidgin French I'll convey the urgency of our need."

He sighed. He knew he would regret this, but he nodded his consent. "All right," he growled. He handed her his .45."Take this, and the food for the swap. I've a got a rifle in the back, so I'll be okay." She tucked the gun into her waistband, under the cover of her jacket, as if she had been doing such a thing for years. And she probably has, he thought. Another thing I don't want to know about.

She grinned. "I'll be back," she said, and took off, jogging lightly down the road. Wistfully, he watched her form grow smaller until it disappeared from his sight.

*****

Indeed, the small farmhouse had been abandoned; there was not even livestock, although there was blood to indicate most of it had been slaughtered, rather sloppily, for food. At least I hope it's animal blood, and not human, Janice thought as she carefully prowled around the buildings, handgun drawn. Her search yielded no one, living or dead.

The truck was, to her astonished pleasure, a very old Ford. She checked under the hood for any suspicious wires, which might indicate a bomb, and found none. The body was terribly rusty, and, given its age, it was harder for her to start it than she had hoped. But eventually the engine turned over, and she hopped into the driver's seat triumphantly.

The old truck lurched down the road. She was reluctant to drive it fast, in case it would die. As she approached the wrecked ambulance she saw no sign of Blaylock. She beeped the horn, which resounded shrilly in her ears. This is not good. Where is he?

She put the brake on, and, with the truck running, came out of the vehicle. "Dan!" she shouted. She noticed that the hatch of the ambulance was open in the back. Which it hadn't been before. Briskly she walked toward the truck, thoughts racing. He's okay...maybe he just fell asleep...no need to panic, no need...

She turned the corner, looking into the ambulance and the eyes of a German soldier. He was crouched down and shoving medical supplies from a metal chest into a large rucksack. Blaylock, she noticed, was face down behind him. In a dark pool.

They could only stare at each other, stunned, the American woman and the German soldier. He looked young, perhaps a little younger than me, Janice thought. This moment of empathy gave him just enough time. Just enough time for his expression to change from shock to recognition to rage. Just enough time to draw his pistol and shoot her.

At first she couldn't believe she was shot, but the pinprick of pain in her thigh unfurled like a fire and within moments a sticky warmth started to drip down her leg. Another shot, and she fell back, this second bullet also lodged in her leg. She gasped as she hit the ground, and waited for him to shoot again. But he went back to stuffing his rucksack. Obviously stealing the bandages, ointments, and instruments were far more important, and he had no time to be merciful and kill her quickly. He would just let her linger, let her die slowly, like her friend.

Her friend. There was a bloody smear on the edge of the door. A fresh one. Is Dan dead?. She groped for the .45. So it comes down to this. "Hey!!" she screamed. The soldier's head snapped around. She pumped three bullets into his chest. His gun, which he had drawn after the first shot, clattered onto the metal floor and slid toward her, like an offering. She stared at the Luger, panting. I've never had to shoot anyone before...

She stood up—ignoring the runaway blood that coursed down her leg and the faint feeling that accompanied it—and crawled into the back of the truck, to where Blaylock lay. She turned him over. His torso was slick with blood. He had been shot twice in stomach. But he was still alive. Barely. "Janice?" he whispered. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and staring past her, into the unknown, into a future that was far away from her.

She struggled not to cry. "Jesus, Dan," she said huskily, "I leave you alone, and look at all the trouble you get in. I'm the one who's supposed to get into trouble here."

"Yeah, sorry." He gave her a weak smile. "The son of a bitch. He caught me off guard..."

"Shhh, Dan, be quiet.. I've got to fix that wound." She started to move away but his bloody hand gripped hers.

"Too late," he gasped. "Let it go."

She knew it too. But fought it nonetheless. "No!" she screamed. She scrambled toward the rucksack, pulling out bandages. The floor was slippery with his blood, and she practically slid across the truck. Jesus...I'm going to faint. I can't Not now. "I have to get you into the other truck," she breathed heavily.

"Shit, Janice, you're wounded too," he said, spotting the growing crimson stain on her trousers, as she crawled back, cradling bandages.

She pressed a bundle of gauze to his stomach. "Hold on to that. I'm going to try and move you..."

"Wait," he said feebly.

"No, I can't, Dan, I've got to..." I've got to...I've screwed up again, haven't I? She dropped her head, and the tears came.

"Please...don't, Janice. It'll be okay." He touched her arm with a shaky hand. "Just stay with me for a moment."

She cradled his head and placed it on her lap, wrapping an arm around him.

"I'm sorry, Dan. So sorry."

He coughed. Blood speckled his lips. "Not your fault the damn Kraut shot me."

"No, it's not that." I'm sorry about hurting you. I laughed when you found me in bed with a woman, remember? I'll never forget the agony of your face. Why did you—and why do you continue to—love me? "I'm sorry about us."

He understood. "I know." He smiled weakly. "Fat lot of good that does both of us, huh?" She tried to smile back at him, but his words hit home. She dropped her gaze. Then he said, "Janice?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it her—Dr. Pappas's daughter?"

"Yes," she admitted softly.

"Did...something go wrong?"

Goddammit, Dan, you're here dying and you're quizzing me on my love life? Nonetheless, the words tumbled out of her. "It was me, Dan. I acted like a fool."

"You go back...get back to her and fix it," he said hoarsely. "Make sure you get home."

She felt his breathing slip away to nothing, disappearing with the light as twilight drifted over them. She lost track of how long she sat there with his body, drifting in and out of consciousness, until a pair of headlights blinded her and she heard the screeching of a vehicle and voices, speaking English, that grew louder and louder as they approached her.

*****

Gabrielle awoke with her lover's name on her lips. "Xena?"

She was back in her hut; it was night, and in the dim candlelight she made out Ephiny's slender form, sitting beside her on the bed. "Sorry to disappoint you, But I'm not Xena," the regent replied with a smile.

Gabrielle cleared her throat. "Did we—" Ephiny reached for a mug of water on the table next to them, and held it to the Queen's lips. She drank it greedily and gratefully.

"Yes. We were triumphant. After Petrus was killed, a lot of his men lost heart. It was a quick battle, and we had very few losses. A lot of injuries, though."

The Queen tried to sit up; Ephiny assisted, and gently propped the bard in a sitting position with some pillows. Her wrist was bandaged in a splint, and another around her thigh. "Where is Xena?" she asked nervously.

"She's fine, Gabrielle. She's at the common baths."

"Oh." The bard frowned, wondering why Xena did not use their private bath. "Why didn't she—"

"She didn't want to disturb you. Look, how are you feeling?"

"Okay, I guess. My wrist hurts more than the leg. And I'm hungry."

"Big surprise. Let me bring you some food." Ephiny stood up.

Gabrielle swung her legs onto the floor. "Wait, I'm coming with you."

"Oh no you're not. Xena will chop me into tiny pieces and feed me to the dogs if I let you out of this hut."

"Actually, I think she likes you too much...to feed you to the dogs. But if I'm not mistaken, I'm the boss around here, right? " She felt the old anger rise, the anger she usually directed at the warrior when she was being "protected." I'm not a kid. "I want to see people, visit the wounded, make sure everything is okay." She glared at Ephiny, who held up her hands in surrender.

Leaning on the regent, Gabrielle limped through the village. Tired warriors greeted her, the children were back, and the wounded in the healer's hut were a minimum. Ephiny reported four Amazon deaths in all, an astonishingly low figure.

They ended their walking tour with a stop in the food hall. By this time Gabrielle's leg was screaming with agony, and she plopped down on a bench while Ephiny raided the kitchen. I wonder if I could get Ephiny to carry me back...her half-serious thought was interrupted by loud voices outside, the door swinging open, and Eponin and Solari entering the food hall.

Solari was exhorting her friend, "Are you kiddin', Pony, it was awesome to watch her...she slices, she dices, she..."

Eponin caught sight of the Queen, and clapped her hand over Solari's mouth. The indignant Amazon made a muffled noise of outrage. Then she followed Eponin's gaze to where Gabrielle sat, frowning at them.

"Hi, Gabrielle," Eponin said innocently.

"Mrehlow, Abrial," Solari said through the hand.

"Hi, girls," Gabrielle replied sarcastically. "Who are you gossiping about?"

"No one," Eponin said meekly. With a warning look to her friend, she withdrew her hand from Solari's mouth.

"No, just the uh...new cook. She has very impressive chopping abilities...I've never seen anyone de-seed a pomegranate the way she does..." Solari babbled. Eponin rolled her eyes.

"Nice try, Sol, but no one knows better than I how well Xena slices and dices," Gabrielle said.

The Amazons were shame-faced. "Sorry, we know you don't like hearing about stuff like that," Eponin said.

"It's okay." Gabrielle smiled at them. I don't like hearing about that...about Xena killing like that. But it's a part of her...and I've accepted the whole package deal, right?

Ephiny stumbled out of the kitchen, with a rucksack of food so large it blocked most of her upper body. "Is this enough?" she asked.

*****

Gabrielle leaned on Eponin for the walk back to her hut, Ephiny and Solari ahead of them, carrying the food. As they arrived at the door, Solari playfully kicked it open and she and Ephiny entered to deposit the food.

They came scattering out like crazed ants. "Beat it, Pony!!! She's in there!" Solari shouted as she ran by Eponin and Gabrielle.

"Oh gods!!!" Eponin took off as well and Gabrielle found herself lurching into empty space. She caught herself before falling and limped into the hut.

Xena, clad only in a shift, stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed. A bounty of foodstuffs was spilled at her feet, like some haphazard offering.

Blue eyes drilled into the bard. "Where," began the warrior in her lowest, most deadliest tones, "in the...Hades...have you...been?"

Quick, say something. It was an idiotic impulse, one which had—and would—plague her for the rest of her life. "Oh great warrior goddess, most powerful one, see you not the tribute my minions and I bring to you?" Gabrielle spread out her arms, indicating the food on the floor.

"You should be in bed," the warrior continued in the same dark tone.

"My love, words like that from your lips I cannot resist." With that, the bard hobbled past the food and playfully flopped on the bed, which jarred the stitches in her thigh; a cry of pain escaped her mouth, which blossomed into a comely pout.

"I have no sympathy for you," grunted the warrior. Nonetheless Xena sat on the bed and carefully undid the bandage around the bard's leg. "Mmmm, Lydia did a good job with the stitches. I see no sign of infection." Her blue eyes scanned Gabrielle's body, not with the appraisal of a lover, but the scrutiny of a healer. "You've a nasty bruise and a big cut on your calf, though. How's your wrist?"

"Feeling better."

"Good. Try not to jostle it too much. I'm going to put some salve on that leg." She walked over to the table, where her healing pouch was. She returned to the bard, her hands covered liberally with a thick herbal paste that she rubbed gently yet firmly into the injury.

"You must've had a busy day," Gabrielle said. "I should be rubbing you down."

The warrior smiled. How does she make it both gentle and wicked at once? wondered Gabrielle. "That comes later."

"Ahhhh," replied the bard knowingly, with a leer.

"I think you're a little too banged up for that."

Once again the bard resorted to pouting. She sighed, and gave up. "I'm glad we didn't have a lot of deaths. I mean, there were a lot of injuries, but Eph told me the centaurs got hit even worse."

"Yeah, and on top of it all they lost their healer a few days ago. Fell down a ravine. Died from the injuries." All the while Xena continued a steady massaging rhythm into the bard's leg.

Gabrielle gasped. "Gods! You're kidding! What did they do after this battle? Surely Lydia couldn't handle all of them...unless you helped." It dawned on her: Xena had been in the centaur village. For the first time since Solon's death six months ago. She stilled her lover's hands. "Xena?" Her eyes grew teary. "Why didn't you say..."

"Well, I was going to say...in my time." The warrior's crystalline eyes were darkened by the fire and the candlelight, but her tone was deep and gentle. "It felt funny at first...I kept looking for him, but I remembered he wasn't...there anymore. Then, the wounded started coming in." She gave a light shrug. "And I just didn't have time to think about it anymore." She looked up at Gabrielle. A look of anguish, one that she had not seen in quite a while, had contorted the young woman's face. "Gabrielle?" she whispered.

The bard looked into the fire, as if she wished to be devoured and undone by it. As she had been devoured by the god Dahak, and by her own guilt of the events that followed. This cycle never really ends, does it?

"Gabrielle," Xena said again, softly. "Stop." The bard's small hand flew to her cheek and she rubbed it, allowing her fingers to staunch the flow of some tears. A larger hand, sticky with salve, covered her own. "Stop," repeated the warrior. "Don't hold yourself responsible for this any longer. Because I don't. And no one else does."

Gabrielle's look held surprise. Which, in turn, stunned Xena.

"Do you think I hold you responsible, still?" Xena's voice was low, urgent, incredulous. "Do you think I would have allowed myself to be brought to you the other night, that I would've surrendered my heart to you, if I still felt anger toward you, if I still felt that...hatred?" She permitted herself to shudder at the memories of the past year.

The tears fell freely now. "No," Gabrielle conceded. "You're right. I just...what I truly hate is what we put each other through."

"Me too," the warrior agreed, brushing Gabrielle's cheek lightly, with her knuckles. They looked at each other for a long moment, not saying anything, not needing to.

Silence, however, was not a state that the bard indulged in for long. "Hey, how did you get so damn eloquent all of a sudden?" she cracked.

"I think it's your influence, Gabrielle." Using the back of her hand, Xena wiped away the lingering tears on her companion's cheeks. She then returned to the task of rubbing the salve into Gabrielle's leg.

"Well, it's only fair, don't you think? You influence me in a lot of ways."

To her delight, the warrior looked pleased. "How so?"

"Well, let's just say I've never enjoyed having a sword in my hand until today. I felt it, Xena. That rush...it wasn't exactly battlelust. But I felt the spirit. Your spirit." She paused. "Am I making sense?"

"In a poetic, bardly kinda way," snorted the Warrior Princess. "I'm not sure this is something you should be happy about experiencing."

Gabrielle chuckled. "No, it is a good thing. I want to experience it all, don't you? Well, I guess you have...but I haven't. When I tell a story, it's like I'm painting a world. Creating it. And I think for a long time I was only using a few colors. Do you see?"

Xena nodded.

"Now, I think, I've loved you long enough to see the world through your eyes sometimes. And to use the colors your vision has brought to me."

The practical warrior pondered all this. It's all kinda artsy-fartsy, but it makes sense, I suppose. "But the...colors I've brought to your world, Gabrielle, they have been pretty dark."

The bard leaned forward and captured the warrior's lips in a long kiss. Then the urge to talk outweighed the desire to kiss. "Oh no, no, Xena. You aren't just blackness. There is lightness there, in the blue of your eyes that leads to your soul, and the red vibrancy in your lips, and the gold of your skin..."

"Mmmm," Xena murmured with approval, as a series of kisses were linked in a chain of desire down her throat, "I think that graffiti I saw on Ares' temple in Athens was true: 'Bards Are Better Lovers.' "

"It is true. Although I just wrote it to piss off that old he-goat who calls himself the God of War."

"Gabrielle!"

*****

November, 1944

He thought he'd seen it and heard it all from the old man. Sergeant McKay had served as Frobisher's assistant for almost a year now, and in that time he had to memorize as many Gilbert & Sullivan operettas as he could manage (sometimes Frobisher liked some impromptu duets from him and Scotti, the unemployed, one-armed, opera singer doing cryptography), as well as the old man's tea rituals ("McKay! I told you, Earl Grey in the morning, and Darjeeling in the afternoon! Darjeeling is an afternoon tea.").

Then, one afternoon, the old man was roaring at him once again: "McKay! Come quickly!" With a roll of the eyes the chubby Irishman lumbered into the Colonel's office. Frobisher stood excitedly at his window, his walking stick pointing at something outside, the tip of the stick eagerly tapping the glass pane. "McKay! See that woman down there?" The Sergeant looked out the window; in front of the courtyard, near the stone fence that surrounded the building, stood a blonde woman dressed in khaki, lighting a cigarette. "Fetch her! Bring her to me at once!"

"Sir!" McKay cried, outraged. This is too much. I won't be procuring women for him as well, he thought.

"Damn you, McKay! I said now! Go get her! That's an order!"

The color drained from McKay's ruddy face. He was not the type to disobey an order, and in that respect he might have made a fine Nazi. Nonetheless he reluctantly jogged to the steps, and the momentum of his bulk carried him down the staircase rather swiftly. He half-hoped the young woman had escaped, for her own good. God knows what the old bastard would do to her. But the woman was still there, smoking. She wore the uniform of a WAC, and was much prettier than he initially thought. She glared at him with suspicion as he approached.

"Excuse me, miss." McKay couldn't get used to it—the idea of women in the military. Hence he usually disregarded calling them by rank. "I've been asked to escort you to Colonel Frobisher's office."

The young woman's brow creased in puzzlement. "Who?"

McKay sighed in exasperation. "Colonel Frobisher! Commanding Officer of the Intelligence Corps!" He pointed in the general direction of Frobisher's office.

"Why?" the woman asked yet another question.

"I don't know, miss. Just come with me, please."

Taking one last drag on a cigarette, the woman shrugged her acquiescence and dropped her smoke on the ground, crushing it with a black heel. McKay took off at a quick clip, then realized the woman was not at his side. He stopped and turned around. She was walking slowly, with a pronounced limp. "I'm sorry, miss." McKay said. "Didn't mean to take off like that." The woman merely smiled and nodded at his apology.

Frobisher was waiting impatiently until his door opened and McKay appeared breathless. "Here she is, sir," he said warily, and showed the woman in.

As she stood before him, Frobisher took her in: slender yet muscular; he had noticed the limp as she came in. Her green eyes burned in her tanned face, a mass of reddish blonde hair was pinned up haphazardly in a sloppy bun. A cap hung limply from a back pocket. He admired the defiance in her eyes. Oooooh, Melinda, you picked a lively one. Nonetheless, he had to show the impertinent girl, who merely stared at him, who was in command. "Good God, young woman," he growled, "don't they teach you to salute your superiors?"

Instantly she straightened; standing at attention, she knocked off a crisp salute. "Sir!" she said firmly.

"Name and rank?"

"Covington, Janice. Corporal." She paused. "Sir."

"Division?"

"The 13th, sir."

"Ah. You were in Paris recently, no?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded at her leg. "Wounded, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"I was shot by a German soldier, who was trying to steal medical supplies from an ambulance. He killed my commanding officer."

"And the soldier got away?"

Janice's eyes flickered with something; he was not sure what. "No sir. I...killed him."

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "At ease, Corporal." She relaxed gratefully. "You're a very brave woman."

She said nothing. He let it go. Not easy to kill a man. The first time's the hardest.

"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"We have a mutual friend." He paused. "I believe you know a lovely young woman named Melinda Pappas?" Covington's cocky facade dropped like a stone. Not so spunky now, are we? Amazing, I've never seen someone go pale quite so quickly.

"Yes...sir," she whispered.

"Melinda's father was a very good friend of mine. And I've known her since she was a child." Frobisher peered at Janice critically. "Melinda's been looking for you, you know. She's been in London for nigh on six months now."

Janice could barely mask the shock on her face. "I wasn't aware, sir," she replied hoarsely.

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Well, you are now, aren't you? And what shall you do about it?"

*****

As usual, Mel had fallen asleep in her clothes. She spent so much time between work and hiding out in air raid shelters that she saw little point in undressing most of the time, except to bathe; and, in the face of the cold, wet English weather that she was unused to, she had abandoned her usual skirts and dresses in favor of warmer, more practical clothing. She wore a pair of baggy gray flannel trousers that Frobisher had given her, saying that they used to belong to a male "friend," and a white blouse, one of her own.

A faint boom had awakened her, along with the droning sound of the air raid siren. Time to get out into the shelter again. She groped for her glasses in the near dark, and could not find them. Sighing, she stretched and got up. The colonel had also provided her with a huge black overcoat, and now she donned it and stepped outside. The coat felt heavy and protective, like armor, yet it was also soft and warm.

Outside the apartment building were a few fellows from the building. Several of them worked in HQ as she did; in fact, Cutts, her office mate, lived in the building too. The young man was now smoking a cigarette and watching the light flashes from the east. He saw her approach. "Melinda," he said with a nod.

"Hello, Frank. What's goin' on?"

"Lots of coastal activity. Might not reach us." They continued to watch the lights in silence. Then a noise pierced the twilight: a shrill whistle grew in intensity and an explosion shook the ground. From a mere half-mile away they saw it: bright orange light and smoke. Mel grasped his arm, and he instinctively touched her hand. "But then again..." Cutts whispered, "I may be wrong."

*****

Son of a bitch.

It was early morning, almost eight o'clock. Janice walked as quickly as she could down the street. The air raid of the night before prevented her from finding Mel. She was, of course, pressed into service, and had driven an ambulance to one of the outer neighborhoods, which had been quite devastated. Thus her night had passed, driving, digging for bodies, administering first aid, and sleeping in the back of the truck when she could, the sharp bitter tang of medicine and blood curling in her nostrils. And it was hard to sleep, but not due to the smells, or her exhaustion: It was her realization that Mel was here...in this goddamned, godforsaken war zone of a city.

In the morning, when she was off-duty and supposedly sleeping, she headed for the address that Frobisher had given her. It was not far away, but her bad leg ached a little as she walked. She wished the damn leg would heal faster, but the doctor did tell her it would take a while, and that both the pain and the limp should decrease dramatically in due time.

As she grew closer to her destination, she saw that this area too had been hit by the raid. Part of this street she traversed had been decimated and lie in charred, darkened ruins. Remnants of smoke curled lazily, enveloping the street. She froze, her heart in her mouth. What if...? Her leg throbbed, telegraphing its message of distress, and she leaned against a lamp post, breathing heavily. She hung her head, a hand over her eyes, unable to look at the ruins. If it is true...I can't bear it. I can't lose her. Not now. If she's dead, it's because of me...she followed me here. The responsibility hit her like a punch in the gut. She wanted to turn and run, not find out...wouldn't it be better not to know at all, than to find out that Mel was dead? To imagine her living happily, and not see a body, another dead broken body? Too much death. I've had too much. I do not want to see hers. I couldn't bear it. Almost imperceptibly, her body shifted, as if to head back the way she came.

Don't walk away.

The voice inside her was new. Yet old in its origins. It felt so thoroughly a part of her that she never believed it was her ancestor, but she realized, standing on that street corner, that it was. She'd heard it in Macedonia, after she'd pulled Mel out of the cave, when Jack Kleinman impulsively took a photo of her and Mel. She had looked at Mel and, as the camera clicked, so did everything else. I've found you, the voice had said. Janice had shrugged it off, chalking it up to too much booze the night before and her always raging hormones, but now, finally, she could not deny the way in which she was drawn to Melinda. No matter how much she drank. No matter how many bar-room brawls she indulged in. No matter how far she would run.

A fate, a destiny, a bond. Call it what you will. Your courage has carried you this far. It will get you through.

All you have to do is look up. Now the voice sounded...amused. But before she could comply, she felt a gentle touch on her arm. And when she did look up, it was into the blue eyes that she would love for all her life, and beyond that.

Mel was thinner, perhaps even a little gaunt, and looked tired. This was all exacerbated by the large, dramatic dark overcoat she wore, and her black hair, which, uncharacteristically, hung loose and tumbled past her shoulders. Her long, elegant hand lingered on Janice's arm as they stared at each other.

"I've...found you." Janice thought it best to start with Gabrielle's words.

Mel's jaw shifted, as a sea of words and emotion, stymied over the course of a year, threatened to spill out into incomprehension. "You found me? I've been looking for you..." she sputtered.

"I know. I'm...sorry. Are you hurt?" Tentatively she pulled on Mel's sleeve, and surveyed the streets; people were talking on streets corners, pulling out wreckage, helping their neighbors, their homes destroyed, damaged, ruined. Lives were disrupted, but life went on, and no one seemed to pay attention to two lovestruck American women gazing intently into each other's eyes. Perhaps even the most unsympathetic passerby would admit it was better than having a bomb dropped on one's home.

"No, I'm fine. Just tired. Our block wasn't hit, luckily. Just some smoke damage....I was on my way to the office..." Mel continued to stare at Janice in utter disbelief. When she first saw a fair-haired, khaki-clad woman standing dejected, leaning against a lamp post, she thought, too little sleep and no glasses makes for pleasant hallucinations. But as she drew closer, she knew it was Janice. It was really her; she was really here. Don’t be a ninny and start crying now, Melinda Pappas. Nonetheless the unbidden tears sprang into her eyes. "God," she whispered, "there's so much I've wanted to say to you."

"I know, Mel. I’m sorry about what happened..." Janice trailed off.

"You mean...you regret it?" The tall woman’s voice had dropped to an agonized whisper.

"Jesus, no, I didn’t mean...that. I don’t regret that. I meant, I shouldn’t have left the way I did..." Quick, say it before you lose your nerve. "Look, I have only two things to say to you at the moment," she gulped. Come on, I can do this, after everything I've been through this past year...surely this is not hard. Or is it, quite possibly, the hardest thing I've ever done? "I love you. I think I always have, from the minute I saw you." She paused again, for effect. "And I'll never leave you again." Another pause. "Actually, I guess that was three..."

Mel seemed stunned, as if the Nazis had dropped a bomb on her head.

"You're not gonna faint again, are you?" Janice asked anxiously, recalling that fateful visit a year and a half ago, when Mel fainted at the sight of her. That should have told me something, then. Would a native southerner faint at just a little heat? No, it would take a lot of heat to lay this woman low. She allowed herself to smile a little, and was pleased to see Mel return the smile.

Mel shook her head vigorously. "No, I, uh..." The tall woman was clearly exasperated and befuddled. "Janice Covington, I don't know whether I should slap you or kiss you."

"I think I would prefer the latter, although I don't blame you if you do the former." Janice grinned. "Or you could compromise and do both..."

She was rewarded with a dazzling smile and a laugh from her lover, who enfolded her in an embrace, into the blackness of her coat. She closed her eyes with relief and inhaled Mel's scent. Surrounded by the dark warmth of the coat, her mind's eye was radiant with color.

*****

"You haven't asked about the scroll."

A curious hand fluttered against Mel's taut stomach. "Hmmmm?" Janice drawled sleepily.

To Mel, the drab flat where she had spent the past six months had never looked better. For two days she had not left the room, and hardly exited the bed she shared with Janice. The wily old Frobisher had wrangled a two-day leave for Janice, and excused Mel from her duties. He even sent over an embarrassed McKay with some food; the sergeant's overtaxed heart fluttered at the sight of Mel in a bathrobe, and the tiniest glimpse of the American WAC that he had led into his CO's office the other day, scantily clad (wearing a T-shirt and men's boxers) and lounging about on the bed. It's even worse than I imagined. In fact, I don't know what to imagine, McKay thought miserably as he left.

Night had fallen over weary London. Mel poked the slumbering woman who was curled up against her. "Corporal Covington, honey, don't fall asleep."

"Mmmmnrfph."

"Janice, don't you want to know what the scroll said? About Gabrielle?" Mel sank lower into the bed, turning to face her lover, and anchored her hands into the thick fiery hair. Impulsively she kissed Janice passionately, hoping it would awaken and arouse the weary WAC, so that they could talk about the scroll. I know, it's classic bait and switch, but all's fair in love and war...she thought.

For a moment, it seemed to work: The green eyes fluttered open with surprise, then the lids drooped down again and Janice broke the kiss. "You're an exhausting woman," she moaned in protest. Mel raced her hand over the dangerous, delectable curve of Janice's hip. "But don't stop touching me. Ever."

"I won't."

"Mel, I love you."

"And I love you, but...about the scroll..."

" 'Kay, tell me...I'm listening..." mumbled Janice, half-asleep, face buried in a pillow.

Mel narrowed her eyes in exasperation. "All right, here's what I've found out thus far. Ares becomes smitten with Gabrielle and makes her his Chosen. She goes on a violent rampage and conquers all of Greece, murdering ten times more people than Xena ever did. Meanwhile, Xena opens a bordello in Athens and secretly pens the Satiryca for Petronius."

"Ah, good old Gabrielle."

Mel, shaking her head, sighed in defeat. "Good night, Janice," she said, planting a kiss on Janice's forehead.

"Hail to the Queen, baby," Janice muttered, half-asleep.

Melinda Pappas arched an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. She smiled as she curled up to sleep next to her companion.

END!

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature

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junionigiri · 5 years

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A a a I'm trash and I love the way u write todochako so uh,ig a cute prompt would be idols! (I love idol aus so much and I love idol ochako even more) I love ur writing so so much!! I hope you have a good day!!

Awww thanks so much beb!!! Thanks so much for your request! This actually helped me reorient myself in a Todochako mood again so I can keep on working on my other fic hehe :)

Urabitii hasn’t felt this nervous for a long time, and ironically it doesn’t happen on stage, where thousands of her fans gather to watch her newest flashy performance. Nor does it happen during in a talk show, where multiple cameras are poised on her face while a TV host asks her a variety of nosy questions about her private life.

“Uraraka-san, are you ready?”

No. It doesn’t happen in public. It doesn’t happen under anyone’s admiring or scrutinizing gazes, not in front of those who really has a say on which direction her career as a pop idol goes.

She nods, swallowing as subtly as she can. “Yes. Anytime, Todoroki-san.”

Todoroki Shouto nods back with a small smile. Without another word, he faces the piano and plays out the opening notes of his new song.

Ochako struggles to count the beats in her head, almost in desperation, as she watches his long fingers fly across the keys with an ease and finesse she hasn’t appreciated on anyone else playing the instrument before. Very mesmerizing, but not as mesmerizing how his eyes look as he plays–focused, calm like ice but somehow holds a fire burning low, the flow of music from within him unstoppable.

She decides ultimately to close her eyes to keep herself focused on his music. She opens her mouth and lets his words out,

Like stars across the twilight, let me burn for you.

The song is less upbeat and more melodic than anything she’s recorded before, the words less cute and more intimate. Less kitschy, as is her trademark. More melancholic, somehow.

She doesn’t know why the former-pop-idol-turned-award-winning-songwriter would write such a song with her in mind. Even Manager Iida was surprised when Todoroki’s management suddenly contacted him and discussed the possibility of a collaboration. But while flustered, both of them decided to jump at the chance, Iida because it isn’t in his nature to turn down an opportunity as this, and Ochako because of the same reasons as Iida…

Like the cold blue of midnight, let me surround you.

… and also because the pop idol Shouto of five years ago is one of her main inspirations, perhaps one of the solid reasons why she’s here in the first place. When she was a nobody in Mie-ken with a guitar, a bad camera phone, and a Youtube account, she sang one of his lesser-known songs (Patchwork Calico, an autobiographical song about isolation according to the fanbook, one that’s a little too heavy for many fans but resonates with her the most). It was early in the morning, the sun rising behind her head and over their tiny front yard, just her voice and her guitar.

She doesn’t know how it happens, because the lighting is so poor and the sound only just cleaned with her poor sound editing skills, but that gains her a million views in a week and a lot of followers and a lot of expectations that she fulfills somehow. Soon, real offers come in, and she meets the tenacious Iida Tenya, and the rest was history.

Like smoke from the hearth, let me float to you.

And history continues to happen, as the song ends and she opens her eyes and focuses on him.

She doesn’t understand his stare at first. His heterochromatic eyes look turbulent for a few short moments that she wonders are even real. A small smile slowly and undoubtedly makes its way over his mouth, though, forcing her heart into a crazy rhythm that almost hurts her chest.

She takes a deep breath–she doesn’t realize how breathless she is at that point–returns the smile as best as she can. “Is… this okay, Todoroki-san? I feel like I was flat at some parts–”

“No. You’re perfect,” he says easily, infuriatingly so. Ochako feels like dying at that sentence and almost misses his next words. “I think the words could use some work though.”

“You think so?”

He hums, shifts to the side of the bench to give her room to sit. She does so, as coolly as she can, as impossible as it is to keep her blush down.

He doesn’t pay it any mind, if he notices at all. Likely he hasn’t. From the past two sessions of them working on the song, Ochako has learned that when it came to his music, Todoroki tended to shut everything else outside of the sound of his instruments and her voice. She can go there wearing nothing but a potato sack during their sessions and he wouldn’t notice, as long as she sings.

He’s a professional after all. He might have offered the collaboration because he saw a potential in her voice that he wanted to exploit, and nothing else apart from that. The thought keeps Ochako sane, somehow, keeps her from imagining that their time together is anything more than–

“Uraraka-san, how does the song make you feel?”

She blinks thrice. “Oh… me?” she sputters dumbly.

He nods, waits for her answer quietly in a sincere silence while her brain is on the verge of malfunction. Why would he ask, why would he care, what is she gonna say except ahhh it makes me want to melt because it’s you and I really idolize you and here you are making a song for me and–

Now that she thinks about it, she has been singing the words, but not really absorbing what they mean. She taps her fingers together as she rushes to understand the meaning.

“Well… because it’s you, Todoroki-san, performing the song makes me really happy.”

She flinches internally, realizing that she’s using her ‘idol voice,’ a measured cute one reserved for fan meets and TV appearances. Todoroki might have noticed, judging by the way his eyebrows raise.

She bites her lower lip in the next moment, forces some honesty in her words. “It’s… really melancholy, though. The words, and the melody. The songs I write and others write for me are usually about feeling giddy and head-over-heels and this is way different. Probably more genuine than anything I can come up with, and…”

His stare doesn’t go away. She swallows hard, the blush coming on mercilessly. “I don’t know… I feel a little afraid to sing it, to be honest. Like, finding a way to someone’s side that I won’t ever reach. I wonder if I feel what I’m supposed to feel when I sing the song.”

She feels quite stupid admitting it, because the song’s words are vague, quietly poetic. Todoroki probably doesn’t mean to put in the stupid pining she feels when the words come out of her mouth.

Yet, he is oddly captivated as he listens to her rambling. Eyes never leaving her, he says, “So that’s why it sounds different.”

“Different?” She can’t help the nervous giggle that escapes her. “I know, I know, I probably ruined the song, I’m stupid for saying so, and–”

He shakes his head. “It’s not stupid. The song is… different than expected. Your voice made it better, but the words are mine. I don’t think it does justice to what you can do for the melody.”

“Oh,” is all Ochako can say, without blubbering herself into oblivion. Trying to recover, she says, “You don’t mean that, Todoroki-san! I mean, I’m just another pop idol, my range isn’t that magical, and–”

He seems amused by her expression. “Uraraka-san, do you know why I asked to collaborate with you?”

She stops mid-ramble to stare at him dumbly.

It seems to take him a few moments to gather his thoughts. She’s worried about the turbulence that appears briefly in his mismatched eyes, floored by the tenderness that comes after. It’s hard reading Todoroki Shouto. She always feels like she’s on the verge of cardiac arrest when she looks into his eyes and tries to figure out what he’s feeling any given moment.

“I… saw it. Listened to it, I mean,” he tells her with an odd sincerity. “When you sang Patchwork Calico on Youtube.”

Oh. If her face was warm before, now it’s hot, her blood searing lava through her capillaries. She squeaks indignantly and hides her face in her hands. “Oh my god this is embarrassing, you of all people should not have seen that–”

The sound of a low chuckle disarms her momentarily. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I enjoyed it.” She feels a cold hand over her arm, making her look up at his eyes, suddenly so close to hers she sees the amused gleam of sapphire and onyx at a blinding frequency. “I loved it, in fact. I didn’t think my song could sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… a sunrise.” She makes it obvious that she doesn’t understand, and again he chuckles. “It’s not only because you sang it as the sun rose. I mean… “

He exhales, as if deciding how much to say. In that moment, Ochako tries to remember the words to Patchwork Calico, the feelings of loneliness, of brokenness. Of scars that won’t heal.

She wonders why the song resonates with her so much, because it really is heavy. She doesn’t think that she has any of Todoroki’s struggles when he wrote the song. But like many kids she has had to deal with loneliness, of fear because of how unstable her family was then, of a broken heart when the boy she has loved for years never loved her back.

Still, she’s surrounded by love. Her parents love her, her friends love her. And she thinks she knows how to love back. She thinks of them when she feels tired and broken. She thinks of them many times when she’s on stage and offers her voice to the crowd.

Finally, Todoroki speaks up, utterly surprising her. “… it sounds hopeful? That there’s something beyond the isolation.”

His eyes are on hers again, unwavering. “I never thought that anything I wrote could sound like that. It’s… captivating.” One hand goes to the piano, playing out the notes to his song again, somehow sounding different this time. “I… wanted to see if you could do that again.”

“That…”

He smiles softly. “Change the music.”

In the way that only you can. She inhales, suddenly breathless once again.

“All right,” she says, returning the small smile. “I’ll do my best, Todoroki-san.”

They speak in low, intimate tones. Pen scratches along paper, hands press on the keys in broken melodies. Ochako sings his notes and her notes in an honest way she’s never tried before. She knows she doesn’t imagine the captivated look in Todoroki’s eyes as she does, and it makes her heart go into overdrive.

They compose the song successfully, and release it days later, filmed from the intimate setting of Todoroki’s home studio. Her honesty gains her some fans, and her melancholy makes her lose some, but it’s certainly a memorable performance that has people talking for weeks after that.

Needless to say, it isn’t the last collaboration between the pop idol and the songwriter.

#todochako #shouchako #todoocha #100 followers request thing #writings #thanks so much!#i like this au too #and i obvs went overboard again bc this definitely isnt just 500 words but #yeah #todoroki shouto #uraraka ochako #idol au #birbsandmorebirbs

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imagine-marvelously · 6 years

Text

Below the Mask: Obvious Fracture

Pairing: OC x Loki

Word count: 2,236 (long, worth it)

Timeline: We are going to pretend everyone survives Infinity War in 2019 and Loki is brought back and all is good. This takes place in 2021, ish. May change. Oh, and like June. I need to be specific, you’ll see why.

Summary: Loki insists on going to the same magic shop practically every day; the shop owner isn’t the fondest of his bizarre insistence and behavior.

Quick Note: Hey, new blog here. Will write any and all marvel, but mostly Loki, tbh.

The familiar jingle of the door forces Estella to stand up rapidly in order to greet her customer, especially because this visitor does not feel like a regular. Summer can throw off auras, but unlikely As she does so, however, she bumps her head on the counter. Never the one for being graceful, at least she can take pride in being named ‘Star’.

Literally.

“Hi, uh, welcome to Illusive Arts, can I help you with - ah,” one of the two cats that linger around the store jumps on her shoulder, patting their paw right where she it her head. Of course he just wants to help. “- anything?”

The stranger looks amused at the sight before him. A girl of just over 5’ pulling calico cat off her unbuttoned flannel while also fighting off the growing bump on her forehead. Though her thick, wavy, chestnut hair is covering it, he can see it already forming. Her across the forehead bangs become uneven looking as she places the cat on the ground, gravity working against them.

“Jungo, go bother your sister or something,” Estella hisses, shoving the cat away.

The cat meows loudly in response, bolting away to find his sister.

As she turns to look forward again, she is surprised to see the stranger already at her little desk in which she is leaning against. The clothes are already a little out of place - not witchy like the enthusiasts; not formal like the real sorcerers and such that come in; not plain like the randoms that just wander in; the clothes are a combination of witchy and superhero-y: weird leather pants with a green v-neck and a skin of some form vest. He looks a tad familiar now that she is closer - dark, black, curly hair; a pale defined face; vibrant green - maybe blue? - eyes; tall; lean but muscular… and using a very poor masking spell. The shimmer around his face breaking every time a muscle moves. The spell is intended to keep people from just being confused enough to not be able to tell who he is. Estella smiles.

It’s Loki. And while she could just say she knows who he is, she’d rather play along. He must be in time out if he is using such a spell.

“So, may I help you?” Estella repeats, placing her right elbow onto the table to support her head with her right hand.

“I think I am just browsing for today, but thank you. I will let you know,” Loki grins playfully.

Oh yeah. Definitely him. The crack in the spell is beyond obvious when he grins.

As he walks towards the bookshelves to the right of her, she shakes her head. People have said he is amazing at magic, a danger that should be watched out for. She is in a bit of disbelief. The man can’t even do a proper masking spell.

After an hour of meandering, he leaves empty handed.

The same thing happens for nearly three weeks, save Mondays: he comes in, he meanders through her shop, he leaves with nothing.

While Estella shouldn’t inherently be bothered by this, something about his visits does bother her. Most regular visitors who leave empty handed look at different things all the time and come every few weeks, not every day. Something isn’t adding up.

So the next night, a Friday, when the shop is technically supposed to be closed due to the full moon, Estella opens it just before he comes in. And once he wanders past the first layer of bookshelves, she begins to close her shop.

Locked door, check. Closed blinds, check. Open sign off, check. Cats somewhere out of the way, possibly. She leans against the door, waiting just a few more minutes.

About five minutes into wandering he always stops in front of the Nature Magic section, so she speeds off to there, not wanting to give away her abilities immediately. It’s in the back of all the rows, up all the stairs. For each row, there is a set of five stairs.

“Why this is new,” Loki muses, placing one of the many books down as Estella turns the corner.

“Why do you keep coming into my shop?” She demands, stopping barely a foot from him. Maybe panting a little.

“Because I like it.”

Estella crosses her arms. He’s lying. “No. That’s not true. Why do you come every day at the same time doing practically the same thing?”

“I enjoy routine.” Loki shrugs and turns to her. The masking is crackling more; he is losing his grip on it.

“Possibly. But why my shop?”

“My friend, uh, Dr. Strange suggested it to me.” He nods, satisfied with his answer.

Estella narrows her brown eyes. Strange rarely comes in here - he has everything he needs at his fingertips and can access anything almost immediately. Something about Loki coming to her shop every single day is off, really off.

“Lies. You are lying.” She steps closer.

“I am not!” He protests, crossing his arms.

“Have you seen anything wonder woman related? Cause I have something very similar to her truth lasso or whatever it’s called and I will get it and I will use it on you.” Your threat is very real and you can conjure it in seconds. And it will work on the God of Lies.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well horrible masking isn’t enough. If you are going to ever fit in, my dear Loki, you need to catch up on mortal pop culture as well,” Estella accuses, quickly conjuring a chair.

Her right hand grabs an empty hex bag off the wall, tucking it away in the back pocket of her jeans. Hopefully she won’t need it.

While Loki continues to try and squirm out of a very, very tough chain, Estella continues to look him over. Why her store? Why her store? Why her st-

“Oh,” Estella realizes. “You can feel auras, no?”

Loki stops squirming just to look at her. His piercing eyes that were green moments ago look more blue now. He’s angry, very angry. But he also feels very powerless. And tired… these chains must have some kind of spell as well.

“Yes,” he spits.

“So you know this is a place Dr. Strange occasionally visits. But when you first came here you felt the aura of a typical magic shop - one run by a lower level witch or something, but Dr. Strange is not one to shop local business. When you entered you saw and explored real, intensive magic. The outside aura didn’t match the inside aura. You kept coming back to try and figure out why… am I wrong?”

Estella squats down so that her face is level with his stomach. She glances up at him with a soft smile as he turns his head to glare down at her.

“No, you are not wrong.”

“Well, Loki. Real masking and cloaking spells can do wonders. Most real witches, wizards, sorcerers, whatever you wish to call the, ignore my shop. The idea of entering is distasteful to them once they feel the energy of the shop. But you entered because a powerful sorcerer occasionally came here and you just had to know why.”

“Are you going to turn me in or whatever?” Loki asks, rolling his head back. “I’m assuming you can tell I ought to be watched.”

Estella stands up and pats his leg. “Gods no. You need help, clearly. Your masking is horrible, no offense and if you were to ever get in a fight with a real witch or warlock or whatever, you would lose. There is more than Asgardian spells you need to know if you are going to survive out here…”

He straightens back up. Though he tries to hide it, his face is covered in worry. “What do you mean by that?”

“Let’s just say I have a few eyes and ears out there and many are not the fondest of you. And you’ve seen what I can do, and by no means am I the most powerful. And I just chained you to a chair, unable to use magic.” Estella shrugs. “Tomorrow, same time as usual. Be here. We are going to be working on your masking skills. Human magic is likely the best way to go about it since you are on Earth, but I’ll look through some of my notes.”

With a double blink of her eyes Loki is released and the chair is gone. Without the support he stumbles, falling flat on his butt. Estella offers her hand. Loki takes it, surprised by her strength as she pulls him upright. He should be embarrassed; to be entirely honest, however, he is a bit turned on by her magical ability and her little bit of bondage.

“But why help me?” Loki murmurs, eyes slitted. He isn’t sure if he can trust the girl.

In the low light her chapped lips look smooth, dark brown eyes nearly black. It is in the close proximity when he isn’t trying to get himself away that he finally inhales her scent - something he has since ignored. Estella smells heavily of singed and burned… everything. Wood, flowers, animals, clothes, hair, skin… Loki quickly assumes she works heavily with fire and electricity, two of the things that cause those smells. But blood too lingers on her. Blood mix with cedar and pine and various venoms…

Estella swallows heavily when she realizes Loki is picking up on the various scents stuck on her. “I think we can help each other.”

She makes direct eye contact with Loki.

“I have a feeling I will quite enjoy working with you,” Loki smiles.

He begins to walk away, moving past the much smaller girl, who is trying not to over think is words.

“Sit, Reindeer Games,” Tony commands, gesturing to the empty chair at the head of the table.

“What is this?” Loki growls, stomping over to sit at the table.

“What was that?” Tony asks. “Witch? You mean like you used your own magic, which you are prohibited from doing, and got caught?”

Maria and Nick glance to each other. Tony sits back, unsure how to respond.

“What you are saying is there is someone out there who is stronger than you?” Maria confirms.

“Not the only ones. You are back down to not leaving the tower, period. A guard will be assigned. Do not test us further,” Nick announces.

The God flings his door open, ready to strip himself of his clothes and go to bed, only to see a small, leather-bound book, three hex bags, a small bowl and a large black bag on his bed. He approaches it cautiously. After the warning that many other magic users are after him, much better than the girl, he has to admit such items are worrisome. Folded neatly on top of the book is a folded note on a torn out piece of notebook paper. He snatches it, scared someone might be watching. Loki still opens it, reading it slowly.

“Thought this may be helpful. Page 20-27, read then do. See you tomorrow night.”

Though the God has never seen the girl’s handwriting, he knows this had to be the witch’s.

With a big grin, he dives right in.

A/N: Let me know if you enjoyed it, if I made made mistakes (probably did, reading my own writing makes me overlook things), or any other feedback.

#loki imagine #loki x oc #loki (marvel)#loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #post infinity war #everything is fine #loki laufeyson #loki x you #loki x reader #below the mask #loki is a witch #no one can tell me otherwise #marvel imagine #avengers imagine

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